by Gail McEwen
“Oh,” she said involuntarily and slumped back.
“Come, come!” Mrs McLaughlin urged. “Dinnae sit there in the draft. Up here by the ingle! Come on then!”
Holly was numb and mute in the face of such efficiency and she allowed herself to be pushed to a chair in front of the burning stove and could only watch, with her protests dying on her lips, as Mrs McLaughlin hung her stockings over the fire and put her muddy boots on a rag nearby.
“Well then?” the woman said and eyed her with a stern look. “Kelter out of that petticoat young leddy or ye’ll never be dry enough to go home again. I’ll not have ye leave this place with cold, slitterie linens on ye. Git it off now!”
She blushed deeply. Mrs McLaughlin was right, of course; she needed warm, dry clothes next to her skin on her last leg home. Fortunately, the petticoat was not as bad as the stockings, although the hem was nearly destroyed. Holly, who was no friend to needlework, sighed as she realised she would have to cut it up and stitch it back together once she got home.
“Och.” Her hostess, picking up her cloak and bonnet and catching sight of her basket brimming with winter chanterelles interrupted Holly’s thoughts. “I thought it was past time fer these. Where did ye find them? Or is it a secret?”
“It is no secret. By Georgie’s Cave. I suppose with the rain and the mild weather we’ve been having lately . . . ”
“Och aye. I didnae know about that place. I for ordinar go down beyond Cold Fell, plenty of penny buns in the wood there still I hear. Imagine that, born and bred on Ross’ paddock down in the glen and never heard of the chanterelles of Georgie’s Cave! Just goes to show, ye learn something every day.”
Holly remembered her uncharitable thoughts about buying one’s way into a home and kept quiet.
“And to think, it was the Frenchie’s lass taught me that, too!” Mrs McLaughlin laughed. “Begging your pardon,” she added, though she did not look at all remorseful.
“Not at all,” mumbled Holly and got up to hang up her petticoat by her stockings.
“Now sit ye down and I’ll poor the tea. Ye have some bread and cheese and just sit there.” Mrs McLaughlin cast another eye at Holly’s basket. “Half of that for a muir fowl?” she said thoughtfully. “A big one an all, since ye have visitors.”
Holly stared at her. “It is no secret place and you’re welcome to whatever you can find. I left plenty.”
“Ye want to bargain, do ye? Aye then, a muir fowl and one un-skinned rabbit just in.”
Holly snapped her mouth shut. “Done,” she said, surprised. Mrs McLaughlin looked pleased. “I think I’ll have some of this tea myself,” she said, carrying the tea tray over.
HOLLY WATCHED HER PLACE THE sugar bowl on the table — fine, white sugar — and she very carefully, almost afraid lest some of the grains did not make it all the way to her cup, heaped two spoons of the shimmering crystals into her cup and watched them sink to the bottom. After a generous helping of cream — but not so much as to drown out the taste — she stirred carefully, feeling the strong, rich, acid smell of black tea find its way to her nose and she sighed. She must still wait a little, she would not want to scald her tongue and spoil the experience. She could wait . . . just a little more. They drank slowly and Mrs McLaughlin did not seem to have much to keep her busy.
“Aye well, I would have if the gentlemen got some shooting done instead of just sitting around here, or going on walks and visits. As it is, there’s nae much to put away for the winter and we’ll have to buy the beef. And speaking of lounging round about the house . . . ” Mrs McLaughlin cocked her head to the kitchen door. Too late, Holly noticed the heavy footsteps of a man drawing near, and all she could do was look down, clutching her teacup more closely to her chest for reassurance and hoping he would walk right past.
A blond head popped through the door. “Mrs McLaughlin,” it said in terse notes, “if this infernal rain does not stop and Mr Darcy does not cease his constant shifting between smug contentment and nervous frowns, I will go myself to Brachan Falls tomorrow even if it pours and — ”
He stopped short and Holly lifted her head to find his startlingly clear blue eyes staring at her in amazement. “Miss Tournier!” he said and stepped inside the door.
Holly firmly pressed her feet together in what she hoped was the middle of her sagging skirts, far enough from the hem not to be seen even a glimpse of.
“Lord Baugham,” she said in as dignified a voice as she could manage. Her hair had become slightly unpinned when she had pulled off her soaked bonnet and she was aware she must present a picture resembling someone cast ashore from a shipwreck in her wet and sorry state.
He eyed her curiously, but at least not with hostility.
“Have you taken refuge from the weather in my kitchen?”
“As you see, sir,” she said. “I was out by Georgie’s Cave to pick the last of the mushrooms there — keeping away from your property I assure you — and I was . . . surprised.”
Instead of nodding and excusing himself, Lord Baugham walked in and surveyed the offerings on the table before him. Holly winced as Mrs McLaughlin calmly got up and put one more teacup on the table.
“You show an admirable optimism if you venture so far out after the weather we’ve been having,” his lordship said and sat down, wasting no time in attacking the loaf of bread before him. “Or was it either that or complete insanity at being cooped up indoors too long?””
“Possibly a little bit of both, my lord,” she attempted a confident smile. “I think I was a little mad to get out of the house — and from what I heard just now, I think you can understand my feelings perfectly.”
Lord Baugham leaned back in his seat, pushing his chair away from the table and stretching his legs.
“Ah, well, I am better now. But I think you have a kindred spirit in Mr Darcy. He left just a few moments ago. It seems you have traded places!”
The slightest sigh escaped her. “I expected as much. It appears that neither of us have enough sense to stay in out of the rain. Though his incentive holds quite a bit more charm than my own.”
“Miss Tournier! Are you slighting the comfort of my kitchen or Mrs McLaughlin’s hospitality?”
Holly could not tell by his tone if he was teasing, questioning, or taking offence, and she suddenly became acutely aware that her damp skirts were clinging to her legs underneath the table and that her undergarments were hanging on the hearth in plain view. It made her feel vulnerable, which in turn made her straighten her shoulders and answer him with spirit.
“Not at all. But you forget that your kitchen was not my first object, and I do hope you will agree with me that my cousin holds far greater charms than that basket of mushrooms over there.”
“I most certainly will agree with you on that point. Although . . . ” Baugham cast a saucy look at Mrs McLaughlin, whose eyes were a mixture of scorn and softness. “If Mrs McLaughlin can get hold of some of those mushrooms and I could manage to bring her something akin to a roe buck to dress and roast and garnish, I fear Miss Bennet, for all her charm and grace, will not be half as tempting. For myself, I mean. I cannot — and would not! — speak for Mr Darcy on this point.”
“I cannot say that I wouldn’t be tempted to trade her myself for a haunch of roast venison,” Holly smiled, unconsciously pressing her fingertip into a few spilled grains of sugar on the tabletop and bringing it to her mouth.
“Ye bag the roe buck and ye’ll have yer wish, my laird,” Mrs McLaughlin said with no attempt at disguising her wounded pride. “That’s nae where the problem lies at all.”
There was a brief moment when Holly caught Lord Baugham’s eyes and stifled a smile and Lord Baugham looked back feigning complete innocence. The housekeeper got up to fill the cups and Lord Baugham let her pass. As she swished by, his eye caught the arrangement above the hearth of one pair of stockings, a petticoat and a bonnet hanging to dry.
Of its own accord his eye then swivelled back to the owner of said ga
rments and immediately and unconsciously ascertained that the petticoat was indeed missing. As soon as he noticed her deep blush he realised what he had done and looked away, gazing fixedly into his plate instead. Teacups were returned but, as his lordship was about to excuse himself, the clatter of dropping silver sounded.
“Please, let me get that for you, Miss Tournier,” his lordship cried, feeling a sudden need to be chivalrous. Holly, at the same time, felt very much like crawling under the table and was making ready to duck down herself to retrieve her dropped spoon. Her movements shifted the careful arrangement of her skirts and Baugham found himself kneeling at the base of her chair, spoon in hand and in full view of two well-turned but quite bare ankles, and ten, it must be admitted, attractively plump toes.
This time it was his turn to blush scarlet, and he rose with alacrity, returned the offending spoon and quickly excused himself, pleading — well, he hoped it was a somewhat coherent excuse.
SCARCELY MORE COHERENT WAS HOLLY as she rushed to gather her garments from before the fire, despite the housekeeper’s protests. “No please, they are quite dry enough, really. It’s just a short way now, and I really must . . . ”
She struggled to pull her damp stockings up as Mrs McLaughlin, shaking her head and muttering under her breath, placed the game in her basket and fixed a cover of oilcloth for the journey home.
“Should I nae have Mr McLaughlin bring ye home in his lairdship’s carriage? The rain’s not yet stopped.”
“No!” Holly exclaimed as she tied her petticoat and shrugged into her cloak, still cold and heavy from the soaking rain. “Fine. I’ll be just fine. Thank you for everything, Mrs McLaughlin,” she called behind her as she grabbed her basket and practically flew out the door.
Mrs McLaughlin stayed looking after her, shaking her head, and then returned to the heap of winter chanterelles now awaiting her attention on the kitchen table. Muttering to herself she cleaned and cut and spread them out on a piece of gauze on the warm hearth to dry. Just as she was finishing, Lord Baugham returned, again poking his head around the door, but with much less alacrity than the last time.
“Ah . . . I think I forgot. I am going to Brachan by myself tomorrow — even if Mr Darcy will not. Would you be so kind and prepare something in the way of fare. I shall leave first thing in the morning.”
And with that he was just about to withdraw again when Mrs McLaughlin made a threatening, distinctly Scottish noise in her throat.
“What?” said Lord Baugham, sighing at what he knew was a sign of serious annoyance by his housekeeper.
“Next time I’ll thank ye to be a wee bit less chivalrous round women taking refuge frae the rain, my lord.”
“Oh. So you would have me forget my manners while I am here?” his lordship teased, giving her his best charming smile. One look told him that his attempt at disarming her was unsuccessful, so he tried another tack.
“Really, Mrs McLaughlin, it was just an innocent mistake. Unfortunate, I grant you, but no harm done I am sure.”
“Well, ye did nae maybe notice her running out of here, red in the face as a lobster. I tell ye plainly enough, my lord. I’ll have none of that sport in my kitchie. She’s a douce young lass although of, maybe, misfortunate kin and circumstances and she is as good as promised to a young man, too, so she’s nae game for any of that wicked London stuff.”
“Mrs McLaughlin, honestly, I hope you don’t think . . . Promised? Promised to whom? Someone in Edinburgh?”
“To a Mr Grant — a friend of the family.” Mrs McLaughlin, realising she had perhaps been engaging in what could be construed as gossip that bordered on speculation based on neighbourhood tittle-tattle, busied herself in her larder once more. “Will the cottage pie from yesterday be sufficient for ye for the morrow, my lord? I’ll pack some cider as well.”
“Yes, that would be fine,” he answered. “To Mr Grant! The gentleman from Crossling? Are you quite sure? He doesn’t seem quite the type to . . . Are you quite sure?”
Since she was far from sure, Mrs McLaughlin simply made a Scottish noise again and hoped his lordship would not press the point. From what she had seen of the young woman today, and from what Mrs Higgins had told her, Mr Grant was eligible, suitable and respectable but would be a clear catastrophe for Holly Tournier to marry.
LORD BAUGHAM FINALLY HAD HIS way with his friend the next day as Mr Darcy confessed he was most eager to join his lordship on a fishing expedition. It adhered to all the rules of masculine camaraderie in that the fish, and the success and skill with which one caught them, was the primary object for conversation and debate. The weather cooperated for the most part, the food was Spartan, but enjoyed in silence with a good bottle of whiskey by an open fire. Topics larger than life were kept to one’s own thoughts and communication as to direction and timetables were kept to a minimum.
At dusk, when they made their way back across the fell heading towards the darkening eastern sky, the return to civilisation seemed to prompt little more philosophy and chat.
“How long will you be staying?” Baugham asked as Clyne Cottage could already be seen casting its shadows over the slope behind the River Kye.
“Well, there’s a wedding in Hertfordshire I must attend soon. Bingley has asked for my assistance. I shall be going down to Netherfield shortly.”
“A wedding, eh?” Baugham said thoughtfully. “Just one?”
Darcy gave one of his indeterminable low laughs. “Christmas is a popular time of year for weddings.”
“So I hear.”
Darcy gave him a quick look and he could read hope and determination in it, but it was not confirmed with words.
“Chess later?” Baugham said.
“It would be a pleasure,” Darcy said. “Although I do not plan on letting you best me this time.”
“You didn’t plan it last time either.”
“Ah, but I have luck on my side these days,” Darcy grinned.
“AND I TELL YE, ROSIE, I put him right straight on that kind of foolery! I said I will nae have this sort of conduct in my kitchie and I would thank him to keep out of it in the future if he cannae behave himself!”
Mrs McLaughlin was still reliving her indignation at Lord Baugham’s misdirected chivalry towards Miss Tournier a day later when her cousin came over.
“The cheek!” Mrs Higgins had the good sense to say and look extremely appalled. “But . . . surely quite innocent when it comes down to it? I mean, bare toes . . . ”
Mrs McLaughlin slammed down her rolling pin so that the open jars on the table rattled.
“She was a visitor and he made her ill at ease and it is sore unfair for such a fittin and well-favored man to take advantage of his situation and with the young woman practically promised an all — ”
Mrs Higgins looked up from her potato peeling. “Miss Holly is promised?”
A faint blush spread over Mrs McLaughlin’s features, but she pressed on with the dough.
“Heather, ye don’t mean Mr Grant?! I should surely hope not!”
“You did say . . . ”
But it was useless. Mrs Higgins stopped her industry and gave her cousin a stern eye.
“Cousin, that was nae right. I said he made out as if it were a done deal. I said nothing about her.”
The two women faced each other in silence for a moment until Mrs McLaughlin slammed a bowl in front of her cousin.
“There’s two fine birds there if ye’ll have them. Fat and all.”
In silence Mrs Higgins inspected the birds. “Och aye,” she finally conceded, “they’ll do.”
“And I merely wanted to put him in his place. He had no business acting like he did.”
“I dare say,” Mrs Higgins muttered, “but still — ”
“Och, he’ll forget about Mr Grant soon enough an he’ll show Miss Tournier some respect in the future. Which is as it should be. Right?”
IF NOTHING ELSE, THIS PARTICULAR sojourn to Scotland was unique, Lord Baugham decided as he once again sa
t in the parlour at Rosefarm Cottage waiting for tea. So far from his cherished solitary existence here, he seemed to be seeking, rather than avoiding, company.
What possessed him to accompany Darcy to Rosefarm when his friend obviously no longer needed his assistance to be welcomed there, he could only attribute to a vague curiosity of wanting to see how his friend acted while around his declared love. It was perfectly clear to anyone with normal sight, hearing and understanding that Darcy and Miss Bennet got along very well indeed, and that the looks exchanged between them spoke of more than friendship. If there was a deeper understanding than that, it was hard to tell. Mr Darcy was not one to wear even the most violent feelings on his sleeve for anyone to gawk at and Miss Bennet addressed him with remarks that could just as easily be interpreted as impertinence as intimacy.
Also, Lord Baugham was acutely aware of a nagging feeling that he needed to atone for the uncomfortable, unfortunate scene that took place in his kitchen a few days earlier. Not that he could mention the matter, of course, but at least he could show Miss Tournier that he felt the affair to be of no great import — to put her mind at ease in the event she was feeling uncomfortable.
And really, he did enjoy Mrs Tournier’s company quite a lot, and what better reason could there be to accompany his friend to Rosefarm than to show respect and kindness to such a woman?
Polite chatter filled the room and soon Mrs Higgins brought the tea tray in without ceremony. Baugham’s attention was diverted momentarily when he noticed Miss Tournier stand and quickly meet the woman as she set it down. A few moments of hushed conversation, gestures, and nods captured his notice. He watched as Miss Tournier took a dish from the tray, handed it to Mrs Higgins with some obvious words of instruction. Mrs Higgins shook her head but left, apparently acquiescing, returning a short time later with that same dish filled to the brim with lump sugar, and with a rather sour look upon her face.
His attention was taken up again by his hostess and he thought nothing more about it until he was served a short time later. The tea was poured and prepared to everyone’s liking, but though he was not one to usually notice such things, Baugham did see both Miss Tournier and Miss Bennet bypass the cream pitcher entirely and choose the honey pot over the sugar bowl. A picture then flashed through his mind of Miss Tournier in his kitchen, her finger in her mouth after collecting a few stray grains of sugar off the tabletop. His eyes then darted around the room — a work desk where Mrs Tournier performed editing and clerical duties for pay — a rickety drawing table with a half-burnt tallow candle, covered with colour plates in various stages of completion that Miss Tournier, no longer employed as a schoolteacher, was commissioned to make for an old friend, the smell of tea stretched with herbs gathered wild from the countryside or perhaps even from the garden outside, and he could only picture the basket of winter mushrooms found by Georgie’s Cave that must be now drying in the kitchen. His eye and mind took this all in and, when he next sipped his drink, he was suddenly aware of how very sweet a cup of tea with three lumps of sugar in it really was.
