by Gail McEwen
She jumped up off her seat. She did not want to think about Lord Baugham and, even less, concern herself with what he thought of her or her misfortunes. She walked steadfastly out of the room again and climbed the stairs to her room, for once not avoiding the creaking floorboards on her way but rather aiming for them with determined steps.
THE MASTER OF CLYNE WAS not particularly fond of empty or silent houses and so he did not share Miss Tournier’s quiet reflections in the moonlight at any point. He chatted amiably to Mr McLaughlin as he brushed down the horses, he wandered down the hall and noted the light in the kitchen as Mrs McLaughlin sat up with some silent chore awaiting her husband, and he met Riemann in his chambers and thanked him for his excellent choice in evening wear
It was not until he lay in his bed and debated putting out his candle versus picking up his book that his thoughts turned to the evening’s proceedings.
The event itself was everything he had come to expect from a country squire with pretensions of condescension and importance, but Sir Torquil was an outgoing and friendly man and Baugham could not fault his hospitality. Nor, when observed dispassionately, could he blame him or his wife for putting their daughters forward to any likely prospects that might appear. From what he had observed, Mrs McLaughlin was correct in her assessment: a young lady’s opportunities were severely limited in this little corner of Scotland. That went a long way to explaining the general expectations of the neighbourhood concerning Mr Grant and Miss Tournier. Not that the poor man had any chance, he smiled and recalled the desperate look in her eyes as she called him over to make the introductions. No, poor Grant was doomed to be disappointed.
His mind idly wandered through the crowd, wondering if there were any other likely candidates, but though she and her cousin had surely attracted much notice among the male guests that evening, none of the gentlemen had warranted much notice from Miss Tournier in return — until that Pembroke fellow. He reflected with satisfaction that he had been able to do her some little service in that instance. Yes, the look on the man’s face as he left them, and the opportunity to make up for his own too frequently unforgivable behaviour in the lady’s presence, pleased him.
“Baugham, my lad,” he smiled to himself, “take care. One would think you are getting rather too fond of rescuing rural schoolmistresses in distress and wasting your breath on putting down boorish country squires. That will never do. Even if you do decide you’re tired of squabbling Town sisters.”
Suddenly he was confronted with a feeling of distaste when reminded of his idle dabbling with Mrs Ashton and Lady Merriwether. He could not even classify them as pursuits, for neither one had required much pursuing. The contrast between these women who would so lightly enter into indiscretions and one who was completely mortified by the mere suggestion of it, rather turned his stomach and shone an unflattering light on his own behaviours.
He tossed his book aside; he snuffed out the light and turned over to sleep. No matter, he thought as he closed his eyes, no sense in dredging these things up now. I am at Clyne. That part of me is left behind for now.
Chapter 13
A Willingness to Challenge the Weather Brings Surprises
Baugham glanced at Mr McLaughlin sitting beside him on the bench in the stables cleaning and greasing a saddle. He himself had absentmindedly been taking his gun apart for cleaning for the past half hour, lost in his thoughts.
He had wandered down to the stables with the expressed purpose of finding Mr McLaughlin to arrange for the spur of the moment hunting trip, but his genuine quest was for the opportunity to vent his thoughts in a new setting.
So he sat on that bench with the always quiet Mr McLaughlin at his side, exchanging not more than a few words about weather, state of saddles and horses. Still his lordship made no progress in clearing his muddled thoughts.
Now what? His gun was clean. Mr McLaughlin had been given his assignments. It was still early in the morning and Darcy would most probably be off for hours yet and then come back and continue in his infuriating self-satisfaction. Baugham nervously tapped his fingers against each other and looked out into the swirling mist through the stable door.
A ride. That’s what was needed, despite the damp and fog, it was movement and exercise he craved. He had been idle and trapped indoors for too long now — no wonder his mind was unsettled and apt to wander in odd directions.
THE NOVEMBER FOG LAY THICK over the village also. Holly could hardly see her hand in front of her, but the cottage was so cramped and her thoughts likewise kept jostling for space and order in her head, so she had taken herself outside anyway. She stood with the rake in her hands and made feeble attempts at scratching soaked leaves from the ground into an ordered pile that might someday be dry enough to be burnt. A very apt metaphor for her own state of confusion, she thought. Should she burn the conclusions that her scattered thoughts piled into or leave them be? No matter, they would perish and be hidden when the first snow came anyway.
From somewhere in the mist came ghostlike sounds of squeaking carriage wheels and horses whinnying as they passed by on the road without ever being seen. She sighed and breathed in the damp air. The window in her mother’s bedroom gave out only a faint light even though she was right underneath it. Mrs Tournier had hardly shown herself downstairs these past days and if Mr Pembroke made good on his boastful promise to go and shoot with the gentlemen tomorrow, Holly would forcefully drag her down from her room and make a point of sitting her in her favourite chair and indulging her as much as she could. Poor Maman, she thought, she acts like a wounded beast.
Normally she would have used her need for space and solitude to walk to the inn and pick up the post. These days, however, Elizabeth always was the one to do it and she would not relinquish the task. Jestingly, she said she was fascinated by the various ways one could accidentally meet acquaintances on such a short walk, but Holly knew that besides Mr Darcy taking his walks around the same paths she did these days, Elizabeth wanted to be the one who paid for the postage. She should feel embarrassed for that obvious concession to their lack of resources, but Holly was only grateful. So instead she stood in the gloom while her mind played the scenes from last night’s party over and over.
After she had tortured herself long enough with Mr Pembroke’s words and Primrose Tristam’s looks, she turned to Lord Baugham’s behaviour. It was puzzling to say the least. She had thought him to be shallow, but a shallow man would have either turned from her immediately, or even joined in the scorn and censure. He had done neither, showing himself to be a true friend and gentleman. But now . . . now she stood wondering whether the unforgiving light of day and distance from the immediacy of the situation had changed his opinion of her. And she wondered why she cared.
The sound of slow hoof beats brought Holly out of her reverie. She looked up, and to her surprise the very gentleman who had occupied her thoughts so persistently materialised through the mist. He reined his horse to a stop at the gate and she was suddenly unsure of what to do or how to act, but when he removed his hat and inquired as to her health and the health of her mother, Holly reverted back to the comfort of etiquette. She made her curtsey and greeted him.
“I am well, my lord, thank you. Maman is well too. Please, will you come in and have some tea?”
“I thank you, but I cannot stay,” said his lordship, looking slightly awkward. “I was merely out for a ride and thought I might enquire as to . . . well, I can see that you are quite well this morning.”
“I am, thank you, my lord,” Holly managed to say.
“Good, good . . . ” his lordship murmured. “I am glad to hear it . . . ” His voice tapered off and he cast several glances around.
A sudden dread of reliving the discomfiture of the night before, of desperately casting about in her head for something to say, made Holly thankful he did not dismount, but he also did not appear to be preparing to ride off just yet either. He just sat there on his horse and looked down at her with a smile.
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br /> “I see you don’t consider a late night to be an adequate excuse for staying inside, Miss Tournier. Very admirable! Tell me, do you enjoy working out of doors? I myself seem to be always looking for some bridge to repair or fence to mend. Any excuse for being outside and active.”
With a sheepish smile, she gestured to her meagre pile of leaves.
“I’m afraid my mind has been a bit distracted and I haven’t made much progress this morning.”
She took a step forward, recalling that she owed him a debt of gratitude.
“But I should . . . I would like to thank you, yet again, for offering your aid and assistance to me last evening. I’m afraid I monopolised too much of your time and ruined any chance you may have had to enjoy the evening.”
Somehow it seemed her words had an unexpected effect on his lordship and it was quite obvious he was struggling to answer her.
“Not at all, I assure you. You are not to think anything of the kind. I have made a vow never to tolerate tiresome people here in Scotland out of mere politeness, so you may rest assured that if I had preferred to be in any other company last night, I would have sought it. Since I did not, you may take that as an indication that your acquaintance is nothing but delightful to me.”
If they had not been saved by the distraction of a small breeze scattering the pile of leaves and catching hold of the hem of her cloak, there might have been an awkward moment. His words came out a trifle more serious than he had planned and he saw a blush creep across her cheeks and her hand rise up to her tug at her earlobe. As she made no immediate reply, he smiled and shifted uncertainly in his saddle. With nothing more to say, he really should be getting on.
“Well I suppose I should be — ”
“My lord!” she interrupted. “I would like to ask one more favour of you if I may. I would like to give you the correct circumstances surrounding my dismissal from Hockdown — I would not have you think any of the slanders spoken last night had any real basis.”
“There really is no need, Miss Tournier, if it makes you uncomfortable.” Baugham said gently. “As I have already told you, I give no credence to Mr Pembroke’s uttering whatsoever and I do not wish to imply that it is any of my concern. You really do not owe me any explanations. I told you I have the highest regard for your character, and I do.”
She looked him full in the face and smiled.
“It seems that I am continually thanking you lately. And so I will say it again: Thank you.” He waved it off and looked down again to see a sly smile on her face.
“Miss Tournier?” he questioned, his own smile returning.
“I was just thinking, my lord. If you continue to behave in such a gallant manner, I will think you have forgotten the very exclusive privilege you were granted to insult me at every turn.”
“I find that you are now being quite unfair to me, Miss Tournier, in challenging me to do what, at this moment, is impossible,” Baugham answered with a glint in his eye.
The smile on her face grew broader and suddenly she burst into laughter; it was good to see her laugh after all the distressing emotions he had seen her go through. It took her a few moments to regain control and he enjoyed watching her efforts to do so.
“Oh, my lord, I believe you are a true master! Rest assured, if at this moment, I have given you no cause to abuse me — I am certain the future will provide you with ample opportunities. You are very skilled at combining flattery with insult.”
He smiled at her, impressed that she read his subtle jest so easily, and since she had done so, relieved that his gamble had paid off.
Soon, however, the laughter slowed and turned into smiles, and presently he found that, even after the merriment subsided, he had kept his eyes on her. Her eyes sparkled, her breath was still coming heavily with the residual mirth and her cheeks were flushed with the release. With an effort he turned his gaze away, wondering at his rudeness.
“Ah, well . . . ” he said.
“Yes,” she said and looked away, too.
“You will give Mrs Tournier my regards? And Miss Bennet?”
“Of course. Thank you.”
He felt giddy. Something was not right and he should go. He was suddenly very impatient to do so and turned his horse while taking his leave. He fancied he could feel Miss Tournier’s eyes on him as he went on his way again.
A SHORT WHILE LATER, ANOTHER faint figure appeared at the garden gate; Holly gave a start, but then she recognised her cousin’s figure. Strangely enough, Elizabeth moved more slowly than usual when back from her walks to the post office. When she came closer, Holly could see there was quite a bundle of mail so she should have been showing much more eagerness to relay them forward.
“Eliza!” Holly called to the clearly distracted figure. “You must say something. You look like a ghost walking out of the fog if you don’t.”
Elizabeth came closer and Holly could see she looked contemplative, but not sad.
“How about if I let you read a letter I received? You will find me an all too real, but fickle friend if you do.”
Holly was disturbed by the tone of Elizabeth’s voice. “What are you talking about?” She let her rake fall to the ground and hurriedly went up to her. “You could never be that!”
Elizabeth laid an opened letter in her cousin’s hand and looked at her. “My father,” she said. “You had better read it yourself.” She looked around them. “Let’s not stay here though. It’s an eerie day and I’m sure the spirits are out to cause mischief. Let’s find a little sheltered, warm corner of our own, shall we; where no one can find us for a while?”
UP IN HER ROOM, ON the bed supported by blankets and cushions and each other, Holly could not help but smile as she folded her Uncle Bennet’s letter again. The tone was so familiar and his way of speaking through writing to his favourite daughter reminded her of her mother. Not that her mother would ever have written such a letter begging her to come home. The sentiment might be the same, but the unabashed need would have been cloaked in much more subtle language.
“He loves you very much,” she said.
“I know,” Elizabeth sighed, “and you, if anyone, can understand what a father’s love does to a woman’s determination.”
They looked at each other in silence and Holly held out her hand.
“Go,” she said.
“I will,” Elizabeth answered as she took it in hers.
Then they smiled and leaned into each other, temples touching but eyes looking elsewhere. They sat silently for a long while in the little room.
“Do you remember who said it first?” Holly finally asked and sat up a little straighter. “‘Go’. I think it was always you who instigated it. And I always stubbornly answered ‘I will’. Again and again.”
Elizabeth smiled. “No, I think it was you; when we were going to climb that enormous elm by the parson’s farm. Then we fell down and hurt our behinds and it was so humiliating. People thought we had done something quite naughty and been punished, the way we could not sit down without wincing for a week! I’m sure that was your idea.”
Holly gave a little laugh. “Well, I know it was you when we were going to cross the river in our bare feet, and you dared me and just would not shut up! Until you slipped and ended up too wet to pester me anymore.”
“We were younger, though, when we climbed the tree,” Elizabeth said, “twelve perhaps. The summer after . . . after your father died.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” she sighed. “Our lives have certainly changed since then.” She gave her cousin a shy look. “And I think yours will change even more soon.”
Elizabeth did not answer but twisted her fingers through Holly’s.
“And you?” she said. “What do you want out of life now?”
“Not so much anymore,” Holly replied softly. “Regular letters from you, sugar for Maman’s tea . . . and that Sir John’s friend will find funding for his publication.”
“Holly! So little?”
Holly st
ared at the swirling fog outside the window.
“Oh, Elizabeth, it feels like those wishes are ambitious enough in themselves lately. Once they are achieved I might set my sights a bit higher, but . . . ”
She could feel her cousin’s eyes upon her and though she continued to gaze out the window, she could just picture the creases of concern on Elizabeth’s brow.
“I know,” she went on. “I used to have such lofty dreams, didn’t I? But Elizabeth, they were just dreams, too ambitious for a girl to achieve. I had always hoped that, with such parents as mine, I could make a difference in the world. Even after my own dreams had wilted, I, at least, hoped that I could teach and inspire others, but that only leads to slander and disgrace.”
“My dear Holly,” Elizabeth cried out in distress, “please do not sound so bereft! It tears at my heart.”
“And don’t you sound so despairing!” Holly turned to her cousin and gave her a half-smile. “It is nothing more than coming to terms with realities and my own limitations. I have always wanted my life to be meaningful, but I wonder if I have been looking for that meaning in the wrong place. Maybe for me, the daughter of Jean-Baptiste and Arabella Tournier, my duty is not to inspire those coming after, but to care for the one who has done her duty and suffered for it. In short, Elizabeth, I will do my best to take care of Maman and see that she lives in comfort and without worry. What loftier goal can there be for a daughter?”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes and tried to speak sternly, “It is a lofty and admirable ambition indeed, but I don’t believe that one must exclude the other. I know that you have already touched many lives, despite the fact that those horrible men stopped you, and I am sure you will touch many more. You might be discouraged right now, but you have always lived with such passion! I will never believe you can abandon it completely.”
