by Gail McEwen
During a lull in the conversation there was a sudden gust of wind through the trees outside, enough to make the windowpanes rattle. All four turned their eyes to the window to catch the branches of the closest trees swaying and rustling ominously.
“Rain,” sighed Elizabeth. “You know, I used to blame Mr Darcy’s solitary disposition in company as the reason he always showed such preference for gazing at prospects out of windows, but I have come to realise my error. Weather is an integral part of conversation in polite society and ignorance of it is an unpardonable sin. I know I have often been guilty of it when my optimism has got the better of my intelligence as to the conditions outside. Does it always rain here?”
“Yes,” said Holly vigorously at the same time as his lordship emphatically said “No.”
“Well, I blame my southernmost ancestry for my poor capacity to come to terms with Scottish weather sometimes,” Holly smiled. “I don’t suffer the worst of it very well, I’m afraid.”
“Which would be most of the time in November,” Elizabeth sighed.
“I think you must take care, Miss Bennet,” Baugham said, “criticism always offends the newest convert the most and when it comes to the comforts of staying in Scotland that would be Mr Darcy. His resentment is a terrible thing, you know.”
Mr Darcy gave a broad and calm smile towards Miss Bennet after directing a less openly interpretable look toward his host.
“I know Miss Bennet well enough to know she never means to offend. Only to challenge and laugh,” he went on.
Elizabeth laughed. “There you are then! Or to chase away my fears by ridicule. This kind of weather makes me think of ghost stories. My cousin tells excellent ghost stories! The one of the Piper’s Cave never fails!”
Holly shook her head gently. “You always want to hear it and then you always end up lighting far too many candles and singing merry tunes all night to chase your fright away.”
“Well, with such a prospect I think we must insist upon hearing about the Piper’s Cave, Miss Tournier!” Baugham leaned forward.
“You will be sorry if you do,” Elizabeth answered before Holly could protest herself, “for then I will be forced to claim your carriage for the journey home instead of taking my cousin’s narrow and dark shortcuts through the woods.”
Darcy sent her an indulgent smile but reserved his words for Holly. “Miss Tournier,” he said, “we really must insist. A story that has such an effect on Miss Bennet must be entertainment for us all — intentional and unintentional, I am sure.”
Holly settled back. She would tell them a ghost story then. She smiled to her audience, a subtle change in her demeanour commanding their interest. If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was tell a story. Her mother’s friends knew it and the girls at Hockdown knew it. She also enjoyed it herself, both because and despite the audience.
She dropped her voice to a melodic hum — warm but still full with the promise of unexpected twists — and held the rapt attention of her audience perfectly between glances at Elizabeth’s face, which predictably paled as she proceeded through the story.
“Marquis Alexandré had an only daughter, the beautiful Isabeau,” Holly began, “whom he would never let out of his sight. Men from all across the land would be pleased to seek her hand but the marquis, ever jealous of anyone who would take his daughter’s love from him, had vowed that he would never allow her to marry. He proclaimed a terrible death awaited any man who dared to woo his daughter.
“One night, Isabeau was awakened by the most beautiful, haunting music she had ever heard. Unable to help herself, she was drawn to it — it was hypnotic. She followed the sounds outside and there she saw a handsome young piper, a young man from the village. He stopped playing and smiled at her — the loveliest smile she had ever seen — and then he spoke to her: tender words of love and longing. All night long they were together; Isabeau dancing while the piper played, they traded words of love and promise and when the sun came up he left, vowing that someday soon he would return for her and take her as his wife.”
She could not help glancing at Mr Darcy then, but he sat motionless in his chair, listening and watching her tell her tale.
“But, the marquis had spies everywhere on his estate and they told him about this young piper. He flew into a rage and had the boy arrested and brought to him. Even under the cruellest torture, he would not renounce his love for Isabeau or his intention to marry her, as poor as he was. The marquis was pitiless in his anger and fear and he threw the boy into a cave by the sea, chaining him to the rock face and threatening to bring Isabeau down to him to witness his degradation. The piper pleaded that he would do no such thing — ‘Please!’ he cried, ‘Do not let her see me this way.’ But the marquis would not relent.”
“Oh!” her cousin said in an involuntary little gasp. Holly smiled but went on.
“That night was a fierce storm, the worst that had been seen for untold years. Isabeau’s poor lover was battered and beaten against the rocks as the angry sea surged into the cave. When Isabeau was brought to him the next morning, his body, still chained to the wall, was broken and he was nearly-drowned. She reached him just as he drew his last breath. ‘Isabeau, my love,’ he whispered, ‘Dance for me, and I will forever play for you.’ He died in her arms.
“Isabeau screamed and cried and shook him as if she could awaken him from that eternal sleep, but it was not to be. She reached into his pocket and took his pipe, holding it up to the marquis. ‘He will play, and I will dance, Father, I will dance!’ she cried.”
At this point Mr Darcy was looking at Elizabeth with an expression partly of complete puzzlement and partly of worry. The lady herself had paled visibly, but did not notice that she had become a rival to Holly for Mr Darcy’s attention. Holly moved a few inches and caught Elizabeth’s hand, squeezing it playfully.
“She ran up to the highest cliff and, clutching the pipe to her breast, flung herself down to the rocks below. Her father, mad in his grief, took up her body, as beautiful in death as it had been in life, and carried it tenderly into the very cave where her lover had perished. There he sat for days upon days, moaning in lament, crying in his guilt and when the storms arose again he simply sat there, allowing the remorseless waves to beat and batter him against the rocks until he, too, was dead.
“Since that day, all the people around are afraid to venture near the Piper’s Cave. They say that even now, when the wind is cold and the icy storms sweep across the frenzied sea, you can see them and hear them there, Isabeau and her lover, two ghostly white figures dancing and playing in the dead of night, together at last and forever. And the marquis, his terrible moans and cries echo endlessly through the cliffs while the waves crash against them, his grief and sorrow as eternal and relentless as Isabeau’s joy — and it is said that you must beware, for if a man hears that terrible wailing while the seas rage, it is a sign that his dearest love is bound to die.”
“Oh!” said Miss Bennet again, very much relieved that the story was ended and her colour began to return. Mr Darcy flashed a small amused smile, but Lord Baugham still stared at Miss Tournier in concentration even though the story was clearly over and she broke the spell of the terrible tale by laughing a little and patting her cousin’s cheek. Not until Miss Tournier realised she was still being watched even though she was silent, and sent a questioning look to his lordship, did he avert his eyes and mumble something about it having been a well-told tale.
ELIZABETH WAS HAPPY. IT WAS obvious. Holly had been watching her again as she shook away the effects of the story. It was sight for sore eyes to see her cousin so lively and gay, with an inner peace to her that shone through. But why were her eyes sore? She was happy if Elizabeth was happy. She was certain of that. What was this melancholy that penetrated even her sincerest wishes of joy?
Was it perhaps the fact that Elizabeth would be gone in a few days? Or the realisation that once her colour plates were finished there were no more immediate commissions or so
urces of income waiting for her except a vague promise of a young un-established geologist who had probably forgotten both her and his promise long ago. Holly sighed — she should start soliciting for work. Perhaps talk to Sir John or her mother’s friends in Edinburgh. Perhaps start considering a position as a governess or teacher. Only as a last resort though. Pray to God it would not come to that! She looked down at the still abundant display of tea before her on the table and thought of her mother’s fondness for her sugar. It just might yet come to that . . .
She hardly registered that Mr Darcy had moved over from the sparkling warmth of her cousin and came to stand beside her to fill his teacup. She performed the task and gave him a hasty smile, expecting him to move away from what must be the depressing sight of her brooding mood, but he did not.
“That was a gruesome story for such an educated and fine young woman to tell,” he smiled. “You had me quite spellbound, which, of course, was your object.”
Holly stared at him.
“Mr Darcy! I . . . well, perhaps you’re right, but a father with an only daughter has no choice if he wants to pass on the legends of his childhood, I suppose.”
“I suppose not. But it certainly was a tale worth risking a young girl’s sensibility to pass on. You told it very well.”
“So did he,” Holly said in a smaller voice than she intended. That was all that she needed — to slip into melancholy over her father as well!
She cleared her throat and straightened her back to shake off the sadness that had almost gripped her, but Mr Darcy hastily began talking before she could open her mouth to move to another subject herself.
“My own father was a master at ghouly tales,” he began in a more light-hearted tone. “It seems strange now, that one’s favourite memories should be connected to such infinite frights.”
“I think any time spent with a busy and adored man must be precious; even if it came at the price of sleepless nights and skittishness.”
“Yes,” Mr Darcy said quietly, “exactly.”
He gave her a look and in that instant Holly saw something in the combined smile on his lips and the frown on his brow that she recognised. Mr Darcy’s father had been well-loved by his son.
“Still, I think I was a little more fortunate than you were,” Holly smiled as she poured herself a cup of tea, carefully slipping as much cream into the cup as she dared while continuing.
“In the matter of fathers or of ghost stories, Miss Tournier?” Darcy asked.
“In the matter of my sex, Mr Darcy; as a little girl, I had the privilege and ability to crawl upon my Papa’s lap and hide my face in his coat if his stories frightened me. Somehow,” she continued, “I doubt that young Master Darcy would have done likewise.”
Darcy’s laugh was soft and barely audible, but heartfelt, “No, you are right about that. No matter how frightened I would become I would have never admitted it — but I cannot recount how many nights I laid awake, hearing the sounds of organ music in the wind and listening for footsteps on the path outside.” He smiled again. “It’s funny, but the ghost always seemed to take the very path that led beneath my window.”
“Yes, and every hollow in every rock became the Piper’s Cave for me, no matter that we lived nowhere near the sea. But . . . I could not wait to sit at his feet again and watch his face and hear his voice as he would . . . ” she stopped momentarily to swallow the silly lump that had risen in her throat. “What I wouldn’t give . . . ”
There was no need to finish the thought. She turned her eyes toward Mr Darcy, his face was soft and distant, feeling and knowing exactly what she meant. The sounds of laughter carrying across the room brought them back to the present, and after exchanging understanding smiles, they parted. Mr Darcy moved directly back to Elizabeth’s side, Holly walked to the fireplace and sipped her tea thoughtfully.
THIS QUIET EXCHANGE HAD BEEN noticed by Lord Baugham. While Miss Tournier was busy telling the story, he had seen her come out of her quiet contentment, obviously enjoying herself without any self-consciousness or self-conceit at being the centre of attention. Then she had withdrawn and looked puzzled again until Darcy had spoken to her. Strangely enough, his taciturn friend, who could do a fair imitation of a stone effigy himself, had managed to draw Miss Tournier back into the light again.
Curiosity was his chief fault, he knew that, and this was irresistible. The evening at Sir Torquil’s gave him even more fuel for thought, so he tentatively came around to stand next to her by the fire.
She smiled briefly at him as she noticed him approaching.
“Warming up your chilled bones, I see,” Baugham said. “I think I need some reassurance that I am still among the living, myself.”
Something in what he said seemed to make her frown for a moment, but she found her footing quickly. “I am glad to see my cousin recovering more quickly than usual,” she nodded towards Elizabeth, who was obviously talking about quite other matters than ghost stories with Mr Darcy.
Baugham shuffled his feet.
“Miss Tournier, you must allow me — that is, I fear I neglected to properly welcome you. I find myself quite out of practice at playing host here in Scotland, you see. As I have already explained, I keep a very secluded household and company here. We have very few visitors and I must admit I prefer it that way.”
“Well then, I am indeed privileged,” Holly replied somewhat shortly, remembering his efforts that night at the Tristams’ to explain his desire for isolation, and realising he was now making it a point to bring it up again. “We do appreciate your sacrifice in receiving us despite your preferences.”
Baugham wondered at the guardedness that overcame her countenance and tried to speak lightly. “Not at all. In fact, I am very happy to be able to welcome you properly into the rest of my home. Mrs McLaughlin’s kitchen is very clean and comfortable, but I would hate to think that your knowledge of Clyne Cottage would end there.”
Did he really have to bring up that afternoon in the kitchen? She groaned inwardly, concluding from his smile that he must have been excessively amused at her predicament then. Irritated and trying desperately not to allow the blush that threatened to rise, she changed the subject.
“Well, I am happy to at last be able to see the inside of the house. As you know I trespassed shamelessly on these grounds when I was a girl — the pool by the stream was one of my favourite spots — and more than once I walked through the woods to look at the house. I often wondered what it was like inside.”
She looked around curiously. “The child in me always imagined grand rooms and fine furnishings; I see now I was quite off the mark . . . though I cannot say it is not better the way you have furnished it in reality. It seems . . . a proper house for its purpose and your affiliation with it.”
Baugham felt very uncomfortable talking about his home as if it were an open house to be judged by its furnishing and style, as if it were a showpiece of the aristocracy, made to mirror the inhabitant’s position, wealth and stature. And then yet another reference to his private sanctuaries! All he needed now was for her to tell him how to best catch the trout in that stream. He felt irrationally jealous. Anyway, this self-effacing manner of hers was most irritating. She was of an ancient and noble family on her father’s side, the name she bore was a proud and splendid one, why did she insist on making out she was poor, humble and worthless? As if her income and how she came by it had anything to do with it?
“I am so happy you approve.” He knew his voice had lost some of its warmth and the reply was mechanical, but he was powerless to stop it. And why should he? She looked at him with her large dark eyes as if completely innocent and childishly delighted with her discoveries and opinions, excitedly sharing them with him as if she was doing him a service to acquaint him with his own property! He cleared his throat. “I must confess I did not know that what I thought of as my private and most treasured spots around the grounds were common knowledge. I cannot say I have seen many trespassers. Not that they wou
ld have been wondered at, of course. It is, after all, the beauty of this place that convinced me to call this my home.”
“Well, my lord, it would be hard indeed if a part-time resident would deny the beauties and joys of his land to the village children simply in order to keep them to himself when and if he happens to arrive. I cannot imagine anyone thinking himself harmed to know that his stream was giving happiness and refreshment to a few boys or girls.”
Her eyes gave a flash directly at him, but then looked elsewhere. Baugham shrugged and looked elsewhere, too. His face was indiscernible but his eyes seemed to cloud over.
“Not harmed, Miss Tournier, simply jealous. Always jealous . . . ”
But she turned back and gave him an incredulous stare.
“Jealous! Jealous of what? That these little children, who must join their parents in daily toil in order that they may be able to eat; that these little ones, who are destined to grow up to toil daily with their own children; that these little ones who have no hope of ever attaining such property but whose brightest hope is to be employed by one who does . . .
“You are jealous because they rob your stream of some pleasure and maybe a few fish?”
For a moment he felt his features harden and his heart quicken in indignation. He knew he must have looked cold as stone, but he also knew that his unreasonable anger was perfectly mirrored in her dark, flashing eyes and a mouth set tight into a line. She nervously touched her earlobe in an attempt to distract herself from her resentment and Baugham unconsciously stretched a few inches to be able to shift his eyes elsewhere.
“ . . . unless you want to risk another fine rendition of the headless man walking the woods at night,” Miss Bennet’s voice rang out and interrupted the peculiar stand-off.
