Twixt Two Equal Armies

by Gail McEwen

  “Ye’ll be here to look at the library then, Miss Tournier? His lairdship told me ye’d be comin’. He’s in there now, if ye can show yerself the way.” Mrs McLaughlin said, beginning the task of returning the metalware to its proper place. She gave the young woman a glance as she gathered her cloak and bonnet to stow away and shook her head grimly to herself as Miss Tournier gingerly made her way down the hall.

  Feeling a bit out of place, walking through the rooms and down the halls of Clyne Cottage unaccompanied, Holly found the door that she thought must be the library and softly tapped on it. To her relief she heard a muffled voice on the other side and brisk footsteps. Before she was quite ready, the door opened and she was face to face with Lord Baugham.

  “Good morning,” she said hesitatingly. “I hope . . . that is, we never settled on a time yesterday so I wasn’t sure . . . Is this inconvenient? Me coming now, I mean?”

  “Now is as good as ever!” Baugham said in what he hoped was a cheerful tone that did not give away his own hesitation. “Come in! Come in! I’ll send for tea, shall I?”

  Although she had taken a good strong cup before she left home to sustain herself and not be forced to take anything in the form of food or drink while working, she quickly nodded. It was something to keep busy with, a prop to help them through what must be the initial awkwardness of a new relationship. And anyway, the tea served at Clyne was nothing like the tea she drank alone at the kitchen table at Rosefarm, so this was an entirely different meal, she rationalised to herself.

  She slowly moved around while Lord Baugham busied himself with finding Mrs McLaughlin. It was a beautiful room, richly furnished with dark woods and leather, well lit by large windows and warmed with a lively blaze in a great brick fireplace. She walked about, admiring the floor to ceiling bookcases along two full walls — deeply breathing in the beloved smell of paper, ink, wood smoke, and what might have been the smell of old tobacco — she examined the jumble of titles within her reach.

  She looked up and down the shelves. It was a fair sized room and obviously one in which a large amount of time was spent. Leisure time, she concluded, for it was strewn with newspapers, books opened and left to wait for their reader’s pleasure, little knick knacks obviously picked up from other parts of the house or outdoors and left as keepsakes or for convenience. The furniture was worn, but of good and comfortable quality, emphasising that the owner of the room rather spent his time reading and lounging than studying or working. There was a working desk but it was cluttered with things — the chair included — and it was quite obvious it was not used for its original industrious purposes.

  But the bookshelves did betray neglect. Many of them gapingly empty, some of them filled with anything but books; some of the books that were there were in terrible condition and little more than loose stacks of pages, some of them were new and bunched together in one area as a little isle of order and pride in a vast sea of chaos and abandon.

  She pulled out a few volumes carefully: Catullus, the Iliad, Burns, Shakespeare’s ‘As You Like It’ with commentary, and three volumes on the Caucasian peoples and the old Silk Road.

  “Oh, so you found my fancies?” Baugham came back through the door, almost startling her. “That particular selection you must blame me for. I’m sure you can find another Burns — the second edition, I think — around here, too. In tatters though, I shouldn’t wonder.

  “You see,” he continued, picking up a volume only to put it back again straight away, “you are now in what I like to call ‘my’ corner. That is, the things you see here are books I’ve mostly purchased here, or on my way here, or had sent up from Hatchard’s. Nothing remarkable, I believe, although I did lay my hands on that most curious treatise by John Craig through Mr Blackwood’s assistance. And perhaps the Hortus Kewensis might interest you — it’s somewhere on the lower shelf. But I have bought them myself without any intension of fitting them into anything besides a bookshelf or a travel satchel.

  “And so here, on the other side,” he said and walked over to the darker corner of the room, “is the Cumbermere side.” He shrugged and pulled a face. “I have no idea why they are still here or what is their use or value. I just hauled them with me at one point in some fit of optimism they could actually be used to make a library out of this room. No treasures though, I suppose, since those would have long been sold off. Although I know my Uncle was regarded as quite a quirky old Astronomy enthusiast. I dare say I remember there being some curious, old Italian works no one quite knew what to make of. Very interesting engravings though, I seem to recall. Also, there are old botanical works — Jungius and Tournefourt certainly. The old man was fond of that sort of thing, but any Linnaeus I think must be gone.”

  Holly was certain that her expression must be showing more than she intended about the condition of the library, a thought confirmed by his lordship’s next statement.

  “Well,” he said in a soft voice, quizzing her with his blue eyes very much on the alert, “I think you will agree there is a great deal more work in this assignment than you might have thought, but tell me, is it as hopeless as your countenance leads me to think?”

  She looked around her. “No,” she said. “Not hopeless . . . ”

  “Yes, but maybe a bit more than you thought you were taking on?”

  BAUGHAM FELT A MEASURE OF unspoken criticism in her attitude and looks and felt strangely obligated to apologise for proposing she do the job at all, “Now that you have looked it over in the cold light of day, you are perhaps feeling sorry that you agreed to do this yesterday? If so, I will completely understand. Only you can measure the value of your time . . . ”

  To his great irritation, she appeared to take offence at his suggestion.

  “Lord Baugham,” she replied, “please believe that I have no wish to go back on our agreement. I am perfectly willing to keep to my word, as I assume you are also?”

  Baugham raised his eyebrow and felt his lips tighten. He felt an irresistible urge to snort at her and admonish her not to be childish. He suppressed the impulse, however, and retreated to feigning a bland expression and studied indifference.

  “Then we understand each other perfectly, Miss Tournier. I wonder if you could be prevailed upon to close the last details of our understanding now? I am here at your service.”

  She put down the volumes she was still holding and gave him a determined look, “Oh, by all means, let us settle this business at once. Then there can be no more questions about my intent to keep my word. If you will be so kind as to tell me what you require, I will do my best to accomplish it.”

  “Certainly.” Baugham did not quite realise it, but his answer amounted to that overdone cordiality he usually employed when his attorney called upon unpleasant business.

  “As we agreed, in exchange for just compensation, you undertake to arrange this assortment of written material into a passable collection worthy of the name of a library. You will commit to a certain timeframe and regular attendance, and you may engage an assistant as well if you deem necessary. I would suggest coming at least twice weekly to begin with. However, you are surely the best judge of what your other commitments can allow you to spare.

  “Should I remove from Clyne, you may, naturally, arrange your hours as you please. I suggest your work should include a purchase recommendations list, a written card record of content and a shelving system. I trust you can comply. I would be happy to accommodate any thoughts you have on this subject and I trust this agreement can be concluded as an oral agreement only?”

  “I have no quarrel with that, my lord. However — ”

  Lord Baugham sent her an exasperated frown and a barely concealed sigh.

  “Oh good heavens!” she snapped back. “Do please stop that! I was going to tell you I will need help and that I have found the perfect assistant. Subject to your approval, naturally.”

  Baugham’s face broke into a smile at her impatience with him.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered.<
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  “Not at all. The misapprehension was all mine. I’ll behave now.”

  She smiled back, but tried to send him a chastising look all the same. “My mother suggested that young Hamish Nethery would do very well. He can more easily be spared from his duties around the farm at this time of year, and she thought that such an opportunity would do him good. If you agree, I should like to run down to speak with his father this afternoon.”

  “Nethery, eh? The one with the renegade sheep?”

  She looked at him, puzzled. “I suppose they keep sheep, my lord, but . . . Hamish is just a lad. They wouldn’t be his sheep, though it’s possible he might have responsibility for them. But,” she asked, her brows knitted together, “why are we talking about sheep?”

  Baugham laughed and proceeded to tell her — as humorously as one could when it came to hunting for the stray sheep of a cantankerous neighbour on a wet day — his previous connection with the Nethery farmers. When Mrs McLaughlin brought the tea around, he was still in the process of describing Duncan Nethery’s comments to his father and they quickly agreed that Mrs Tournier was correct in feeling the younger son could only benefit from some scholarly occupation away from home. Mrs McLaughlin was asked as well and she confirmed Mrs Tournier’s somewhat downbeat assessment on the head of the family, but she was well-acquainted with Hamish, declared him to be a clever, well-behaved boy and said that she had no objections to him coming to work at Clyne. If he could be taught to wash his hands before he touched the furnishings, that is.

  “Then it is all settled,” stated his lordship as he finished his cup. “But Miss Tournier, I would be obliged if you would permit me to make the arrangements for young Hamish’s employment. From what I have heard and seen of Mr Nethery, I would not wish to subject you to any close negotiations with the man.”

  This suited her very well; her relief at being spared the necessity of dealing with the drunken, possibly greedy, and probably belligerent father of a boy she had not even met, showed on her face as she accepted.

  “Now,” she stood, “if you will excuse me, I should be getting home now. Shall I come tomorrow morning to begin work?”

  “Excellent,” his lordship replied. “If all goes as planned, your assistant will be here as well.”

  She took one last look around the library, smiling slightly as she did so.

  “Till tomorrow then,” she said as she walked out the door.

  Baugham leaned back in his chair and thoughtfully watched her leave until a distinct grunt from Mrs McLaughlin reminded him of his duties. He jumped up and dashed down the hall, in a few strides catching up to Miss Tournier walking in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Please, let me see you to the door,” he said, turning her around towards the front entrance and ignoring the bemused looks and raised eyebrows it earned him.

  LATER THAT NIGHT HIS LORDSHIP returned to the library and stood, glass in hand, in front of a roaring fire. As he struggled to make sense of his scattered thoughts, he felt two eyes boring into him. Looking up at the dilapidated stag’s head over the mantle, he smiled and addressed him.

  “Well Rupert!” He lifted his glass of brandy and smiled. “It appears that I have engaged a librarian to come and sort out this mess you keep complaining about that is my library. And an assistant. Although, strictly speaking the assistant doesn’t know about it yet, but I am convinced he will be agreeable. And the best part in all of this is — and why I feel so particularly smug — is that I have managed to follow an opinionated old lady’s advice, rescue a young woman from indigence and misfortune without her pride suffering one bit, and do good to a local family whose sheep habitually stray onto my lands, all in one very self-serving way. Clever, eh?”

  Rupert said nothing, but continued to stare.

  “Well, now, if you think that is odd, this will surely make you laugh! It is Miss Tournier! She and I are now business partners! Yes, I know what you will say, ‘What on earth were you thinking?’ Sadly, I must admit to you that I was not thinking at all, so yes, I must agree that it has every chance of turning against me.” He laughed but then sank into a thoughtful mood. “But . . . it is a very lovely and charming librarian I have hired, Rupert. No doubt I have banished peace and quiet from Clyne for a good while, but I dare say both the collection and my fencing skills will benefit.”

  The stag’s expression took on a decidedly sceptical turn.

  “Certainly I am going to fence! I don’t think I could hardly expect otherwise. Only verbally, of course, but that can be quite as exhilarating and deadly as fencing with swords, you know. Especially with such an opponent.”

  A few moments of silence accompanied a battle of wills, as Baugham tried to stare down those irritatingly knowing brown eyes.

  “You can just as well keep such speculations to yourself, Rupert,” his lordship snapped. “I cannot deny that Miss Tournier can be pleasant company when she cares to be, but this proposal came upon me as a result of her need rather than any scheme of mine.”

  His glare had no effect on the creature.

  “You are worse than Darcy!” he muttered. “A business proposition, nothing more.

  “Fear not, I have every intention of ‘behaving myself’. In fact, I will protest that there is, was, and will never be, any such stuff in my thoughts and I will thank you to remember that I am a gentleman and Miss Tournier is a lady.

  “Suffice to say, her pride is intact, her situation is temporarily settled and I will be rid of your constant nagging about your substandard surroundings. All in all a very satisfying end to many problems, I would say.”

  The room was very dark when his thoughts once more returned to the present; several candles had burned down, but as he let his gaze wander over the obscured walls and rows of volumes standing on parade in the shadows, his mind involuntarily wandered off again. He felt himself smiling at the thought of a busy librarian — a very pretty librarian, her figure clothed in light coloured muslin and no doubt a severe frown on her pretty, concentrated face — bringing order into chaos in his collection, and possibly chaos into his ordered existence at Clyne. He had to confess to himself he might even be looking forward to it. Then, with one last glare at Rupert over the mantle, he snuffed the remaining candles and went up to bed.

  LORD BAUGHAM WAS IN HIS library, seated in his favourite chair — a recoup he was enjoying though he did miss Darcy in other ways — reading the newspaper, when there was a slight knock on the door. He glanced at his watch and, noting it was close to ten o’clock, got up, straightened his waistcoat and bid the visitor to enter. The door opened very slowly and revealed Mrs McLaughlin, clutching a tall, scrawny boy by the shoulder.

  “M’laird,” she said more quietly than was her habit. “This here is young Hamish.”

  Baugham looked the boy over. He certainly did not fit the picture of a strong and quick helping hand where physical labour might be expedient, but underneath that fringe of overgrown, tangled, curly hair a pair of watchful, bright eyes peeped and regarded him with unabashed curiosity. He had outgrown his clothes and apparently his providers did not think the season was advanced enough to yet procure him new ones. Baugham noted his tattered boots with disbelief, but then he recollected himself, winked at him and bid them to come into the room.

  Mrs McLaughlin gave him a look, but pushed the boy in front of her until he was standing close enough for his lordship to reach out his hand and greet him.

  “Well, how do you do, Hamish?” he asked lightly smiling. “You must be wondering what on earth you are doing here.”

  The boy instinctively warmed to this larger than life figure who addressed him so casually and seemed glad to have him trampling all over his fine gentlemanly rooms.

  “Well . . . aye, sir, I do . . . a wee bit.”

  “I shall be glad to tell you,” Baugham continued. “The thing is, you see, that it has reached my ears — by way of Mrs Tournier down in the village, don’t you know — that you are a clever and good young man who
could perhaps help me out. And in doing so, also help my hired librarian, who, I should tell you, is on her way here as we speak and is the daughter of Mrs Tournier. So you see, we’re all old acquaintances and eager to help each other.”

  He grinned and was happy to note the boy smiled shyly and gave a slight peek at Mrs McLaughlin, too.

  “You shall of course, be paid for your services. What those services will be, I think it’s best we wait for Miss Tournier to specify, but I have engaged her to bring order into the confusion I call my collection.” He watched the boy, amused, as he looked around him, eyes round with astonishment, no doubt unable to imagine how such a place could be described as chaos by any measure.

  “Yes, I know,” Baugham continued, leading the boy to one of the shelves and dragging his long finger over a row of leather-bound volumes. “It’s quite a mystery. But I think you might enjoy it all the same. And, if you should happen upon something that takes your fancy, you are welcome to read it — within the limits set by my librarian, of course.” He leaned closer to the boy and said in a conspiratorial whisper. “She will be here soon, so I shall take the opportunity to give you a hint beforehand. Miss Tournier used to be a stern schoolmistress, so you must take care. But I have found,” he said his lips twitching and smiling warmly at Hamish, “that a bit of flattery never does me any harm with her when she’s in one of her moods. And if that should fail, you should not hesitate to call on me. I am quite experienced at being scolded by her sharp tongue and to tell you the truth, I rather enjoy it.”

  The boy returned his smile, obviously having lost his heart to this fairytale figure in this fairytale surrounding. Mrs McLaughlin, however, pursed her lips and felt it was time to intervene.

  “Aye, that’s all good an’ well, but before he meets anybody, schoolmistresses or nae, I am taking Hamish to the kitchie and giving him a right meal and a good wash. Ye cannae work in here with grubby hands, muddy feet and a churning belly.”

  “Quite right, Mrs McLaughlin!” Baugham said and returned to his seat. “And I think, perhaps, your first wage should be in the form of a pair of boots. After that, we’ll see.”