by Gail McEwen
He put down his cup after hastily draining it to escape the realisation of his failure to be more aware of his surroundings. The sweet liquid stuck in his throat and he grimaced. Miss Bennet, who was sitting beside him, noticed his predicament and smiled.
“It takes some getting used to,” she said in hushed, tones her eyes winking at him in sympathetic conspiracy, “but after a while I find that I prefer it this way.”
Baugham felt uncomfortable, but then he realised Miss Bennet was no stranger to his dilemma and he smiled back.
“Tea is mostly about the company it’s taken with, I believe,” he answered, “and therefore I know you are absolutely right.”
“My aunt is a very hospitable woman and so I have ample proof of my assertion. And I think, my lord, you are beginning to enjoy your tea more and more each time we see you.”
“I think so, too,” Baugham smiled. “And you, Miss Bennet, seem to positively blossom in the fragrance.”
Elizabeth laughed but declined to answer.
“Tell me,” his lordship continued still with a smile on his lips, “how would you rate the tea when Sir John Ledwich comes to call compared to today? Or Mr Grant?”
At that Elizabeth burst out laughing. “Mr Grant? Oh goodness me! I think those two persons are exact opposites of how tea benefits from their discourse. My aunt tries to serve Sir John as little as possible so that he may speak as much as possible. With Mr Grant, a strong cup of tea that is never allowed to ebb out does much for the quality of her enjoyment.”
Baugham wrinkled his brow. “Really? And is this a universal strategy among the inhabitants at Rosefarm?”
Elizabeth nodded. “You mustn’t think we don’t value Mr Grant’s presence and company. Rather, we enjoy it better when he is not tempted to stretch his conversation with words borrowed from others.” She took a sip and tried to look serious. “Mr Grant greatly admires Mr Blake.”
Baugham pulled a face of surprise. “Does he indeed?”
“My cousin is never so diligent with her duties concerning the teapot as when Mr Grant comes to visit. She takes that task very seriously.”
Baugham returned Miss Bennet’s smile and then looked over to the tea tray that was conspicuously free of the presence of Miss Tournier. Well, just wait till you find that out, Mrs McLaughlin! was his next spontaneous thought as he sorted the information in his head.
MRS MCLAUGHLIN WAS CARRYING THE heavy bundles of laundry from the kitchen to the linen cupboard upstairs. It was tedious work since the washing, once delivered, had to be checked and some of it put aside for more meticulous ironing to reach Mrs McLaughlin’s standards of what constituted a respectable linen supply. She was carrying the sheets and pillow cases with two hands when a door opened in the hall below and her employer stuck his head out from the library.
“Mrs McLaughlin!” he said in a voice of both sternness and triumph. “I would be much obliged if you would cease repeating your unfounded speculations concerning Miss Tournier and Mr Grant. It is completely groundless and I would not have you accused of idle gossip or ill-will.”
The housekeeper was by no means rattled by this unexpected rebuke by her master, but simply looked down at him over the banister.
“If ye say so, my laird,” she said airily. “Not that there’re many other prospects for her and she is nae fool. She’d do best to marry and that’s a good prospect.”
“That is as it may be,” his lordship said haughtily, “but she is not marrying him.”
He withdrew his head again and closed the door.
“Och aye, it’s like that, is it?” Mrs McLaughlin muttered and continued her ascent.
Chapter 10
In which a Young Man comes to Call Causing Anguish and Chivalrous Impulses both at Home and Abroad
“I cannot believe what this visit of yours has got me into, Darcy,” Baugham grumbled later that night, well into his third glass of whiskey. “Church going, morning calls, God knows how many tea parties, not to mention rain-soaked females in my kitchen, and now, a soiree-musicale?”
Darcy’s unrepentant smile only served to irritate him further, so he refilled his own glass and glared across at his friend.
“I came to Clyne to escape all this nonsense — at your behest I might add — and here I am back in the middle of it all and all because of your penchant for involving yourself with troublesome women!”
“My penchant?” Darcy nearly sputtered in his drink. “Need I remind you, Baugham, of the reason I suggested you ought to leave in the first place? Troublesome women appear to be your specialty, my friend, not mine. And I sincerely hope you do not find yourself in the middle of any such nonsense as what you left behind.”
Baugham, highly affronted, drew himself up with great dignity.
“Darcy! That is not what Clyne is about! Nor what I am about at Clyne.” He leaned forward to emphasise his point, trying hard to maintain his upright posture. “Clyne is my sanctuary, Darcy, and I’ll thank you to keep that in mind. And since you are here, having chased a woman all the way from Hertfordshire, I will take the liberty of calling her troublesome indeed.”
He leaned back, smugly.
“I never had to chase a woman as far as that.”
“No, Baugham,” Darcy’s smile was unruffled, “but you did have to run up here to escape two troublesome . . . sisters, were they? Nor did I, on the other hand, ever find myself, at the tender age of twenty years, in the rather dubious position of fighting to defend the honour of my — ”
“Continue along that same line, Darcy, and I will find myself in that same position once more,” Baugham’s eyes were narrowed and dangerous. “Talking about such things will not do. Tit for tat, my friend, and you know it. I seem to recall a certain young woman at about that same time, with a lovely voice and an amazing ability to make you spend half your allowances on trinkets and her follies, remember?”
Darcy glared at his friend, though it did little to stop him.
“But if you like, I can show my magnanimous nature and declare that women in general turn out to be troublesome regardless of their virtue or motive. It seems it is an inevitable consequence of their sex. Perhaps they cannot help it . . . ” His lordship was growing distinctly philosophical, swirling his glass around to emphasise his reflective mood.
His glare fading fast, Darcy could not help but smile at his friend’s observations.
“Is it so much that all women are troublesome, Baugham? Or that we simply aren’t able to withstand the effect that some of them have on us?”
He sat for a few minutes smiling at the fire, while Baugham tried to focus on his face.
“I am all too familiar with the effects marginal actresses and singers have on University students, my friend, or the attraction of energetic and lively sisters as a pleasant diversion when one is bored with Town life. What I don’t understand though,” he leaned forward, once again imperilling his upright state, “what I’d really like to hear from you, Darcy, is what makes one particular woman worth all the trouble.”
Darcy reached out for the bottle and filled his glass with a healthy amount.
“What makes her worth the trouble . . . ” he repeated thoughtfully, after several equally thoughtful sips. “I don’t know that I can exactly say what it is. It’s just that, before I even knew what was happening, she was always in my thoughts, and I kept looking out for excuses to run into her, or speak to her . . . ”
Baugham brought his drink unsteadily to his mouth, hardly spilling any in the process.
“Nothing new there, Darcy.”
“No, Baugham, this time is different. This time it is . . . I mean there’s a . . . ” He thought another long minute before suddenly slamming his glass down on the table in inspiration. “This time, Baugham, I’m not simply thinking about what I want . . . what’s best or most desirable for me . . . this time it’s not just the outward appeal that . . . ”
He paused, trying desperately to capture his feelings with words. “Baugham,
without Elizabeth Bennet in it, my life would be . . . less. And, I think — I hope — it is the same for her. That’s the only way I can explain it.”
Baugham looked at his friend with a sceptical eye.
“Next you will tell me she is perfect.”
Darcy shook his head and smiled.
“Oh, she is not perfect. Perfection in a woman does not have the kind of power that she has over me. A perfect woman’s words do not cause the havoc that hers inevitably do to me. In fact, she is distinctly imperfect. She professes opinions simply for the effect they will have. She forms strong judgements and keeps to them in spite of evidence and fairness. She laughs at people instead of pitying them. Actually, she laughs rather too much all in all. She is entirely too fond of obeying her own mind when a little care and reticence would be prudent, but she never does so out of malice. And she is the sort of woman whose loyalty, affection and love is a hard-won thing, but, once achieved, is absolute and invincible.”
There was a pause while Darcy drained his glass and Baugham still stared at him.
“Darcy,” he finally said, “I must surrender to your eloquence. You have me convinced. That was the longest speech I have heard you give in years.”
If Mr Darcy had had the unfortunate tendency to blush, he would have turned a rosy hue at this moment. As it was he simply averted his eyes.
“Well,” he muttered into his already empty glass, “perhaps you will see for yourself one day.”
“I think not,” Baugham said lightly. “Such agonising and illogical sufferings as you go through, my friend, are really not for me. I enjoy tangles that are more easily solved and that less sleep is lost over.”
“It is not really a choice, you know,” Darcy said quietly while reaching for the bottle.
“Of course it is! Either you lay yourself open to such irrationality or you don’t.”
Darcy shook his head but said nothing.
“You are just pretending it is inevitable and unavoidable to rationalise your own confusion and surrender.”
“Harsh and hasty words spoken in pure ignorance, Baugham,” Darcy said and took a sip.
“Nonsense. Never shall a woman, regardless of character or station, be she ever so impertinent and opinionated, cause me to abandon my own rule over my heart and — more importantly — my mind. Hold me to it!”
Darcy smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Despite your foolishness, I still have hope for you.”
“Ach!” Baugham gave a disgusted snort and a vicious look. “You had best give up that hope right now. As pleasant as I find female company in general, I have no intentions of letting one into my life permanently.” He leaned back and closed his eyes against Darcy’s infuriatingly self-satisfied smile, enjoying the pleasing sensation of floating on air instead. “Nothing but trouble . . . ” he grumbled, “and more of that, I don’t need.”
LORD BAUGHAM TOOK ADVANTAGE OF a break in the weather to slip out for a ride to the Caledonian Thistle to look after his mail. His conversation with Darcy the night before had ended in silently finishing the bottle, which seemed to suit his friend perfectly, but which left him restless. After a brief but troubled slumber, he woke in the middle of the night and then been unable to go back to sleep. Instead, he tossed and turned and cursed and grumbled until he had finally found rest in the early hours before dawn.
So he definitely needed a ride and a change of scenery to break out of his mood. To his great delight, aside from the London newspapers, the only correspondence directed to him was a brief note from Mr Townsend, informing him that all was running smoothly in his Town home and not much else. The inclement weather insured that the public room of the inn was nearly empty, so he decided to enjoy a pint while he was there. He took his time, and an occasional sip, as he sat at a table near the window, leaning back in his chair and watching the clouds break apart revealing slivers of blue sky and sunlight, then joining together again, darker and more ominous than before.
His contemplation was broken by the sound of the door as Tommy entered and crossed the room to the bar.
“Mr Robertson, Miss Tournier is outby asking after the post.”
Baugham’s ears perked up at the sound of the name, but he told himself that whatever his friendship was with Mrs Tournier, there was no reason to make an occasion simply because a neighbour of his was picking up her mail. He could very well sit here and finish his drink — if Miss Tournier happened to still be about when he was ready to leave, well, he would wish her a good day before he went on his way back home. He watched as Mr Robertson returned from the back room with an envelope, he watched as Tommy carried it outside, and he watched as the boy returned tossing a coin up and catching it as he walked.
Hmm . . . the bottom of the mug so soon? Just as well. In no time he was tossing a few coins of his own on the table, grabbing his hat and gloves and heading out the door. No sense in tarrying — he should be going before the rain started again. Taking a deep breath of the crisp autumn air, he looked around as the door closed behind him. Miss Tournier was still there, standing in the grassy area and reading her letter while leaning against the trunk of a tree. He must, of course, now speak to her; it would be rude to ignore an acquaintance, however much she was apparently engrossed in the page before her.
“Miss Tournier,” he doffed his hat in greeting as she looked up in surprise, “I hope I am not disturbing you.”
Her face was hard to read as she quickly closed the letter.
“Not at all, my lord. I was just trying to decide how to break the news . . . ”
Her odd expression troubled him. “News? I hope everything is well? Is there anything I can do to be of assistance?”
She smiled. “No. Everything is well, thank you. It is just that . . . it looks as though we will have another houseguest as of tomorrow and Maman is not quite as fond of this one . . . ”
She trailed off and again that unreadable look came over her. He waited for her to continue, but when she did not, he sensed the weight of the silence and felt the need to break it.
“Another cousin?” he asked.
“No, it is Mr Pembroke. He is an old friend of the family. Or the son of friends at any rate. The Pembrokes own Rosefarm Cottage and have been very good to us. Their son, however — ”
She stopped suddenly but the disjointed manner in which she spoke disconcerted him somewhat and he felt compelled to continue the conversation.
“I can imagine, with the limited space at Rosefarm, that too many guests at once can be quite inconvenient. It must get a bit crowded.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he prepared himself for the probability that Miss Tournier would take offence at any perceived slight of her home, but to his surprise she did not.
“Yes, there is that. Rosefarm will most probably be short of both space and patience for the next little while. Maman and Mr Pembroke do not get on well, you see.”
“I think my sympathies must be with your mother.”
Holly looked out at the road ahead of her.
“Well, spare some sympathy for my cousin as well, if you would, my lord, for she will have to move into my room for the time being,” she said absentmindedly.
“Really?” Baugham drawled. “I thought girls liked that sort of thing.”
Holly snapped back to give him a contemptuous glance.
“I suppose girls do, yes; however, when a valued friend has travelled a great distance to visit, it is nice to feel that you can provide her with a comfortable place to sleep and a small space to call her own.”
“Well then, this friend, Mr Pembroke. He ought to postpone his visit to a more convenient time.”
Holly shook her head. It was obvious that Lord Baugham had no concept of living under obligation to anyone. As if a simple letter of explanation would have any impact at all on Mr Pembroke’s feelings of entitlement regarding Rosefarm Cottage.
“Mr Pembroke does as he pleases,” Holly retorted.
“I wonder at your use
of the term ‘friend’, then, Miss Tournier. It would seem to me you are far too liberal with that epithet. No one in my acquaintance could earn such a name based on so little.”
“Yes, I am sure that you would never be required to consider such a thing, or be forced to place a more pleasant face on an unhappy and uncomfortable circumstance. One is not always lucky enough to be able to choose their ‘friends’, my lord. Nor plan the timing of their visits.”
“I would not call that luck, Miss Tournier, precaution or prudence would be more appropriate. Which, well applied, would render your other hesitations redundant.”
“If you harbour any doubts as to the proper running of our home, whether prudence or precaution is exercised in a manner that you feel is inappropriate, or if you have objections as to the suitableness of our friends, I suggest that you take it up with my mother, sir!”
Baugham narrowed his eyes. “Miss Tournier, you mistake my meaning. I was merely trying to express my concern for your dilemma and perhaps offer some perspective, but I see you are determined to misinterpret my words and my intentions.”
