by Gail McEwen
Dr McKenna returned with them to Sir John’s for supper and they spent the evening reviewing possibilities and making lists. Holly was grateful, not only for the kind solicitude of the gentlemen, but for their treatment of her as a rational, capable being and not as a mere fragile thing to be protected. It grew late as they talked and planned, and suddenly Dr McKenna looked at her as if he was taken with an idea. She waited to hear him, but he merely apologised for keeping them up till such an hour by his visit and quickly took his leave.
“Geologists,” Sir John smiled. “One can never know what to expect of a man who spends his life looking down at the ground. Now, my dear,” he bent down to kiss the top of her head, “it is time to retire. I daresay we will have better success tomorrow.”
Sir John climbed the stairs, quietly vowing to rattle as many academic cages on Miss Tournier’s behalf as he could on the morrow. A few moments later Holly went up, vowing to start out first thing in the morning to make full use of the lists of schools and families of whom she might enquire about a position. Dr McKenna, once he entered his room in South Bridge Street, wasted no time in pulling out pen and paper and making good on his own private vow of writing a letter to his father.
“NOW DONNAE YE START WITH me Heather McLaughlin! I have quite enough of that from the Mistress these days as it is. I will make my cottage pies just as I always do — except with a bit more paitrick meat than usual — and that will have to be good enough for both of ye!”
“Well, donnae gnap my head off! I can see ye’re in a mood all right. Pass me the rolling pin, I had better handle the dough.”
“This household, Heather, is in a right state, I can tell ye that, and I am getting grey hairs — even more grey hairs, I should say — because of it.”
“Is this about Miss Holly’s trip again? Have ye heard nothing from her? I expected she would be back by now.”
“There was a letter a few days ago saying she was raking around for work up there. No other explanation, but it has the Mistress in a regular tift.”
“Well, why doesnae she simply come home and find work here?”
“Why, indeed? I reckon she’s going back to what she knows, and there’s nae much need for fine teachers such as her hereabouts.”
“That’s so, but why the sudden need? I thought she was all fixed for wages with her picture work, you said she was making enough to get along a good while, being cannie as always.”
“Aye, but it goes out faster than it comes in, don’t it? I just wish she’d come back soon. It done the Mistress no good for him to leave, since Miss Holly left with him. In fact, she might be even worse off now than when he was here.”
“Oh, Rosie, speak about Masters and moods and I’ll give ye an earful myself. There’s something queer about him this time around. Goes out visitin’ more than I ever seen him do, but coming back full glum and dark. I thought once that guest o’ his left . . . but . . . ”
“But what?”
“But the mood is unlike. For ordinar he’s happy and keeps to hisself, but now he’s nae happy and still keeps to hisself, restless like, and murmlin under his breath and all. Grumpy, that’s what he is. Usually when he’s like this he leaves and goes to London or wherever it is he goes when he’s nae here. This time he’s just stayin’.”
“Ye know, he was right here the morning Miss Holly left. I wonder . . . ”
“Oh, I know what ye think and however highly I think of Miss Holly, I will not have her home-comin be the answer to every problem and cross mood in the shire!”
“P’rhaps nae every cross mood . . . ”
“Well, Mrs Tournier is far certain used to being on her own.”
“Ay, but she has more company than you might expect, what with visiting lairds and all. But the way she hardly stirs from that writing desk, composing letters and writing on her reviews all through the night, hardly pausing for food and tea, is nae right. So I’m that grateful his lairdship comes by to take her mind from it some. She will make herself ill and then where will we be?”
“She’ll be home soon, though, Rosie?”
“Should be.”
ON THE FIFTH DAY FROM Miss Tournier’s departure, Lord Baugham was cursing his sofa. He had stretched out on it in an attempt to take an undisturbed nap in his quiet house while the grey day outside slowly gave way to evening dusk, but the damned thing was not cooperating. It was too short for him and his feet stuck out over the armrest that chafed on his calves. Pulling up his legs was no better and the pillows he had so carefully thrown behind his head kept sliding around in the wrong place. What a nuisance of a thing! What on earth had possessed him to acquire it?
He sighed when he remembered he had not actually chosen it himself. It had come with the house and either the previous owner had been a shorter man than he or was not fond of naps in his library. Either way, Baugham had no understanding for his taste in furniture.
Abandoning his nap, he looked around him instead. The gaping shelves were entirely his own responsibility. Lately he had received rather too much comment about the state of his library to be completely complaisant about that either. Previously, its sorry state had never bothered him particularly; he travelled with the books he cared to read and whatever collection he could claim was reserved for his London house. Of course, that was nothing compared to Darcy’s collections divided between Pemberley and his London addresses — each exemplary and impressive in its own right. But then, Darcy employed a librarian who kept up the purchase and inventory and sent around to all of Europe for catalogues by the finest publishing houses, diligently searching for any missing pieces. Baugham was rather more eclectic, acting only on his own preferences and fancies since, whatever the Cumbermere collection once had been, it was now both neglected and scattered, thanks to his father’s negligence and sorry financial affairs.
So the library at Clyne, with its shelves filled with everything but books, never really gave him a bad conscience. Until now. He looked at the rolled up prints, the old fishing hat and skewed deer head that were lying where proud rows of leather bound backs of books should have stood and narrowed his eyes. Piles of paper, old quills and small boxes with no content supported old volumes. Stupid, Lord Baugham thought, I never needed a library here, why should I hanker after one now?
Squirming on his back to reach a better view that would not annoy him quite as much, his hand brushed over the pocket of his waistcoat and drew out the little booklet he had developed the habit of glancing through on occasion: Sur la nécessité d’une Republique et la Suppression des Privilèges de la Noblesse” par Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Tournier.
He fingered it before he randomly picked a page and read a few lines on the now-so-unfashionable republican cause of gone-by days. Monsieur Tournier’s arguments were well formulated and elegant, but of course they were impossible to read without reflecting on what had passed in the world since he announced his convictions and principles.
Baugham yawned. Reaching into his other pocket, he fished out another piece of paper, carefully folded up. Looking at it made him stop yawning, his face showing a mixture of a frown and a smile. Those amazing bumble bees, flawed as their artistic execution was, were bravely making their way across the page in what looked like confidence and joy. He carefully folded the paper again and slipped it into the middle of Monsieur Tournier’s most passionate argument for the transformation of des Etats Généraux into a true reflection of the French will and interest of the French people.
“NO GAME TODAY, MADAM. YOU will have to satisfy your hunger by reading the Inquirer instead. And it is only two days old, so supper might just be forced to wait after all.”
“However fond I am of grouse, my lord, the Inquirer is surely far more succulent in its arguments, so I thank you.”
“Well, I hope it will entertain you. I confess I rushed through it because I was too anxious to hear your opinion on the Lord Rector’s scheme of financing the new University Study Hall by subscription.”
Lord
Baugham made himself comfortable in what had become his accustomed chair and stretched his long legs.
“Blasted rain!” he said. “Couldn’t even see the fat pheasants flying two feet above your head, if, indeed, they were as stupid as the hunter and ever came out of the snug holes they keep themselves to. I hope you have grown tired of game.”
“If not exactly tired, I can certainly appreciate Mrs Higgins’ baked turnips and leek soup more these days. It seems his lordship giveth and his lordship taketh away in equal shares lately. My lord.”
Baugham gave her an arched eyebrow, to which she pursed her lips to hide a smile.
“Well, one day we may be blessed to have stray mutton on our tables, for I was down to Nethery Farm with Mr McLaughlin yesterday. Apparently some of their sheep had wandered over to the river on the Clyne side of the property line and they needed to be returned to their rightful owner, except apparently good Farmer Nethery was a trifle vague on how many of his sheep had actually gone missing. He thought we might have driven them down to the market to make a profit out of them ourselves. Or put them on our table. What a peculiar fellow!”
“The only thing peculiar about that Nethery is how he still is in possession of his farm with the mismanagement and drink that seems to occupy him instead of providing for his family.”
Baugham looked at her thoughtfully. “I understand from Mrs McLaughlin that we take in laundry from Mrs Nethery.”
“A sorely needed source of income for them, I should imagine. The oldest boy is seventeen now, so one can only hope he can take over from his father soon.”
Baugham nodded quietly. He had entertained the same hope himself after speaking to the father and ending up settling the details of Farmer Nethery’s drunken accusations with his son Duncan standing by. The simple labour of sawing down a murky tree by the entrance lane together with Mr McLaughlin had been a glum affair after that.
HOLLY SAT AS FAR BACK in the seat as she could, attempting to minimise the contact between herself and the fat, smelly man beside her. She had been away a full week, the stage was behind time and its progress seemed unutterably slow. Her spirits were depressed, though not so much from the tiresome journey as from her own thoughts. She had visited every reputable school in the city, followed every lead and suggestion of families in search of a governess, and although everyone she spoke to seemed impressed by her knowledge and accomplishments, they also all asked for references from her last employer. In several schools, just the mention of Hockdown appeared to trigger recognition of her name. Her former employers had done a thorough job of insuring that her reputation was well and truly wracked within her immediate circle of opportunity.
She turned toward the window to escape the attentions of the fat man and cheered herself up with the thought: Only a few more hours. I should be home by sunset at any rate. Home by sunset . . . Home. She had spent so much of her young life longing for home, she could scarcely accept that she would soon have to contemplate leaving it again.
Just as the sky was beginning to darken, the stage pulled in front of the Caledonian Thistle on the outskirts of the village. She stepped out of the coach, tipped the driver and grabbed her carpetbag. The air was dry and cold, winter had definitely arrived, and she pulled her coat tightly about her as she walked down the lane in the evening light.
The shadows lengthened and disappeared by the time she turned the corner into the lane that led to Rosefarm Cottage. There it stood, warmly lit and welcoming. She slowed her pace, taking in the sight and recognising the horse tied on the gatepost.
Just as well, she thought wearily, he’s one more person I might ask.
“THAT, SURELY, IS A MATTER of principle!”
“It is only a matter of principle because you have a fixed opinion on it!”
Mrs Higgins quickly deposited the tea and made her way out of the parlour again, because to her mind it distinctly looked as if the Mistress and her guest were having an argument. She was very used to arguments being held in all their vigour, leading to loud exclamations on any number of topics, but she was not so certain this was one of Mrs Tournier’s usual disputes. And Lord Baugham did look a little too agitated for the circumstances, and him a young man at that.
Noticing the servant’s hasty withdrawal, Mrs Tournier halted her rhetoric and gave a snort.
“I think you are frightening the servants, my lord.”
“I am certain I could not be intimidating enough for that on my own.”
Mrs Tournier unexpectedly sighed and gave a sad smile.
“You are perfectly right. I have been in a frightful humour all week and the only thing that seems to lift my spirits is getting into fruitless arguments over principles with you.”
“And when will Miss Tournier be home?” Baugham asked quietly.
“Therein lies the answer to my current distemper. I have been half-expecting her all afternoon. Now, it appears that I will spend tomorrow in watchfulness as well.”
“She had not anticipated being away for so long, I believe. Pardon me if I’m too inquisitive, but has her trip been successful?”
The woman’s face turned grim and she shook her head slightly. “She is now seeking another position.”
“A position . . . ” his lordship repeated carefully, “As in . . . at another school?”
“Or with a family, or wherever!” Mrs Tournier snapped. “But away nevertheless . . . away from here. Away from home. Again.”
“Ah . . . ” Baugham said slowly. “Not entirely unexpected, I would assume. But, perhaps, disappointing?”
“Quite,” Mrs Tournier crisply said. “But I have no qualms admitting to you that a disappointment of this sort is no easier to bear simply because of its necessity or inevitability.”
She stood up and walked over to the window, glancing out at the road.
“It is just her and me. This is her home; she belongs here. For a moment all was as it should have been again and now the pieces of my life are once more broken up and jumbled, waiting for us to lay them out in order again. I find that I do not take to it as well as I used to. Not that it alters anything.”
Baugham listened quietly to Mrs Tournier’s matter of fact statement, delivered as it was without a shred of drama or self-pity. In the silence that followed they were both startled by the sound of a door creaking. Mrs Tournier turned around and fixed her eyes on the door. Baugham scrambled out of his seat, at a loss as to why his heart suddenly seemed to be pounding with anticipation.
She burst into the room and looked around her with some amazement. Then she dropped her carpetbag, giving a quick curtsey toward his lordship, while her eyes searched for another. Once found, she ran into her mother’s embrace right where she stood and, barely holding back tears of fatigue and worry, expressed her relief at being home.
If Lord Baugham had paid as much attention to such things as he usually did, he would have noticed straight away that there was mud all over Miss Tournier’s boots and on the hem of her simple brown skirt and travelling coat. Loose strands of hair had escaped all around her face and collar and her smile was tired. But he noticed none of this because he was so taken aback by her sudden appearance and a surge of indescribable emotion gripping his stomach — which he presumed was the effect of the perfect surprise — that he noticed nothing else. Next came relief and he felt a grin spreading over his face. Mrs Higgins rushed in, anxious to relieve the traveller of her effects, adding her exclamations of surprise and welcome to the mix but he found he was still silent. He only looked at her with a pleased smile. He told himself it was relief for her safe return, but in honesty he knew it was something else. He had missed her.
“Well!” had been Mrs Tournier’s only utterance when her daughter burst into the room and no one — least of all herself — could have discerned whether it was a mark of pleasure or irritation. When Holly sat down beside her, she could still not utter anything except “Well!” but this time it was clear that she was well pleased with the return.
“You must have some tea,” she then sternly said, although the light in her eyes and the warmth with which she regarded her daughter could not be mistaken. “You look quite freakish, my dear, you must have walked all the way from the inn. I shall take that as a compliment, but I will insist you go up and change as soon as possible. Mrs Higgins! Bring some fresh tea, if you will!” With a wink to her guest she added, “And the sugar bowl. As you see, I have been quite well entertained while you were away and hardly have had time to miss you at all.”
Miss Tournier only smiled at her mother’s gruff manner and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. “Well, I have missed you dreadfully,” she said softly.
Baugham watched it all with unexpected pleasure, enjoying the sight of Mrs Tournier showering her daughter with unaffected love, while at the same time staying true to her accustomed directness. Miss Tournier was obviously relieved to be home and in her mother’s care again, simply smiling at her and holding on to her hand. It was a pleasing sight, indeed.
He soon realised that he must be intruding and although he was loath to withdraw from witnessing such a warm, familial scene, he realised he must. Miss Tournier had had a long and arduous journey and he was satisfied with the knowledge that she was now restored safely and properly to her kin. That was what mattered, and what had been his concern all along, after all.
“Miss Tournier,” he said, still smiling as he stood to leave. “Since you are now returned, I feel happy in relinquishing the pleasant company of your mother to you without hesitation. I wouldn’t wish to further intrude on your homecoming. I am sure I will see you again soon; I’ve grown so dependant on your mother’s company and conversation, I fear I won’t be able to forsake it even now that you are home.”
