by Gail McEwen
Holly turned away first and directed a strained smile towards Elizabeth. “Since I am the one who will have to endure any nightmares that will plague you, my foolhardy cousin, I am done with tales tonight.”
Holly cast one last glance at Lord Baugham, but he was already looking elsewhere and did not catch the scorn in her eyes. On the other hand, his lordship was careful to direct his eyes to the window to make certain Miss Tournier did not catch the unbridled irritation in his.
AFTER THE LADIES LEFT, DARCY softly closed the door behind him and settled himself back in his chair.
“Now that was not so bad, was it?”
Lord Baugham still kept his back turned to his friend and stared out at the brown wet leaves swirling around in the gusts of wind over his lawn.
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Darcy looked at his friend for a moment.
“You are standing in front of the window assessing the view and the weather. That is my usual prerogative.”
“Hmpf.”
Baugham broke away from his idleness with a jerk and walked around the drawing room.
“I’ll be in the library. Where is that newspaper?”
THE FOLLOWING DAY, THE GIRLS WALKED to the posting inn slowly, as if to delay the inevitable separation looming before them and enjoying one last private, heart-to-heart conversation.
“What do you think, Holly?”
Holly was quiet a while. “I think he loves you very much,” she finally quietly said.
Elizabeth smiled.
“But . . . ” Holly went on, hesitating, “I’m sorry, but I have to say this too. I don’t know how he loves you. I mean, are you sure of what he wants from you? I’m sorry to be blunt, but there it is. I keep looking for a sign of selflessness and understanding in him. Sometimes I think I see it — well, lately that is, but I still feel like I must say it.”
Elizabeth’s face turned grave and she took her cousin’s hand in hers.
“There was something I never told you, Holly, about Mr Darcy. I did not because I was certain I should never see him again and the information was regarding a third party I thought . . . I thought I should protect her.”
As they walked, Elizabeth, in quiet tones, told Holly about what Mr Darcy had disclosed to her about his sister and her misfortunes with Mr Wickham.
“And Holly, despite this he was the one who took care and found poor Lydia. And he paid for everything. My uncle was allowed to do nothing! My father thinks he must have paid Mr Wickham at least ten thousand pounds to extract him from his debts and convince him to marry Lydia.”
Holly was speechless.
“Why?” she finally said. “Why would he do that?”
“I think he felt it was his mistake to correct.”
“But Lydia — ” Holly began and then stopped. There was no way of continuing without casting light over her aunt and uncle’s negligence and Lydia’s thoughtlessness.
Then suddenly she understood. She saw it clearly and she smiled as she thought back to what Mr Darcy had said about his father. Something she recognised so well herself.
“Elizabeth,” she said, “I think Mr Darcy has been the victim of living in the shadow of an ideal. A larger than life figure that showed him what greatness should be, but he missed an important lesson: the fact that greatness comes not from living up to an example, but from living up to your own convictions.”
“What do you mean? Do you mean his father?” Then a softer look swept across Elizabeth’s face. “And yours?”
“Yes, I do. I think Mr Darcy desperately wants to do right and serve his father’s memory to be a worthy successor, but he forgot to make allowances for his own fallibility and humanity as well. We are not perfect just because we display a perfect front. Mr Wickham threatened that image of perfection by hurting him where he was proudest — his affection and care for his family, even by proving him wrong to have trusted a childhood friend and a favourite of his father’s. Such a thing does not go away until you admit you were mistaken and stop trying to hide your faults at all costs. At the cost of others. At the cost of Lydia and from what you tell me, countless tradesmen’s daughters.”
Holly stopped and grabbed Elizabeth’s other hand too and looked at her earnestly.
“What he did was wrong, but he told you the truth and then when that was not enough, he faced his failure by rectifying another one. That was very brave of him — and generous. Not the money, but the laying himself bare to accusations and blame and the shameful truth of his association with that scoundrel.”
“So . . . ?”
“So I think he is a good man. You told me so once, remember? And I think you were right.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth smiled and looked down at their crossed hands, “I think I was.”
There was a pause; Holly knew Elizabeth needed to go on with something important still left unsaid.
“Holly,” Elizabeth said quietly, still looking down, “about that foreswearing we did so happily just a few weeks ago. I might have to break my pledge.”
Holly smiled. “Please don’t worry. I’ll keep it for both of us.”
She attempted to resume the slow walk not to be late, but Elizabeth held her in place.
“No, Holly. Please don’t hold on to it too tightly. Promise me that if there is the least evidence — or the slightest doubt — that you will open your heart to the possibility of breaking it, too. Promise me you will learn from my mistake and not let prejudice, or pride of the mind, overrule your heart completely.”
Holly frowned, but now Elizabeth met her gaze squarely. “If reason and emotion should meet in the same person, promise me you will have the courage to be persuaded and not hide or be afraid?”
“That is a tall order for any person to achieve,” Holly said still frowning.
“True,” Elizabeth said, “but it has been known to happen and I just want you to believe that you deserve it, too.”
All too soon the coach arrived. Elizabeth’s trunks were loaded and she was hurried aboard to keep to the tight schedule of the post. Holly leaned in and the two cousins exchanged tearful goodbyes and before either of them were ready, the door was shut and Elizabeth Bennet was on her way to Hertfordshire and Holly was left, alone and desolate, at the roadside.
She stood watching until the coach diminished into a mere speck and then disappeared altogether. She fought back the sobs, but her tears ran freely down her cheeks; she would miss Elizabeth profoundly. Her interval of respite and enjoyment was at an end, and now it was time to make some very hard decisions. She drew in a shuddering breath as the growing chill in the air convinced her that her prolonged study of the horizon would do nothing to bring her cousin any closer. Shivering, she turned and began the slow walk back home.
She had not taken three steps when she noticed, from the corner of her eye, another figure on the edge of the green in front of the inn, facing the same direction from which she had just turned. Mr Darcy. A grateful feeling arose in her heart to him; he must have been fully as sorry as she was to see Elizabeth leave, but he had allowed them their time together, a quiet goodbye unimpeded by his presence. She took a step toward him and, as if suddenly noting her presence, he made his way across the green as well. They met in the middle and he offered her his arm without a word. She took it silently and they walked slowly down the road to Rosefarm Cottage. Not a word was exchanged between them, nothing needed to be said — Elizabeth had gone.
He escorted her up to the gate and it was there that she finally broke the companionable silence.
“I envy you, Mr Darcy.”
He looked at her, his expression confused.
“You do? May I ask why?”
“Because,” she smiled sadly, “you have the means and the opportunity to go after her. That is what you mean to do, isn’t it?”
A sudden smile spread across his features and Holly noted how it changed his whole appearance.
“Why . . . �
�� he hesitated. “Yes,” he then firmly said. “You are absolutely right in that.” His beaming face betrayed his every thought and wish, “It is, in fact, exactly what I mean to do.”
“I should hope so,” Holly said. “Go!”
“I will, Miss Tournier, I will!”
JUST AFTER SUNSET DARCY WALKED into the library. “Baugham, I thank you for your hospitality but I leave in the morning.”
Baugham turned in his chair and watched as his friend sank back into his. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Miss Bennet having left this afternoon?”
“It would. And I want to be able to put myself at Bingley’s disposal if he should ask me.”
“He hasn’t asked you?”
“No.”
Baugham could not help but smile. “Good Lord, Darcy, you have become very meek and subservient in your old age! Six months ago you would have taken it for granted that Bingley was incapable of getting married without you!”
Darcy returned the wry smile. “That was six months ago.”
A moment of complete understanding passed between them and Baugham got out of his chair to find the appropriate companion for this silent, combined celebration and farewell. The glasses were filled, homage was paid to colour, smell and taste and they settled to enjoy the rare and ancient brew.
“Well, I should add good luck to that, I suppose,” Baugham said thoughtfully after a few moments alone with his whiskey.
“I hope I shan’t need luck,” Darcy answered him. “But thank you.”
That was all that was said for a long time thereafter. Both men seemed lost in their thoughts, feeling silence was the proper respect to be shown to this moment. After a while, however, Darcy looked at his friend and the sheer force of his concentrated gaze made Baugham look up from his own reverie.
“What?”
“Thank you.” It was said in a different tone this time. A tone that made Baugham smile sheepishly and wave away his friend’s gratitude with an impatient and embarrassed wave of his hand.
“Not at all,” he muttered. “It has been an interesting experience. From the sidelines, so to speak.”
Thus they sat each content with his own efforts in the matter of Mr Darcy’s short Scottish holiday. Finally Darcy got out of his chair.
“I shall see you in Town then perhaps?”
“Perhaps.” Darcy hesitated as he was about to walk away. “Will you continue your acquaintance with the Rosefarm ladies although I am gone?”
“Possibly. Well, probably. I like Mrs Tournier.”
“And Miss Tournier?”
Baugham snorted. “I was predisposed to, but I have never met a woman who made it more difficult for me to like her. Or indeed just sharing a superficial acquaintance. She is the most exasperating, annoying thing, isn’t she? Scrutinising, judging, bothersome and quarrelsome. Besides, she clearly doesn’t like me. Other than that?” he shrugged, “I can hardly avoid her now.”
Darcy hesitated.
“Baugham . . . behave yourself, will you?”
Baugham sent his friend a look of affronted exasperation.
“Well, I needed to say it,” Darcy answered, “regardless.”
Baugham shook his head and went back to his book. “I sincerely hope you realise that my calm incredulity at your really quite insulting suspicions does everything needed to refute any notions you might have of me being unable to act like a gentleman.”
“Quite.” Mr Darcy looked at him for a moment before walking through the door. Baugham watched him leave and then returned to his silent contemplation of the fire.
Chapter 15
Normal Life is Tried but Found Wanting in Clanough and Old Habits Make a Disturbing Re-appearence
The week after Elizabeth’s departure was spent quietly at Rosefarm. Letters to Longbourn were written and posted and letters from Longbourn were anticipated long before they could possibly have been sent. Mrs Tournier spent a great deal of time reading and working upstairs in her chamber, consigning the parlour to her daughter’s artistic endeavours and whatever pompous nonsense Mr Pembroke was hard at work perfecting at the cost of more candles than she cared to consider.
The rain was intermittent, but the cold was growing deep and constant, and any outings Holly made necessitated her heaviest outerwear against the sharpness of the wind and weather. Despite this, she availed herself of a long walk at least once a day to escape the tensions in the house and her feelings of isolation.
The day that she completed the final touches on the last colour plate was one of mixed emotions for her. As she looked them over she was proud of her accomplishment, they had turned out as well or better than she had hoped and she knew Sir John would be pleased. Yet, at the same time it signalled the end of her commission. She was now, again, without gainful employment. Sir John’s offer of compensation was generous and she was grateful, but it was a finite amount and she knew that she must at once begin looking for something else.
She sat deep in thought, idly letting her gaze wander across the room until it rested upon their visitor. There had been hardly any interaction between them since that fateful night at the Tristam soirée. Of course, such were the conditions at Rosefarm there was hardly any opportunity for private encounters, but it also seemed to Holly that Mr Pembroke was keeping his distance deliberately. What had passed between the two of them and witnessed by Lord Baugham was never touched upon. Holly never told her mother or her cousin and likewise it seemed he was perfectly content with pretending that incident had never happened and that he had never directed any words to her that night. For the moment, he was still here and still acting as he always did. From experience, it was certain his sojourn would not last very much longer. There was already an impatience in him, a boredom setting in and an obvious disinterest in raising any topics with his hosts, even ones that would put him in a favourable light.
A chance idea sprang into her head and she was suddenly struck with the possibilities it held. Her mother would not like it . . . but once she had entertained the prospect she could not let it go. It may be impulsive, but action needed to be taken. She would ask.
“Mr Pembroke?” Holly managed to say after several false starts and hesitations.
He looked up from his page and turned toward her, obviously surprised she would even address him. “Yes?”
“When do you leave for Edinburgh?”
“STILL QUATE, AYE?”
“Like the chuchyard.”
It was a rare moment. Mrs McLaughlin had walked over from a household in perfect state of organisation and pristine cleanliness to spend the rest of her afternoon helping her cousin. But as she arrived and swung her heavy basket to rest on the kitchen table, she realised her cousin needed no help. The Rosefarm kitchen was silent and Mrs Higgins was sitting in her chair by the hearth, knitting, though perhaps spending more time pulling at the yarn and twisting it idly between her fingers than around her knitting needles. She looked up, ready to be interrupted and glanced at Mrs McLaughlin’s load.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“Well, I didnae know what to do with it and since I now make dinners for only one — and rarely proper ones at that — and you still have three to see to, you’re welcome to it.”
Mrs Higgins slowly lifted herself out of her chair and came to inspect the basket.
“Mm,” she said. “Nice. His lairdship had good luck then?”
“He shoots at everything that moves it seems,” Mrs McLaughlin said sourly. “I cannae tell what it is about him. If he were bored, he’d leave, so that’s nae it. But it is something. Probably that Mr Darcy’s fault somewey.”
“Things aren’t the same here either since Miss Bennet left,” Mrs Higgins said, but with much more regret for the departed than Mrs McLaughlin was able to muster. “Although that’s nae all her fault.”
The silent accusation against the last remaining houseguest hung heavy in the air and needed no words to be shared.
“Well, at least we’ll h
ave meat for dinner. And proper meat. Thank you, Heather.”
“No, you’re doing me a good turn. Donnae mention it. Just eat it.”
BAUGHAM WAS INDEED AT LOOSE ends. He could not articulate why, but once Darcy had gone and he was left to himself again, he was beset with a sense of restlessness and incapacity. Somehow, whenever he sat in his library trying to let a book transport him away from his own thoughts and surroundings, their last conversation ran through his mind as fresh as if the words had just been spoken.
“Behave myself!” his lordship swore. “Who is there to take offence when I do my behaving in perfect solitude and internment indoors!”
That same pained sentiment was repeated on the days when, weather permitting, he set out on his own to hunt away his frustration outdoors,
“Well?” he asked the pheasant as he picked it out of his dog’s mouth. “You’re quite offended, I dare say, but I hear no other complaints as to my behaviour.”
Slowly he managed to shake off Darcy’s uncomfortable implications that his Town self could not be separate from his Clyne self after all, and that there was danger the two should somehow mix. Not that he could understand how Darcy had even thought there might be females around here worth setting up in such a game as one could enjoy with ease in London. But still. Even if he could, he never would. Such a notion was ridiculous and really quite insulting. As if that was not the essence of the whole idea of Clyne! That it was separate, different and a shelter. Damn Darcy when he got onto his high horse and played at that ridiculous notion of noblesse oblige and moral high ground!
When he could finally leave his indignation and that nagging little voice questioning the force of his reaction behind, there was still the matter of what his friend had led him to understand he was about. Why was there no news? Aside from Darcy occasionally putting his sense of chivalry before his belief in their friendship in the most annoying way, he was usually a most loyal friend and no news of his professed mission in Hertfordshire was puzzling. Why was there no letter?
