by Gail McEwen
“Why, I believe about as much as you have to presume anything about me, Miss Tournier! But then I suppose people aspiring to pretensions of intelligence and reason claim the privilege of demanding civil and polite discourse from others while they feel free to practice prejudiced assumptions based on fancy and their own conceit. But you are right. I could not make that general claim about all your family. Your mother can at least give as good as she gets!
“Now will you be so good as to reclaim some of that professed reason, accept my assistance and get on the horse! No doubt you can see the sense in proceeding lest you should freeze to death for the sake of pride and a tantrum.”
“I do not ride, sir,” she replied coolly, a perfect picture of affronted dignity. “Nor do I throw tantrums. Now, if you will be so good as to let me be on my way, I should like to get home where I can be of some use.”
BAUGHAM SWALLOWED HARD. HE NEEDED a moment to master this. Why did he spiral into a mindless rage every time she looked at him with those defiant eyes, shooting daggers and lightning at him? Now then, he told himself silently, keep to the issue at hand. Get this impossible, soaked, stubborn, blazing, bothersome, infuriating woman home! And then go and finish it by cutting logs or something in the privacy of your own home.
“Do not refuse me my right to be of use in my turn,” he said after a deep breath, “I will see you home and if you do not mind, I shall be infinitely grateful if these are the last words we exchange today. But get on the horse!”
Her anger was temporarily replaced with a look of disbelief. “Are you ordering me around, my lord? You might be an earl and used to having your own way, but I am not your underling to be commanded!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he sputtered, “I am doing no such . . . oh, for the love of . . . ” He stopped and took a deep breath to compose himself and his temper. “Please, Miss Tournier, allow me to help you onto my horse and let me see you home safely.”
“I suppose,” she said, “that, however unnecessary it is, I do not have the power stop you if you feel you must. No more than you have the power to get me up on that horse. I will walk. Follow if you must.”
She whirled around as well and set out down the road. He fought a brief but overwhelming urge to sweep her up and deposit her bodily in the saddle. But he mastered himself and simply stayed beside her, grim and silent, leading his horse and breathing disapproval with every step.
Holly, on the other hand, once the conversation had ceased, quickly returned to her inward focus of cold hands, cold feet, chill wind and one step after the next. The walk to Rosefarm felt interminably long, and only once was it interrupted by Lord Baugham repeating his assertion that she had much better ride than walk. That was enough to spur her on the rest of the way, and once the cottage was in view she quickened her pace and scarcely took the trouble to give him a perfunctory nod before she rushed to the kitchen door. Home. Warmth. Fire.
Baugham watched the door close behind her, cutting off Mrs Higgins’ surprised exclamations mid-stream. He mounted his poor, confused horse, tightened his collar against the cold wind and once again galloped for home. Troublesome, he dismissed them all, nothing but a troublesome family. He had been right and Darcy had been wrong. Utterly and completely. One last visit of apology and he need never be bothered with them again.
Chapter 16
A Very Unpopular and Frustrating Trip is Taken
Rosefarm Cottage was quiet, the inhabitants having retired to their respective rooms early again, but the mother and the daughter of the house were definitely not asleep. Mrs Tournier lay in her bed, her pillows fluffed and towering up behind her head and shoulders just the way she liked it, her hands folded on top of the blankets. Her candle was snuffed out and she was ready to leave another day behind her. But she could not. In the silence of the house, she could hear her daughter’s soft steps in her room, no doubt preparing for tomorrow’s departure. Mrs Tournier clenched her fists at the thought and tugged at her sheets in frustration.
She closed her eyes and tried to breathe slowly. “Oh Jean,” she finally sighed. “I am so angry; all I can see and think about is her.”
She realised that in order for her to successfully conjure up her departed husband’s face, she needed to calm down. She twirled her wedding ring like a talisman and then rubbed the locket with his picture in a secret ritual. “She’s pacing around there right now, preparing to go to Edinburgh with that . . . man,” she said dryly. At that thought, her resentment threatened to destroy the faint image she had been able to summon and almost reverted to her daughter again.
“Oh non,” Mrs Tournier whispered. “Depart-pas! Reste avec moi qu’un petit instant, Jean. I need to talk to you.”
Fiercely holding on, she managed to turn her husband’s face towards her once more and even made him smile at her. “She is so like you, isn’t she? But I don’t trust that man and I don’t want her to go with him. That’s all. It is unnecessary and . . . you know I will never forgive him.”
Sighing a little at her own passion, she nevertheless could not resist a wry smile.
“Oui, je sais, je sais. Now you tell me I don’t trust her. Well, perhaps. It is just that she has a kind heart and he knows it. And therefore the thought of them alone together makes me ill.”
She fingered the old, soft sheet and ran her hand over the quilt to smooth it out after her restless outburst earlier.
“Well, that’s all. I suppose nothing can be done about it. I just felt I had to let you know. Just because you so very inconveniently had to die, does not mean I do not intend to burden you with parental worries. They’re inescapable, even in paradise.”
She sighed.
“Sometimes, mon chéri, I miss you for more than one reason. Like right now.”
THE PAST FEW WEEKS HAD been quite hard on his lordship’s man, Mr Riemann. His master was an erratic man at best, shunning form and abhorring predictability almost compulsively at times. At Clyne, that usually meant refusing to allow Riemann to perform the very duties he so relied upon when in Town. He was allowed no discussion or assistance with clothing or attention to detail about his personal appearance. Also, his lordship could be absent for days on end and his sojourns in this place he so professed to love always ended abruptly, Lord Baugham losing interest or pleasure in it sooner than anyone else could suspect it might be time to remove again.
However, these days his lordship was a puzzling contradiction of obvious discomfort that did not lead to any decisions about leaving, and a keen social interest that led to opinions being asked and options being tried out regarding available clothing.
So here they were again. Riemann regarding his Master in the full-length mirror; the Master frowning and sighing but apparently dead set on finding the perfect match between country comfort and town elegance to once again go visiting in the village.
Once his lordship finally settled on his choice, his valet could tell he was still uncomfortable, annoyed and determined, all at the same time, from the way he hurried away from him., From his vantage point, he could see Mrs McLaughlin poke her head out of the kitchen window, stopping his Master as he walked over to the stables. The housekeeper stretched out her arm through the window and his lordship trotted through the flower bed underneath it to receive a bundle of fowl of some sort. A few words were exchanged, the result of which was that Lord Baugham looked thoughtful and Mrs McLaughlin triumphant. Shortly thereafter, the Master of Clyne took his birds and rode off.
BY THE TIME LORD BAUGHAM reached the outskirts of the village, he had settled on a course of action. Apologising to Mrs Tournier was no hardship. He certainly owed it to her and he had no qualms admitting he had acted rudely in her parlour and toward her guest; the fact that she had secretly approved of his action naturally contributed to his eagerness to settle things between them. At the same time, he was painfully aware that he owed a greater apology to the daughter — one which would be far more difficult to deliver and articulate. It was not the substance of t
he apology that he doubted, but he could not understand why he had acted in such a heedless and stupid manner — why, in fact, he usually did when it came to her! — and so his remorse was muddled with other sentiments. Least of all did he spend time contemplating what he owed Mr Pembroke. He confessed he would be very pleased if the man had already left and did not particularly worry about either Mr Pembroke’s opinion of him or how to state his apology for his abrupt behaviour the last time they met. He would have to do with short and simple — that was all that was forthcoming in this case.
Rosefarm Cottage seemed quiet enough when he tied his horse to the post and made his way through the gate. Lightly swinging his birds as he walked, he rounded the house and peeked into one of the kitchen windows at the back. Someone was moving about with her back towards him, but the uneven window panes made it hard to see anything besides the combination of colour and movement.
He knocked, he took his hat off, he peeked around the door to greet Mrs Higgins. But of course, with the luck he had been having lately, it was not Mrs Higgins at all.
THE KITCHEN TABLE WAS COVERED with various piles as Holly busily sifted through all her sketches and sorted them into categories: definites, possibles, unlikelys and scribbles. Not wanting to appear too eager or needy, she had decided to only take a few of her best. After much deliberation she chose six that she felt best demonstrated her abilities in the various scientific disciplines, regretting that she had never thought to sketch any rocks. She then walked to the pantry and pulled out the crockery jar that held their household ready cash.
A quick count after she emptied it on the table confirmed her in her conviction that she was doing the right thing. Pulling out just enough to cover the trip home and a meal or two during her stay, she was just putting it in her pocketbook when she was interrupted by a tap on the kitchen door. As Mrs Higgins had earlier thrown up her hands at Holly’s mess and declared that since she could get no work done as it was, she was heading out to the market, Holly answered the door herself. Her surprise at beholding Lord Baugham standing there with his birds, rather than the expected tradesman or peddler, was interrupted by the accompanying burst of wind that threatened to scatter all her papers.
“Oh dear!” she cried, torn between the visitor at the door and all her hard work on the table. “Please excuse — do come — can you . . . Oh! Just a minute!” and she left the open door and flew across the room to rescue her sketches.
His lordship quickly closed the door behind him and rushed to assist her. Once everything had been restored, Holly turned to give him a proper greeting. The memory of their last meeting was obviously at the forefront of both of their minds and an awkward silence followed until Baugham recalled his several missions. He held out the bundle he had brought with him.
“Miss Tournier,” he began, “I am here on a selfish quest. It seems that no matter what I do, I cannot escape my housekeeper’s wrath, since I have gone from not bringing in enough meat to now bringing her too much. I wondered if you would be so kind as to protect my domestic tranquillity by giving these birds to Mrs Higgins?”
HER BROW WRINKLED, WHETHER IN suspicion or confusion Baugham could not tell, but she took them from his hand. He decided to plunge in with his next duty: best to get it all over with at once and be done with troublesome acquaintances once and for all.
“I am also here to beg your pardon for my words and behaviour the other day. It appears that I have taken my exclusive privilege to the extreme and somehow manage to anger and insult you at every turn. That was never my intention. I can assure you it will not happen again and I beg your forgiveness that it has happened at all.” Suitably formal yet humble, and best of all, final.
She granted it readily, and may even have been asking his pardon as well, but his attention was diverted by the scene in front of him and his infernal curiosity got the better of his judgement. Taking a step closer to the table, he bent down to examine the drawings scattered upon it.
“And I must add my apologies for interrupting and disrupting your work. Are you organising a showing, Miss Tournier?” he asked with a ghost of a smile.
“No, sir,” she shook her head and set to straightening the piles, but not without the smallest smile of her own. “I am preparing to go hunting myself.”
“Ah,” he said, slightly puzzled, “then I shall not keep you from your task. If you will excuse me . . . that is, is your mother in the parlour? I believe I owe her an apology as well, along with that . . . your guest.”
“Yes, Maman is in the parlour having her tea, as it happens, which . . . ” when she did not continue, Baugham hesitated. To his surprise, she was holding her hand over her mouth and trying to stifle a giggle.
A grin slowly spread across his face. “Ah yes. Thought as much. I take it you heard, then? I hope Mrs Higgins interpreted my hasty remarks correctly and included you in the secret of the whereabouts of the sugar bowl?”
“Yes, well, Mrs Higgins actually thought it best to tell me before Maman asked for it,” she said, quickly returning to organising the drawings and straightening already immaculate piles of paper. “And it was not hidden in so very a secret place for those who live here. There was never any danger of Mr Pembroke coming to look for it himself in here.”
Baugham looked at her and then returned to the sketches he was still holding in his hand. “No,” he muttered, “I suppose not.”
“I do appreciate the gesture, however,” she said, “and I confess, I am very sorry I was not here to see it. There have been many times I have had to fight the impulse to do the same thing.”
Noticing how closely he was scrutinizing the page he held, Holly stepped in to see what had commanded such close attention. “Do you have a special fondness for bees, my lord?” she asked when she saw that it was a page of idle scribbles she had made one lazy afternoon.
“Ah . . . so they are bees . . . ” he murmured absently.
“Yes, of course. It appears that you have had so much practice in insult lately that I think you have forgotten how to flatter. Therefore I think you need to now praise the excellence of my drawings, Lord Baugham. Do not you think this particular bumble bee is exceptionally well portrayed?”
He lifted his head and returned her gaze before he again looked at the picture. Then his mouth twisted into a curious shape and his blue eyes glittered.
“Ah well, there you have me. That is impossible, I think. I’m afraid I must invoke my original privilege. You see — as you must, I hope — the proportion of the forewing as to the rear wing is off. The tibia is far too long and with the way the tegula is situated on the thorax . . . I’m afraid this little fellow would never have made it to the next daisy. The pencilled line of his flight is very charming . . . however, if you really think I should practice praising your work, I will try. But we must choose an easier subject than these bumble bees.”
Holly shook her head and smiled. “I cannot really fault you, for these were done in idleness and escape from my true commission for Sir John.”
Baugham looked at her with renewed interest.
“So you’re finished then? And this is it? I thought . . . I was given to understand it was just a few colour plates. And on the Propensities of Heat. These are of bees and . . . ” He turned the few leaves over in his hand, “heather?”
Holly laughed and moved around the table to his side and looked at the drawing.
“Calluna vulgaris — yes, heather. But a very rare form of white heather. I only saw the one little specimen a friend of my mother’s brought over. He wanted me to recreate what must have been a magnificent scene he encountered on his exploration in the Highlands for a piece he was doing.” She gently took the drawing from Lord Baugham and looked at it closely. “But this was not what he had in mind.”
“You never saw it yourself?”
“No” said Holly and put away the picture.
BAUGHAM STOOD UNCERTAINLY. HE WAS finished here; he should move on and look up the others he owed a visit, but
he was suddenly fascinated by Miss Tournier’s work occupying the entire kitchen table.
“Hunting . . . ” he said slowly. “What exactly are you hunting for with these, Miss Tournier? If I may ask?”
She straightened her shoulders and spoke matter-of-factly.
“For work, of course. I am leaving for Edinburgh this afternoon to deliver Sir John’s plates and I hope to find something else while I am there.”
“This afternoon?” Baugham checked his pocket watch. “Miss Tournier, I’m afraid you have already missed today’s post. I hope my arrival has not delayed your journey.”
“Thank you for your concern, but no. Mr Pembroke has hired a private carriage and he has said I may ride with him. We will be leaving within the hour.”
It was then that he noticed the collection of coins and banknotes on the table, spilled out from a crockery jar. She turned and raked the coins back in discreetly, folding the notes into her palm.
“So as you see, I should be getting ready to leave. You will find Maman in the parlour.”
Baugham did not hear her last statement. He stared at the money being shuffled and was still trying to understand her.
“Him?” he said incredulously, almost aggressively. “You’re going with him?”
“It is the sensible thing to do,” she said, looking slightly annoyed. “As I said, you will find my mother in the parlour.”
Baugham’s eyes were drawn to the banknotes in her hand and he felt extremely uncomfortable. He also felt a sudden anger building up. Where exactly it came from was not quite clear to him, but he strongly suspected it had something to do with the power of money over people and how they must put their own dreams and pleasures aside for more practical concerns. The thought of Miss Tournier being forced to solicit for work under such circumstances, regardless of her own obvious feelings and certainly those of her mother, was infuriating and did not sit well with their proud independence and self-reliance.
Of course she must go, he understood that, and at this moment he felt incredibly frustrated at his own helplessness in the face of his strong feeling that Miss Tournier should not have to be in the position to have no choice in the matter on how she was to get there. It seemed to him her decision could only be humiliating and downright dangerous and should be avoided at any cost, knowing what he did about Mr Pembroke’s uninhibited treatment of her. That sentiment, however, he was not at liberty to express and so he swallowed his chagrin and attempted a smile.
