by Gail McEwen
What an infuriating woman! There she was, shooting daggers at him and twisting his words to make him seem petty and spoilt when all he wanted to do was to have a polite conversation on dispassionate matters. And in the end, being forced into saying insulting things after all due to her stubborn insistence on misunderstanding his every word!
As he stood there, lips pressed tightly together against the flow of words threatening to spill out at her, at the same time flabbergasted as to why he should be so angry as to nearly lose control — something he never did — she pulled her cloak around her and said decidedly, “I should be getting home now; there is much to do to prepare. Good day, my lord.”
Baugham watched her stalk off and suppressed an oath. Somehow she had left him with the feeling that he was by no means finished with her but at the same time he realised that to continue could only be more disastrous. He shook his head both in loathing and self-disgust and turned on his heel to get himself home.
“MAMAN . . . WE HAVE a letter . . . it’s . . . it’s from Mr Jonathan Pembroke . . . ” Holly hesitatingly handed the page to her mother. “He is coming tomorrow.”
Mrs Tournier watched the letter with her mouth curled in disgust before she took it carefully between her thumb and forefinger.
“Tomorrow?” she said in a cold voice. “Well then!”
Letting the sheet of paper float down on her desk and then to the floor, she got up and walked out of the door. Picking up the letter, Holly almost gave a little shriek of surprise as the door slammed shut with a bang. She listened as her mother made her way through the house to the kitchen, slamming every door in her wake. After a few minutes she came back and told her daughter she had spoken to Mrs Higgins.
“I’ll be in my room, Lie-lie,” she said her jaw clenched so hard the words hardly came out. Holly nodded and once again stayed listening as her mother took herself up the stairs until at last her own bedroom door was shut with a resounding bang that made the walls shake.
Holly sighed. She had better warn Elizabeth.
ALL OF ELIZABETH’S BELONGINGS HAD been moved across the hall to Holly’s room and the two girls were now crowded into her narrow bed. The arrangement held great promise for keeping them both warm throughout the night, but did not bode quite so well in assuring an early or especially restful slumber.
“Holly,” Elizabeth whispered, “why does my aunt dislike Mr Pembroke so? She has been positively ill-tempered ever since she heard he was coming.”
Holly lay still, wondering how much she could or should tell about Mr Pembroke, but of course she soon realised that she could do nothing but be upfront and honest.
“Elizabeth,” she spoke into the darkness above their heads, “I . . . we don’t talk about this, Maman and I, it is the only thing we cannot talk about . . . since that night she has never . . . ”
Elizabeth strained her eyes to see Holly as she stammered through a most astonishing admission that her cousin and aunt had a subject they avoided between them.
“I was very foolish when it came to Mr Pembroke once,” Holly said. “Very, very foolish . . . ”
The unspoken, but obvious, meaning hung in the darkness between them. Elizabeth swallowed.
“Oh,” she said. “And . . . he still comes here? Why?”
“Well, not for that original silly thing, to be sure,” Holly scoffed. “I think . . . . No, I shouldn’t. I cannot be fair or even reasonable when it comes to him or his motives. You had better see for yourself. And I have no doubt you will see exactly what he is about very quickly. But it is just for a few days thankfully.”
Elizabeth stayed quiet, but the oddest sense of protectiveness towards both her cousin and her aunt filled her. Holly did not seem overly distressed, but it was quite obvious she was anxious and fearful on her mother’s behalf. To be at the mercy of someone like that! Elizabeth clenched her fist. Oh this world really was full of undeserving young men and it seemed not even an intelligent, sweet and reasonable girl like Holly was completely safe. It is a hard thing indeed to learn from such mistakes, but thankfully it seemed they had been spared the worst ramifications of such an error.
IF ELIZABETH HAD BEEN PRESENT during any of Mr Pembroke’s previous visits, she would have recognised that dinner on the night of his arrival was typical of all dinners in which he was in residence at Rosefarm. Mrs Higgins would serve in a tight-lipped and perfunctory manner, Mrs Tournier would be uncharacteristically quiet and excuse herself after only a few bites, while Holly, not entirely at ease herself, would feel the burden of responding to their guest’s pronouncements and opinions and keeping some sort of polite discourse going.
She could not forget Holly’s confession of the night before and her own astonishment at the presumption of the man to continue visiting as often and for as long as he did under those circumstances, so when he turned to her and began to lay before her his future plans and his past struggles, she found that she was hard pressed to show any interest or sympathy. For the latter, especially, he was relentless in his quest, explaining to this newest captive listener his struggles to find acceptance among the scholarly community for his innovative ideas on economics and the redistribution of wealth among the populace.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, leaning forward and fixing his intensely passionate eyes upon her, “you must understand that even during my University days, I was subjected to the bitterness and jealousy of my peers and my instructors. I knew I could find neither recognition nor encouragement in such a stodgy and stifling atmosphere, so I came to Scotland where free thinkers are generally welcomed and encouraged, and to a house with a legacy of fighting for justice and equality, but even then I met with resistance . . . ” his gaze shifted to Holly, who was quietly eating her dinner and offering no comment or even appearing to hear his conversation. “It was a rare thing to find someone whom I thought understood me completely.”
Holly’s eyes shot up then quickly returned to her plate, but Elizabeth noted a new tightness around her mouth.
Pembroke continued as if oblivious, but he now directed his gaze at Mrs Tournier, who was scarcely able to keep her countenance civil, and then back to Holly. “Very few ever understood the importance of my work and how much it took out of me, and even among those who did, none had the courage to stand by me in support. So you see, Miss Bennet, I now must struggle on in a solitary — ”
He was unable to finish his tragic history due to the interruption of clattering silver and a scraping chair as Mrs Tournier abruptly threw her napkin onto her plate and left the table without a word.
Rising next, Holly managed a quiet, “If you will excuse me, I must speak with Mrs Higgins,” before leaving as well.
Elizabeth was incensed at his shameless manipulation of what was necessarily a painful memory between mother and daughter, and at his apparent willingness to use it for his own amusement, for he sat there with a self-satisfied smile, his eyes bright with undisguised mirth.
In a tone exhibiting heroic self-control, she asked him mildly, “And even after all these years, the professors and the great minds of the universities do not accept your way of thinking? How tragic for you.”
He sighed and shook his head, drawing his breath to speak but Elizabeth would not give him the chance.
“Well, as tragic as that is for you, I suppose that it is for the best that learned, old men — the authorities of our age — should take everything under sober consideration and cannot be as easily beguiled as innocent and idealistic young girls. I suppose they cannot be swayed by passionate appeals and shameless playing upon their romantic notions surrounding a beloved late father.”
Elizabeth brought her napkin up to her lips and then rose from the table as well. “I do pity you though,” she added in an apparent afterthought, “for it seems that even idealistic young girls can find the capacity to resist such tactics.”
THE LADIES OF ROSEFARM COTTAGE spent the afternoon of Lady Tristam’s grand event in the kitchen. Partly due to its consistent warm
th and partly due to the fact that, since Mr Pembroke had taken over the writing desk in the parlour, it was the only place where the three could gather to discuss and plan the occasion. Additionally, Mr Pembroke’s absence from the kitchen assured that Mrs Tournier would be present, and the girls very much desired her company.
“Now you see, Holly,” Elizabeth said, plying her needle as busily as she was employing her tongue to convince her cousin that the evening had definite possibilities of actually being enjoyable, “this dress will be perfect once we replace the lace around the bodice and ruffle up the hem a bit. It has such classic lines, no one will know that it isn’t this year’s latest.”
“No one,” Holly muttered as she vigorously applied the brush to three pairs of dress slippers, “except those who have seen it twenty-five times at least. I never thought I would ever miss Hockdown, but at least if I were there I would not have to go to this thing.”
“Why should you be so against a musicale, Holly? You are very fond of music.”
“I am fond of music,” she answered, “but you know how these things always degenerate into long displays of marginal female talent and since I can’t sing a note, I will have to play and that usually ends up . . . Elizabeth. Maman. You must both promise me that I won’t be trapped at the instrument all night, playing the dances.”
“They have engaged musicians, Lie-lie,” Mrs Tournier assured her. “You may both be as untalented and uselessly beautiful as you wish this evening.”
“Oh, we will be, Aunt. I have such a good idea for fixing Holly’s hair, too.” Elizabeth held up the completed gown to Holly, “Here, see? With my embroidered stomacher and your new shawl it is a completely different dress.”
MRS HIGGINS PULLED OUT A chair and offered her cousin a seat at the kitchen table as she took the parcel held out for her and began unwrapping the contents.
“Thank ye for coming by, Heather. With everyone gone to this party, here’s the first moment’s peace I’ve had in days. Och! This little bit of coffee will be a rare treat for the Mistress.”
Mrs McLaughlin leaned forward and pointed to the rabbit carcass at the bottom of the basket. “Now, Mr McLaughlin snared that one his own self, but ye just tell Miss Holly if she asks, that I took too many of the mushrooms and couldnae rest until I made it right.”
She pulled a small packet of recovered leaves out next and rose to sprinkle it into the kettle to make her cousin a proper pot of tea.
“So, it’s been a noisy time around here with all the company? It’s little enough room ye have for it, that’s certain.”
“Ach, that’s the problem, Heather. It’s nae noisy at all — it’s been quiet, very quiet, but a louder quiet I’ve never heard, if ye know what I mean.”
“This Mr Pembroke . . . ”
Mrs McLaughlin pronounced the name hesitantly.
“Aye,” was her cousin’s only reply as she reached for the cups.
“I thought they were friends of the family . . . ?”
“The parents are. Good people they are, but the son . . . ”
Mrs McLaughlin could not quite understand and her expression showed it freely. Mrs Higgins sighed and sat down to wait for the water to boil.
“He takes advantage of their dependence on his parents,” she said, “and you can guess what that does to the Mistress of this house.”
Mrs McLaughlin nodded.
“But it’s more than discourtesy and disrespect. What it is though, I cannae rightly say. But I do know this. Mrs Tournier hates the man. Miss Tournier despises him. And it’s as plain as parritch Miss Bennet loathes him, too.”
“And you?”
Mrs Higgins squared her shoulders and gave her cousin a rare, unbridled look. “Well, let me just say that were he to fall down the stair and howl for help or break his neck, I’d be much too busy watching the bread dough rise to be of any assistance.”
Chapter 11
The Soirée-Musical at Tristam Lodge
“Are you quite sure about this, Eliza?”
Holly sat on her bed and, holding up her small mirror, tried to catch her cousin’s work on her tresses at the back. Elizabeth was twisting and puffing up and Holly could not quite make out what she was about, wielding the hot iron tongs that she was brandishing about Holly’s hair.
“Yes, I am quite sure,” Elizabeth said and let a few curls loose from the red hot instrument. She skipped off the bed and shoved it into the fireplace to heat up again. Deftly she pinned some of the curls up towards the crown of Holly’s head while letting a few others fall freely around her ears. “Your hair is just as thick and strong as Jane’s and she always wears it like this. Well, except that she is fair. But other than that you know she is quite twice as beautiful as me so she is worth emulating.”
“I usually put it up in small braids all over,” Holly muttered, still having a hard time catching the over-all arrangement of her hair in the small mirror.
“And how usually is usually?” Elizabeth said in a mock stern voice. “When was the last time you dressed up to go to a fine musicale?”
Holly smiled. “Three years ago. Oh actually, Sir John took me to the theatre once in Edinburgh last year. I dressed up then.”
“And sat hidden behind people in the back shadows of the box for the whole night watching a performance no doubt,” Elizabeth said. “This is a party! There! Done. Now it is your turn. I want the braids you usually have!”
Her cousin climbed off the bed, still in her shift, nearly hitting her head on the low ceiling in the process and settled down in front of Holly, who started to braid Elizabeth’s smooth, dark hair into an impressive bun high on the crown of her head, leaving one on either side to frame her beautiful eyes. When she was done, they helped each other struggle into their dresses. Afterwards, Elizabeth held up the small mirror and tried to show as much of the two of them as possible. Elizabeth was a fair vision in fine, sheer muslin with some exquisite work on her bodice and a skirt that came down in three layers to show her satin slippers. Holly was all smooth lines in a simple but richly coloured green velvet dress with a small train.
“The neck is too low,” she muttered and pulled it upwards by the fine lace trimming.
“No it isn’t,” her cousin said and tugged at her waist to bring it down again. “And anyway, that’s why I left these tendrils here at the side and back. If you exposed all that milky white skin of yours without any protection, you would have the men swooning in your wake.”
Holly had to laugh. “I doubt it,” she said, “unless Mr Grant is there. Not that he needs this much skin to do that.”
Elizabeth pulled out one of the small satin flowers she had worked into her hair and pinned it into Holly’s. “There,” she said, “in case there is anyone who does not know we go together. Aren’t we perfect!”
They stayed admiring each other for a little while until Holly looked at her small golden watch hanging from her waist — the most precious piece of jewellery she owned.
“Oh dear!” she said. “Maman!”
Mrs Tournier was not normally a woman of great patience when obliged to leave her house to go to something as tiresome as a soirée-musicale given by Lady Tristam. The girls rushed down the steps in the hope that she had not lost her temper waiting for them already, but they were met by a calm lady standing in front of a mirror in the hall adjusting her shawl to exactly the right and fashionable angle.
“I beg your pardon, Maman,” Holly gasped. “Will we be late?”
It was a very different Mrs Tournier who turned around and awarded them with a gentle smile. The girls gave her a surprised look as they took in a very elegant lady, perfectly poised and dressed in the perfect shade of blue to set off her auburn curls under a soft sweeping feathered turban and bringing out the colour of eyes more usually seen peering narrowly over a pair of spectacles.
“I think not. The carriage is not here yet.”
“You look very beautiful, Maman,” Holly said and kissed her mother’s cheek. “Do yo
u think anyone will believe I am your daughter?”
“Well,” Mrs Tournier said, gratified, “vanity keeps dotage at bay. The day I don’t feel tempted to run late by just a tweak here and a tuck there to make me look my best before I show myself to the local elite, is the day you can put me in the poor house. You both look very nice as well. So that is what your cousin thinks your hair needs. It is very nice. I do believe you will not be able to avoid dancing later tonight.”
Holly looked at Elizabeth. “Dancing! Oh, it has been so long!”
“And if your courage fails you I will solicit the first one and force you out into a quadrille!”
SIR TORQUIL TRISTAM, DESPITE HIS place at the top of local society, was an amiable gentleman, devoid of all pretension save one: Lady Tristam — and perhaps his oldest daughter, Primrose. Together they planned and put on a yearly soirée-musicale, insisting on calling it thus, as if by giving it a name void of established meaning, they would be celebrated for bringing forth something unique and dazzlingly spectacular. In reality, it was just as Lord Baugham had presented it to his houseguest: a country ball. But they were readily forgiven by the local society for this aspiration to singularity and exclusivity, for Lady Tristam always insisted on bringing the very best musicians and players from Edinburgh to perform, the atmosphere was formal and as genteel as could be managed in the Southern Uplands of Scotland and the invitation list was long and varied. Miss Tristam possessed a marginal vocal ability, but, through prodigious distribution of food and drink, the guests were generally in an amiable mood by the time the evening’s highlight took place and she treated them to an aria, accompanied by Miss Prudence and Miss Patience on the harp and pianoforte.
HOLLY RAN HER GLOVED HAND over the seat beside her. They were waiting in Mr Darcy’s carriage, especially sent to convey them all to Tristam Lodge. Mr Darcy had chosen to go with Lord Baugham in a separate conveyance and Holly wondered how Elizabeth interpreted that. She looked up and watched her mother and her cousin sitting opposite her. Her mother looked almost regal, she thought. She looked like she belonged in such a fine carriage with the finest inlaid wood and smoothest velvet seats. Her cousin, too. It felt like a fairytale and they could be fine ladies on their way to a grand ball. She only hoped the carriage would not turn out to be a pumpkin and her carefully arranged shawl and cloak would not reveal tattered rags at some point in the evening. In all honesty, she felt like she was already wearing those tattered rags and hoped that the lighting at the party would be dim enough to hide the threadbare spots on the velvet of her gown that Elizabeth had been too polite to mention while working on it. But for now she tried to put it out of her mind and turned back to her companions; there was no reason for anyone to pay any particular attention to her or her clothing that evening. Elizabeth was gazing out of the window with a faraway look in her eye while still arranging her skirts; Miss Bennet sitting in Mr Darcy’s carriage. Would she soon be Mrs Darcy, sitting in the same carriage and calling it her own?
