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Twixt Two Equal Armies

Page 14

by Gail McEwen


  “And that is as much as I will hear on the subject of male motives and other guess work,” Mrs Tournier said forcefully. “Things are as they will be, my dears, and I have no doubt even the most taciturn of gentlemen will forget himself and give some inclination of what his intentions are if he keeps meeting you so accidentally around country lanes and fields.”

  “And caves,” Elizabeth said mischievously and winked her merry eyes at Holly.

  “So,” Mrs Tournier said, giving Elizabeth a stern look, “show some female sense and set about planning what you intend to wear next week to Lady Tristam’s little soirée-musicale, or whatever she prefers to call it. That is as much planning for the future as is prudent right now.”

  “DARCY. HOW ARE YOU AND country balls these days?”

  Darcy eyed his friend sunk deep into his chair, his long legs stretched out on the fender of the blazing fire. It looked like he was preening his nails with the end of a long penknife. A penknife, Darcy reflected, that probably seldom saw other work and especially rarely was called upon to perform its original assignment.

  “They seldom serve to interest me solely on their own merits. Why?”

  “Well, it seems the gregarious Sir Torquil Tristam is holding what his wife referred to as a soirée-musicale next week and thanks to your pushing me all the way to church last Sunday, we are invited.”

  “And did you perchance accept?”

  “Well, I said we would be delighted, if our hunting plans gave us an opportunity, to which Sir Torquil replied he would be pleased if we could consider his home as a worthy hunting ground — for pleasure — for one evening.”

  Darcy sighed. “Oh these country squires and their wit.”

  “He has three unmarried daughters,” Baugham added, his mouth twitching.

  “That is not what I would count as adequate additional incentive to attend a country ball, I’m afraid.”

  “No . . . ” Baugham said slowly, “but I do hear most of local society puts in an appearance.”

  Darcy gave him a long look and his mouth curled at the edges before he went back to his book. “Then I would say it would be impolite not to do so also,” he said, eyes concentrating on the page before him again.

  Chapter 8

  Lord Baugham meets Ladies in and around Rosefarm Cottage

  Lord Baugham awoke to the sounds of Riemann shuffling in the background, discreetly moving in and out of his bedroom and dressing room to fetch shirts, water, combs, shaving equipment and whatnot. Baugham surprisingly felt none of his usual inclination to jump out of bed and start the day

  The events of last night preyed upon his mind and he was not quite certain which caused him the most unease. He settled on Miss Tournier’s ice-cold voice repeating:

  I know things about this place that you could never even have imagined, even if you made it your home for the next twenty years.

  Was it true? Was he a stranger, after all, in the place he most readily called home?

  But he loved this place. He was not so certain about the village down the road and even less inclined to profess any interest or concern for the inhabitants of that village, but he loved the countryside around Clyne, and surely, if you love a place it is not necessary to count years of residence as proof of devotion. Did he really have to earn that degree of feeling or relationship? Couldn’t he claim that an irrational and spontaneous affection, leading to a slightly chancy purchase of an estate so far away from his usual business was folly enough to prove a worthy affection beyond a doubt? Surely there were enough people who lived their whole lives in one and the same place, calling it home and hating it?

  Like Cumbermere Castle. He stopped his thoughts and forced them in another direction. He had no wish to think of his ancestral home and the obligations that were forever being forced upon him from that quarter, by stewards and lawyers and land contractors and purveyors, not to mention interested local parties missing what they saw as the rightful head of the local community.

  Then there was Darcy and his quest, adding to his feeling of disquiet. Last night his friend had been quietly content, writing long letters of pleasure to his friend Bingley and his sister, and even longer letters of business. There had been no mention of his outing earlier in the day. He had, however, almost cheerfully admitted to having neglected his affairs shamefully, but it being worth every minute of it so far.

  Darcy cheerfully admitting to neglecting his duties was a disturbing thought to dwell on. Then an even more intriguing idea floated into his mind. If he, himself, was prepared to ignore the agonies of travel and the utter boredom of the road to reach Clyne, and Darcy was happily abandoning the principles and sense of duty that had been his guiding light since his early adulthood to take a few walks with Miss Bennet, perhaps love was possible without misery after all.

  That thought put an effective end to his loitering abed, and he made up his mind on the spot to engage himself in some distinctly unsentimental and challenging discourse, and, perhaps, to stand up for his friend’s happiness all in one go.

  He left a very pale valet scuffling to put away discarded clothes as he walked down to breakfast. Riemann had not taken his cheerful announcement that he intended to go visiting a lady very well, protesting he certainly had no fitting attire prepared for such an occasion and he would beg him to postpone until he could arrange something more appropriate. Baugham simply shushed him and left him to seriously worry over how his future reputation as a gentleman’s gentleman must deteriorate, the way he allowed his Master to walk out of his chamber into polite society.

  THAT SAME MORNING, DECIDING TO take advantage of what promised to be an unseasonably warm day, Holly hauled a bushel basket of peas up from the cellar and sat shelling them in the sunshine. Elizabeth was inside writing to Jane again, no doubt apprising her on her recent walk with Mr Darcy, so she was left alone with her thoughts.

  Mrs Tournier ventured out soon afterward, just as a deep sigh escaped from her daughter.

  “Lie-lie, please tell me that you are neither pining nor pouting over this latest development of your cousin’s.”

  Holly frowned. “No, of course not, Maman!” but then she met her mother’s eyes. “Well, perhaps just a little. I cannot help but think that, no matter what she says to temper her hopes, things will be changing very soon and very fast, for Elizabeth. I think I am happy for her, but at the same time, I cannot say that I am equally happy for myself.”

  “Ah, so the world does not unequivocally love a lover after all.”

  “I do,” she protested. “At least one of them.”

  Her mother smiled and turned her face against the sun. It was fairly successful at warming her up as she sat against the stone wall, which was the only reason she had consented to take herself outside to keep her daughter company. Even so, she felt she needed a little reparation for the wind that was still blowing courageously around the yard.

  “So you want to fall in love yourself? Is that it?”

  Holly’s head shot up in surprise. “Whatever makes you say that? I was referring to Elizabeth and Mr Darcy, of course, not myself. I love her very much and I want to see her happy, but . . . ” she tossed the peas vigorously into the bowl on her lap, “I just don’t like the idea of that Mr Darcy showing up and taking her from us, that is all. And he isn’t even charming about it! He leaves that to his noble friend, though he is not always so successful at it either. Why last night he — ”

  Her hand rose to her mouth as she remembered. “Oh, Maman. I made such a fool of myself last night.”

  “Sounds as if you are indeed well on your way then to falling in love then,” her mother said in a teasing voice. “Did you find yourself a companion to walk the woods after all? Or did you refuse an eligible one?”

  She dismissed her mother’s teasing without remark. “Neither really, but I did drag poor Lord Baugham all over his grounds searching for Elizabeth. Oh, I was so sure that she was in some sort of danger and he was so infuriatingly sanguine about it �
�� I’m afraid I was rather rude with him — but it turns out, of course, that he was right all along and Elizabeth was perfectly safe — with Mr Darcy.”

  Mrs Tournier gave her daughter a searching look. “And what was it, exactly, in that which made you feel foolish?”

  “Because he was right and I was wrong,” Holly laughed. “And I was so insufferable in my convictions . . . I would have preferred it if he had been just as insufferable right back once he had been proven correct, but instead he offered to see me home, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for me to have done what I did.”

  “Some men don’t revel in the victory, Lie-lie, they prefer the fight,” her mother smiled.

  “Well then,” she laughed as she stood and kissed her mother, “I will wish him a proper shrew for a wife, and may he be happy all of his days.” She laughed again as she carried the basket round the corner to the kitchen.

  WHEN HIS LORDSHIP WAS ALMOST at the gate, he saw a dark figure with a light-coloured apron flapping about her in the wind rise up from her seat, and an older woman’s hand simultaneously come up to pat the cheek of the younger one. The older woman sat in the nook of the stone wall by the house, warmed by the sun and sheltered from the wind. He could not make out the lady’s words as she addressed her daughter.

  He was mentally rehearsing his planned assurances to Mrs Tournier of Darcy’s impeccable character when he was startled by the sound of laughter ringing out. It was a rich, musical laugh with a pearly, sparkling twang to it that sprang deep from the young woman’s being. The ease and spontaneity of it surprised him; everything he had seen and assumed about Miss Tournier’s disposition was inconsistent with the scene before him. The sight of her bright smile and open countenance was puzzling to say the least. He looked up and saw the young woman, still smiling, bend to kiss the top of her mother’s head while she briefly answered her. Then she picked up the basket that had been sitting on the bench and slowly walked off around the corner of the house.

  Baugham stood looking after her until he felt he had been spotted. He doffed his hat to Mrs Tournier, but quickly and inexplicably changed his mind about his errand and turned his horse in the direction of The Caledonian Thistle and Mr Robertson’s excellent ale.

  Chapter 9

  How a Small Change of Unfortunate Weather can Spoil and Save your Day

  The extraordinary spell of warm, sunny weather could not last and so it was no surprise to anyone that it rained for the rest of the week. This caused hunting trips to be abandoned, walks to be postponed, outdoor work not to be attempted — while young women looked out windows sighing away at the dull greyness while, similarly, young men cursed the rain streaming down and leaving a grey dullness over everything. The only thing the weather did accomplish were a few colour plates being finished sooner than expected, and Miss Bennet acquiring some rudimentary knowledge of the physical reactions of matter to heat.

  At the end of the week there was a small lull in the miserable circumstances when a letter was received from the soon to be Mrs Bingley and the rain had lessened to a misty drizzle. Watching Elizabeth immerse herself in her letter, Holly seized the opportunity.

  “I must go for a walk,” she said. “I cannot stand it any longer!”

  Elizabeth looked up, obviously torn. “Well, a letter can wait,” she then said firmly, “the rain — as we so clearly have been witness to — cannot.”

  “Oh no!” Holly was already flying about the hall gathering her things and rummaging the cupboard for her basket. “You must stay! Letters can wait, but I think visits cannot. With this break in the weather, someone will most probably take the opportunity to call and if you were out trampling the muddy fields and woods searching for mushrooms that I cannot even assure you are there anymore, I will never forgive myself. Neither will Mr Darcy,” she said cheerfully and hurriedly shrugged into her light cloak and simple straw bonnet. Elizabeth watched her with a frown.

  “Perhaps, but if he professes to know me any better than a perfect stranger, he will be very well aware of the fact that when it comes to walking in impossible weather, I am quite my own irrational mistress. Holly, are you sure you are dressed warmly enough? It is certain to rain again.”

  “Quite sure! I thought I’d go see whether there is anything left of the winter chanterelles over by Georgie’s Patch. There might not be, but it’s usually a place of abundance and with the rain and all . . . but it’s a fair way to walk, I will be fine.”

  Elizabeth obviously did not believe her, but she fingered her letter and held out Holly’s basket to her and bid her to be careful and take care or else she would come looking for her.

  The weather was still grey, but the drizzle had stopped and the woods smelled fresh and pungent. The birds were equally grateful for the break in the rain and there was rustling in every bush, and twittering, and the curious flapping of wings everywhere. Holly kept up a brisk pace. Partly to keep warm, for it was chilly — her breath whirled around her in a misty smoke as she bustled up the hills and through the undergrowth, taking advantage of a few shortcuts — but partly because it really was a fair way to walk up to her little secret cornucopia of winter chanterelles. The shortest way would have been to cut across the Clyne estate, but she was determined to avoid that. She walked around with pleasure, after all, she had not been out of the house in four days and her nerves needed the exercise as well as her body.

  She smirked a little when she thought about her hidden cache. Yet another thing to prove that you could pay as much money as you wished and put up fences and display fancy deeds with seals and lofty language, but you had to work, walk, explore and spend your time to understand and bond with the place you called home. You had to let the secrets come and reveal themselves to you through time and patience and curiosity. Then, slowly, you would find the best spot for watching Kingfishers dive into the river for their prey; know where the foxes bred under which fallen tree and where the juiciest brambles, the richest mushrooms and the shortest paths were.

  The rain started to pick up again, although hidden under the trees as she was, she hardly noticed it. She was excited too, for she had been right, the mossy knoll under the spruce was cluttered with light brown caps peeking up from beneath the rich green cover, promising even more if one gently pushed aside the wet and soft ground. Holly spent what felt like hours carefully excavating the tender brown and yellow stalks, gently laying them in her basket and very cautiously treading from one spot to another not to trample the precious bounty under her feet.

  She did not stop until her basket was nearly full. It was only then she became aware of the cold drops of rain rolling down the brim of her bonnet and that her back was soaked through. Straightening, she finally realised the rain had come back with increased force and intensity. She felt happy nonetheless and vowed she would drag her cousin here next time all the same. After all, even if the frost came, the winter chanterelles would still be here.

  On her way back, however, her mood soured despite her proud bounty. The rain turned icy, the wind picked up and the walk across the open spaces back was tapping her strength. To cap it all off, she stepped into a boggy patch, soaking her boots and stockings and her toes were rapidly feeling the freeze of the cold water and going numb.

  Holly stood panting, her light cloak, now heavy and wet, snuggled around her, dragging at her legs and feet, and looked down the slope. She was tired to the bone but she must not stop and rest. If she did, she would only grow colder and wetter and that might be dangerous. To reach home as soon as she ought, she would have to cut across the Clyne estate. She winced at her proud resolution to stay away from the easiest path to prove her point, but she realised it would be foolish now to persist. Gnashing her teeth, she turned and set off across the fields as close to the house as she dared.

  She was so tired. Her feet felt like lead. She was cold and her arms and shoulders ached. Her head throbbed and she slipped and slid through the mud on the small path. The rain came down in streams and t
he brim of her bonnet sagged before her eyes. She felt close to crying and she certainly whimpered when her skirt was caught once more in twigs and branches on the ground and sticking out in front of her as she stumbled on. And so when she glimpsed the house through the trees she had no strength left to fight. A quarter of an hour in the kitchen, she thought feebly, giving in to her misery. He will never know.

  She snuck successfully around the house to what she presumed was the kitchen entrance. All was quiet except for the rain that came almost horizontally and Holly shielded her face as she knocked on the door. The light and warmth and figure of a large woman that emerged almost made her sob.

  “Mrs McLaughlin?” she managed. “I’m so sorry but I was out gathering the last of the winter chanterelles and I was caught in the rain. I’m . . . I’m . . . I was hoping — ”

  A strong, warm hand reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her into the kitchen and firmly closing the door behind her.

  “Well, for heaven’s sake child, dinnae stand out there in that fool weather! Come in and sit down. Ye’re in a frightsome state. You need to dry off this minute or you’ll catch yer death o’ cold.”

  Holly almost collapsed with relief. “Thank you,” she said and made it to the nearest chair by the wall. “Perhaps only for a few minutes,” but her hostess had turned her back to her and was busy setting water to boil and bringing out butter and bread and cold cuts from the larder. Holly watched her, feeling drained and almost detached. She slowly removed her cloak and bonnet and draped them over the chair.

  “Take off yer hose and boots.” Mrs McLaughlin did not even turn around, but her tone of voice was such that Holly realised this was an order and not a request.

  It felt strange, and not a little daring, to peel off her garments in a stranger’s kitchen, but as soon as the drenched and heavy leather and the soaking, cold wool was off her feet she felt better.

 

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