by Gail McEwen
“Very well then, cousin, I promise that if any opportunity for the betterment of mankind comes across my path, I will pounce upon it. And now, in a demonstration of my philanthropic intent, I am going to charge into Maman’s room, throw myself on her bed and disturb her piles of books and papers, and allow her to yell at me until her heart’s content — and I think you should join me.”
“I will.”
DARCY WAS DIRECTING HIS BEST glare at him. The one that made footmen shiver and maids break out in uncontrollable sobs. Baugham had great respect for that stare, but at the same time he viewed it with more interest than fear. And besides, he was right in this and he knew it.
“I spent half an hour in the same carriage as that . . . man last night and I’ll be damned if I will spend anymore under any other circumstances.”
“You owe me a stag, remember?” Baugham said calmly and put down his glass.
“I did not promise it in Mr Pembroke’s company. How is he going to contribute towards it exactly?”
“As I told Mrs Tournier, your aim is flawless when you are fuming.”
The glare, however ineffective, had not diminished. “And why exactly was my aim a topic of conversation between you and Mrs Tournier?”
Baugham calmly pulled the stopper from the bottle and topped off his drink. His silent gesture of offer was waved off by Darcy in irritation.
“I offered to take him off of her hands for a day.” He held up his hand to forestall the coming protest of indignation. “Darcy, you had your fill of him after thirty minutes in a carriage; the ladies have been trapped in that small cottage with him for days. Where is your sense of chivalry? Do you not wish to be of service to at least one of the residents of Rosefarm?”
Darcy leaned back in admission of defeat, though his demeanour had by no means changed.
“Your tactics, Baugham, are underhanded and detestable. Very well, I will agree to it, but at the end of it I will never owe you anything more — ever! Mark my words, by the end of the day you will see just how right I am.”
Taking a sip, his eyes grown a little colder, Baugham replied, “Oh, I don’t doubt that. Not at all.”
WOMEN’S LAUGHTER AND VOICES INTERRUPTING one another filtered into the Rosefarm kitchen from the parlour. Mrs Higgins put her used iron back on the hearth and picked up a hot new one.
“That Mr Darcy is such a fine and considerate gentleman! I wonder if he realised just how much service he was to this house when he asked Mr Pembroke to come and shoot with him and his lairdship?”
Mrs McLaughlin was helping her cousin by dipping her fingers into the water bowl and sprinkling the fabric at regular intervals, but she suddenly stopped.
“Mr Darcy? It was nae Mr Darcy who came up with that thought. His lairdship it was. For some queerie reason,” she added muttering.
Mrs Higgins also stopped with her iron for a moment. “Really? Aye, well he wasnae aware of the gentleman’s true nature, I would suppose.”
“And ye are, Rosie?”
“I’ve seen enough of his behaviour the times he comes to stay to know what sort of man he is. Which makes me just as thankful as the rest of the household to his lairdship — whate’er his motives.”
There was a slight silence when Mrs Higgins let the heavy hot iron gently smooth over the wrinkles of a petticoat and Mrs McLaughlin played with her fingers in the water between sprinklings.
“What is it with ye?” Mrs Higgins gave her cousin a suspicious look.
“His lairdship is a good man,” Mrs McLaughlin slowly said, “but he is nae charitably inclined, as ye might say. Especially here at Clyne. He doesna go out of his way to oblige folk if he can help it.”
“So?”
“So there must be something in this that gives service to him, too. Or someone.”
MR DARCY HAD FULFILLED ALL expectations and was not only instrumental in bringing down a magnificent stag with two well directed and very cold-blooded — if not foolhardy — shots, but also had been very busy adding to the gentlemen’s bounty by shooting practically every piece of fowl that crossed the sky on the way up and down to the hunting grounds. Despite this obvious triumph, his glare was worse than ever and his jaw was set so tightly he had long ago ceased trying to wrench it open to take part in the general conversation as they returned home to Clyne.
Baugham on the other hand, whose irritation rather expressed itself in restlessness and sarcasm, had a very light bag and a very dry mouth. The bottle of whiskey had very soon been emptied and not only by his lordship. Pembroke was a decent shot, but he was evidently more anxious to prove it through nonchalance and boasting than by actual deeds.
They left their helpers to deal with the carcass and following in Mr Darcy’s urgent strides, headed towards Clyne with their bags filled from Darcy’s work.
Baugham marched on, listening to the crunch of the dried brush and leaves under his feet, regretting the empty bottle in Mr McLaughlin’s pack and steeling himself for his next unpleasant task. Soon enough, a marginally gracious invitation to dine was offered and accepted, with only one indiscernible grunt emanating from Darcy as a consequence. The gentlemen headed to their quarters, Mr Pembroke was given the use of a guest room and in half an hour’s time they were seated in the library, washed up and somewhat refreshed — and conversing awkwardly while awaiting dinner.
Darcy’s temper had recovered sufficiently to try to take some of the pressure off of Baugham, so he started a conversation while their host generously filled three glasses.
“Do your plans keep you in Clanough for much longer, Pembroke?” was all he asked, but he felt quite pleased with himself for managing that much.
Pembroke accepted the glass from his lordship, sniffed it inquisitively and took a small taste. He then, to Baugham’s great irritation, lifted it up in acknowledgment of its quality and gave him an approving nod. Exhibiting a great deal of self-control, Baugham smiled back tightly and availed himself of a large swallow of the commended substance.
“Oh,” Pembroke finally replied to Darcy’s question, “I think I will be here for several more days. I have some writing to complete before I return to Edinburgh and Rosefarm Cottage is a quiet, convenient place to work. I find it to be a very satisfactory arrangement.”
“I wonder,” Baugham drawled, “how convenient or satisfactory your hostess finds this . . . arrangement? The cottage is very small and they do already have one houseguest.”
“I suppose,” Pembroke smiled, “that is the advantage of being the landlord. My convenience takes precedence. And Miss Bennet appears happy enough to share with her cousin. Girls like that sort of thing, you know.”
Lord Baugham was not at all pleased to hear his own words repeated by this pompous, inconsiderate man, and he felt a renewed sympathy for Miss Tournier’s irritation at hearing them from him. They had a paternalistic and patronising sound, and he was sorely tempted to repeat the lady’s response to the man across from him. Thankfully Darcy jumped in at that moment.
“I suppose that space will not always be so much of a problem on future visits. Miss Bennet will be returning home and Miss Tournier will surely marry at some point. After that, you will only have Mrs Tournier for company.”
Baugham could see a comment rising to Pembroke’s lips, a comment, if spoken, he was certain he would find offensive and then be compelled to ask the man to leave. Trying to keep to his purpose of providing a very much needed respite for the ladies, he deflected it with the first thing he could think of to say.
“It’s a bit curious,” Baugham began quickly, “in my experience, country girls tend to marry and settle down earlier than Town girls, but yet neither Miss Bennet nor Miss Tournier are married — nor are either of them spoken for I believe.”
He watched to see if Darcy would take exception to his hasty remark, but to his surprise, Pembroke spoke up instead.
“Well, I know nothing about Miss Bennet’s prospects,” he snorted, “but Miss Tournier has had more offers than one wo
uld expect.”
Baugham’s eyebrows rose slightly at this intelligence, “Indeed? And she has accepted none of them?”
“Nor will she, as long as she is in the clutches of that mother of hers.”
“So,” Darcy smiled tightly in an attempt to inject some humour into the exchange, “one must court the mother in order to win the daughter? This has the makings of a Shakespearean farce.”
“Don’t fool yourself, Darcy,” Pembroke said, “this drama will not tie itself up as neatly or as quickly as that. I have spent the past five years trying to get back into that woman’s good graces. It can’t be done, I tell you. She doesn’t believe anyone is good enough for her precious daughter, and Miss Tournier is fully ruled by her mother in that regard.”
“Back into her good graces, Pembroke?” Baugham idly questioned, but to his irritation, Pembroke seemingly lost interest in the subject and returned his attention to the glass in his hand and Baugham’s best whiskey.
“The Tourniers are very lucky, you know,” he drawled, “and not the poor pitiful country bumpkins you make them out to be. They have been treated very generously by my parents who, even though their original friend, Monsieur Tournier, is long since deceased, and Mrs Tournier is in no way without relatives of her own she might appeal to, have let them stay on at their property on very generous terms. A bit too generous one could even say, since they seem to object to the actual owner of their cottage using it for his immediate needs on quite reasonable terms.”
At the mention of Mrs Tournier’s relations Darcy lost his resolution to contribute to a civil conversation and drained his glass in one go. He thrust it out towards his friend, who promptly filled it to the rim. Looks were exchanged and Darcy sunk into a morbid silence.
Baugham sighed. This was going to be a long evening indeed.
WHEN THEY FINALLY SAW THE back of Mr Pembroke, Darcy had practically turned into an effigy of stone and Baugham contrasted his friend’s pale and set countenance with his distinctly flushed and agitated one. As the door closed behind him, Baugham grabbed the poker and viciously attacked the dying embers in the grate, sending a flood of sparks upwards in a final display of fury. Darcy looked at him and, while still maintaining his exact position in his chair, the corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.
“Never,” he said darkly, “never have you inflicted such pain upon me before, my friend. Not through broken ribs from fist fights or sparring matches ending in bloodshed or mental agony over hurt pride and lost challenges. The only comforting aspect is that you suffered as much as me.”
“I did,” Baugham said through clenched teeth. “God, if I have ever done anything so painful before in the name of charity . . . ”
“Next time,” Darcy said, “make a subscription to some worthy society instead.”
“Like ‘The Society for the Forceful Eviction of Pompous Persons from the Homes of Deserving Women’.”
“Or we could just kill him,” Darcy added darkly. “He is the sort of man who plans his own funeral meticulously. It would be a shame to miss it.”
Wry smiles spread over the men’s faces as they finally relaxed into a peaceful silence and the comfort denied them for so long. They sat, they drank a little more, they watched the glowing logs turn to black charred remains as the rain slowly picked up and began to drum on windows and roof.
“Rain,” Darcy remarked. He got up from his chair and faced his friend. “One stag and I lost count of how many birds. The debt is yours, my friend. You will repay it handsomely when I invite any interested party from Rosefarm Cottage for tea tomorrow.”
Baugham groaned. “Just not Mr Pembroke!” he shouted, as Darcy was about to walk out the door.
“I’ll certainly do my best,” was the answer before the door closed behind him.
Chapter 14
Tea is once more Enjoyed and Important Thoughts are Shared at the Eve of Departure Ending in Both Tears and Hope
“We will walk,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Whether we are offered a carriage home or not probably depends upon how well ‘we’ can behave ourselves, but I will risk it. In fact, walking both ways is not an entirely unappealing prospect at this point.”
Holly just smiled. As soon as Elizabeth had told her there was an invitation to Clyne Cottage for tea, she had gone around to the kitchen to see if her boots had dried up from her last venture outside that morning. Now her cousin and her mother stood facing each other in the hall ‘discussing’ the mode of transportation available and Mrs Tournier was frowning at Elizabeth’s refusal of Mr Darcy’s carriage. Mr Pembroke sat in the parlour swinging his crossed leg, listening to them with an amused smile. This was about him, he was certain. Since the carriage was refused and the young women were going to walk, he had declined the invitation, as had Mrs Tournier. If the carriage had been accepted they would have all gone.
“Holly needs this,” Elizabeth said tightly and both women knew they were referring to an absence from Mr Pembroke. Mrs Tournier narrowed her eyes.
“And I do not?”
Elizabeth said nothing but returned her gaze steadily.
“You are entirely too stubborn for your own good, Elizabeth,” her aunt finally said.
“Sticks and stones, Aunt,” Elizabeth said and smiled.
It was a grey day, but the rain from the previous evening had stopped and the air was filled with scents and fresh reminders of the dormant green and earthy world. The two young women who made their way through the village, over the fields, and across the woods felt as if they had been released from a dungeon.
To her great surprise, Holly had felt a surge of happy expectation when Elizabeth shared Mr Darcy’s invitation. Despite her difficulties with the present owner and the more than confusing way in which he had been acting lately, she had always viewed Clyne with curiosity and a wish that she might one day be so bold as to actually see what it was like inside. The old owner of the property had never earned the respect of anyone in the neighbouring village; it was common knowledge he preferred his other estate in Perthshire when he was not in Town pursuing a political career, and the estate had been all but ignored. But the house, with its warm coloured sandstone and unsuspecting prospect down to the river had always held promise — and, of course, the dilapidated estate of an absentee landlord was an ideal playground for disrespectful local children, which explained her familiarity with the grounds.
The inside of the house, however, was still a mystery; except for the kitchen. Holly told the story of her humiliation to Elizabeth, warning her against getting her feet wet. Elizabeth laughed and threatened to do just that, saying the prospect of digging her bare toes into a thick rug at a lord’s lair was fast becoming too irresistible to ignore.
“I TRUST YOU ENJOYED YOUR walk, ladies?” Mr Darcy’s mouth twitched slightly without ever losing its pleasant curve when he greeted them in the hall outside the drawing room where Mrs McLaughlin had escorted them.
“Of course, sir,” Elizabeth said, smiling pleasantly. “I think I told you I would enjoy it. But I am rather surprised to see you did not feel a corresponding need to walk as a consequence.”
Darcy sent her a smile and then turned to Holly and took her hand instead, welcoming her as well. It was a good thing he did so, for Holly felt slightly overwhelmed when finally confronted with the interior of the house. She looked around her: not grand, not fashionable, not overly impressive as far as furnishings at all, but it was a surprisingly warm and welcoming house, comfortable and certainly far more homelike than she had ever imagined. True, that stag head over the fireplace in the drawing room was very imposing, but other than that the room had a certain feel of domestic blindness to any desire to impress and an obvious inclination to bow more to the comfort and indulgencies of the inhabitants.
Just then the inhabitant himself stepped out of his drawing room to greet them.
“You took us quite by surprise!” the owner of Clyne Cottage said and smiled at them when Mr Darcy ushered them in. “Or me,
rather. Darcy here was quick on his feet as usual.”
“I think Mr Darcy could have told you we would most likely take the opportunity to walk, had he wanted to. He is well acquainted with my stubbornness on that subject,” Elizabeth smiled. “Then you could have positioned yourself in the window, too, and been prepared.”
Darcy gave what was a ghost of a smile, but Lord Baugham laughed.
“How well you know my friend’s habits! But I will give you the best seat in the room if you guess my excuse.”
“Sleeping, perhaps?” Holly said quietly.
Lord Baugham cast her a quick glance. “I see I shall have to do with the second best, Miss Tournier,” he smiled. “What betrayed me?”
Holly gestured to her cheek and Lord Baugham wiped his with his coat sleeve.
“Printing ink?” he laughed. “Well, I am glad the offending newspaper has been banished from the room already. But you are here for tea, not parlour games, I hope.”
His voice was pleasant enough, but a surprising question ran through his brain when Miss Tournier pointed to her cheek: Is there no privacy from that woman?
However it had begun, it turned out to be a very harmonious company that sat down for tea. As Mrs McLaughlin brought in offering after offering, even the gentlemen raised eyebrows at the abundance on display.
“I think Mrs McLaughlin was never convinced you would come by any other means than walking,” Baugham finally observed. “My dear woman, there’s enough here to feed an army!”
“We shall certainly be able to march on our stomachs back home again,” Elizabeth remarked.
That exchange was typical of the afternoon. Elizabeth mostly kept up the conversation with able help from his lordship, while Mr Darcy was obviously content with watching Miss Bennet push back Lord Baugham’s attempts at snaring her with her own words. Holly felt immensely cheered by the walk and the friendly atmosphere and was perfectly content just sitting within close range of the cream and sugar and her teacup near enough to her face to take in the heavenly smell when she was not actually drinking it.
