Twixt Two Equal Armies

by Gail McEwen

  She stood to face him, drawing as much dignity as she could gather.

  “You, sir, rely far too much on your novelty value in this confined country circle! No doubt with your easy manners you think you only engage in good-natured teasing. Well, it is a relative term at best. Some men are harmless flirts that can be easily seen through and so cause no mischief. Others . . . well, others cause more damage than they realise through their carelessness. You trifle and charm and flirt and play your way through the lives of people you hardly know and think you can go back to your London circles and everything will be as it has always been here. Well, it will not! Do you imagine that we disappear into our little holes as soon as we are not needed for your entertainment anymore? Well, we do not! We are left with exactly what you leave us with in terms of irresponsible behaviour and hopes and interpretations . . . ” She forced herself to stop, turning the subject in a more general direction:

  “And though on such a short acquaintance I would not presume to know what sort of company you take pleasure in, or how you prefer to pass a boring afternoon, I can say that you do seem to make it your business to charm and endear yourself to every female you happen upon. That, sir, is your choice if you wish to go about the countryside gathering a court of admirers and raising expectations. And I am sorry if it disappoints you that I do not wish to be among that number . . . one of many . . . ”

  Baugham gave a snort and threw out his hand in a desperate gesture.

  “Indeed! And this is your honest opinion of me? Fantastic and extraordinary, I must say! How unfortunate of me to fancy seeing a disposition that enjoys spirited and ready conversation in you. Perhaps I should have interpreted your capricious temper in a less positive way! Perhaps I should not have assumed that an informed mind such as yours is capable of an honest exchange of opinions under any other guise than romantic aspirations! And perhaps I should not have overestimated your ability to keep name, prejudice and character separate in your mind!”

  “Romantic aspirations?! You flatter yourself, my lord! I fear you have become so used to fawning and flirtation that you forget the value of honest communication. If words spoken in truth and feeling are so offensive to you, I give you leave to go elsewhere. I am sure there is a Miss Tristam breathlessly awaiting your arrival who will be happy to tell you exactly what you wish to hear! Go to them!” She gave an irritated wave of her hand. “Line them up and pour out your considerable charms before them. That way you can quickly determine which is the most cloying and therefore, the most agreeable to you.”

  She stomped her foot in frustration.

  “Hateful, spiteful man . . . ”

  Something warm and stifling travelled up his throat and settled in his mouth. He felt his mind shot through with a thousand flashes of what he wanted to say and what he felt. His head swam with strong impulses and he struggled to make any sense of them at all. But as he was hard at work sifting through the words he really wanted to fling at this impossible wench who dared throw him into such a rage and render him so completely at the mercy of his temper, he caught sight of her lips trembling with rage and how she suddenly bit the lower one when she had finished spitting out her malice.

  He was mesmerised. He must have stared at those lips for an inordinate amount of time — perhaps all of five seconds — unable to articulate any of the sentiments he was so intent on expressing with full force.

  “Lord, help me,” was all that he could manage before his hand reached out and lightly touched her cheek. She gasped, but his impulse was too overwhelming and her features flickered in front of his face as he bowed down and resolutely pressed his lips on hers.

  The sensation was stunning. They were soft and warm and she tasted of honey and dew. As his brain and body registered all the feelings that kiss caused within him, he felt her grow even softer and warmer. The stifling feeling in his throat melted away and was replaced with something far more exciting and urgent. As it caught up with him, he sharply drew his breath and released her.

  In absolute silence and amazement he stood watching her, looking deep into her dark, smouldering, bottomless brown eyes, unable to withdraw and even less able to comprehend the world around him and how he found himself in this most surprising and precarious situation.

  HOLLY FELT AS IF A bolt of fire had just shot through her body. She could not tear her eyes away from his, even though her mind was racing. She knew what had just happened, but she was confused — he had kissed her . . . he had kissed her . . .

  She considered it; the experience was nothing like she had expected, but it was not at all unpleasant — no, not at all. In fact, she was certain she had kissed him back and she realised that she was, even now, clutching the sides of his coat with her hands. She quickly dropped them.

  She felt warm and flushed and she thought that she must be angry, but he was looking at her still and in such a way that she felt the bolt of fire return and she drew in a shallow breath. A small sound escaped from her still parted lips and she knew that what she had been denying to herself for so long could be denied no longer.

  But his eyes were changing. His expression was growing more guarded and she could see he was trying to pull his eyes away — and then he succeeded . . .

  Damn him!

  Coward!

  No!

  Determined to respond to this bewildering situation with strength and equally determined that he must acknowledge what had just happened, she found her voice.

  “Please explain yourself, sir. What is the meaning — why did you . . . do that?”

  Baugham felt his feeling of panic rise. He knew his eyes were restlessly glancing about and could no longer meet hers. His heart raced and his blood rushed in his ears. How could this have happened? How could he have been such a fool? How could he have lost control so utterly?

  He retreated ever more firmly behind his reserve and was determined to escape and put an end to this folly as soon as possible.

  “Miss Tournier,” he said slowly, hearing his own voice distantly. It seemed to him to be so very cold and stiff, just like his own pose. “I . . . I am mortified. I have . . . I have just proved your reproaches beyond a doubt. I must beg your forgiveness.”

  He noticed the light had gone out of her eyes, too, and she regarded him with a most appalling mix of negative and desperate feeling.

  “I cannot explain myself,” he said helplessly. “I . . . I have no excuse to give. I can only promise you that . . . It will not happen again, I assure you.”

  Holly turned and took several steps away. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply in an attempt to regain her composure. It took longer than she wished. When she felt equal to facing him again, she turned around, but avoided his eyes.

  “Please see it does not. Your apology is accepted.”

  She took her bonnet up from the garden bench and tried to tie it upon her head but her fingers were not working well. In frustration she pulled it back off again and turned toward the outer gate.

  “I would beg you to leave now, sir. I will make your excuses to my mother.”

  “Thank you. I will. I — Give her my warmest regards . . . ” The words stuck in his throat. “Say what you must.”

  He simply bowed to stop his babbling and then, as if in a daze, began walking toward the gate. He stopped there, lingering for a while; following her with his eyes as she, just as slowly but with a great dignity, turned her back to him and headed toward the house. As he watched he felt all of his acute embarrassment and shame envelop him once more. Then he uttered an oath under his breath he had not used since he was a very much younger and more impulsive man and turned on his heel to find his horse.

  Miss Tournier would return without him, and Baugham realised her mother would almost certainly deduce from her daughter’s countenance that something was amiss. He rode off in confusion, finding himself hoping that Miss Tournier would not disclose his reprehensible actions to Mrs. Tournier, but everything he knew about her told him that she would likely
confess all. Added to his already acute feelings of remorse and mortification was a deep regret that by committing an unpardonable sin against a lady of character and good reputation, he had wronged her mother as well. That afternoon, in one moment of thoughtlessness, he had lost two friends.

  MRS TOURNIER WAS A NATURALLY curious woman. Her interest and curiosity caused her to question many accepted facts and she was very fond of any process that could lead her to the discovery of new truths and revelations about the world around her. This, naturally, made her quite a reader and constantly thirsty for scraps of knowledge, and although she was always quick with her opinions, she did consider a good argument on the opposite side of a debate to be as essential and interesting as her own researched point of view.

  That same noble and unusual trait in a woman also made her insufferably nosy at times. For someone who judged fact as truth, the limits of the personal sphere and inner doubts were sometimes hard for her to comprehend or even to respect. She knew she was once again pushing against those boundaries of respect when she stayed by the window even though her daughter and their guest could not be seen from it, but when the door slammed and just one set of footsteps could be heard, so obviously Holly’s, she abandoned all pretence of discretion and opened the window to peek out.

  Her rudeness was not awarded. She could see no one, so she returned to her seat and waited on pins and needles, fighting the urge to run out of the room and find her daughter and insist that she reveal everything. She was certain there could be nothing too surprising in their failure to appear together in her parlour. Very likely there had been “words” exchanged between them again. But still. Why were they not busy keeping up appearances and fighting their sour countenances there in front of her?!

  At that moment her daughter came in with a cup of tea and a piece of bread in her hand.

  “There you are!” Mrs Tournier said, quite excitedly and losing all pretence of detachment. “What on earth has been going on?”

  Her daughter gave her a look, but calmly put down her cup of tea and dipped some bread in it. It was evident from her pale face that something had happened, but as obviously as her feelings could be read from her countenance, just as stubbornly was she able to withhold any details or confessions about it if she chose.

  “Nothing worth mentioning,” Holly said calmly and hoped her ears did not explode into a crimson colour at the blatant lie. “His lordship had to attend to his horse — he’s quite a nervous specimen I understand — and he had to take his leave. He was quite shamefully late, he said. He begs your forgiveness, of course. I understand tea was cold so I made some for myself just now. Or would you care for me to warm up the pot again?”

  “Never mind the pot! As if tea is the answer to every single predicament in life! What about before that?”

  Holly looked up. “What do you mean, Maman?”

  “Did you manage to behave civilly to one another or were you able to find something to argue about in the quarter of an hour he was out there?”

  Holly said nothing for a full minute or longer. Why had she thought she could return to the parlour and simply resume normal life, to act as if nothing was wrong? A sudden apprehension that nothing about her life would ever be normal again swept over her and she struggled to keep her face calm and unaffected. Her mother was watching her expectantly; she must answer her question. But what could she say? If she confessed the kiss, what would her reaction be? Would she rail against Lord Baugham in anger, or would she somehow blame Holly for her unguarded behaviour? Or worse yet, would she dismiss it or laugh it off as a thing of no consequence?

  The tea was bitter in her mouth, the bread sat like a stone in her stomach; unconsciously, her hand moved up to her ear. She must answer.

  “We . . . we were simply discussing . . . he was asking me for purchase recommendations for the library. That is all.” Satisfied with herself for coming up with a fairly plausible story, she elaborated further, “He was asking my opinion on the works of de Forges when Mr Campbell’s dog ran too close to his horse,” her speech grew more rapid as she went on, “and he grew skittish and his lordship tried but could not calm him so he thought it was best to try to ride it out of him so be asked me to beg your pardon and he left.”

  Without looking at her mother, Holly carried her cup to the tray and walked to the doorway.

  “I think . . . I’m rather tired, Maman. I think I will go lie down for a while.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she left.

  Her mother watched her leave closing the door very carefully behind her. She was by no means impressed by the fact that the author of the poem “Goddam! Goddam! par un French-dog” and Mr Campbell’s harmless and docile pet together made up an explanation for his lordship’s absence, but there was not much she could do. Her daughter would not talk to her. For now, anyway.

  HOLLY RAN UPSTAIRS AS QUICKLY as she could, her breath coming roughly. What had just happened ran over and over in her mind and it took quite some time before she could form any kind of coherent thought.

  The thinking only made it worse. He had kissed her; he had looked at her in that way and then he had drawn away, cold and detached. And he had left without a word of explanation, only apology. The worst part to Holly of course, was that, because of that kiss and that look, she was fully aware of feelings which had been hidden from her before. No, she thought, be honest, not hidden, you have just refused to admit them. But now, here it was, she must acknowledge what she felt — though there was no good in it.

  Her thoughts were in such turmoil — he had kissed her. Her first kiss, and instead of coming as a prelude to, or the result of, a declaration of love as she had always imagined, it came as a surprise, the result of temper and a prelude to regret — for him. As for her . . . his reaction gave her no room for any feelings save despair. She paced around her room wildly, the scene continuing to play in her head. She was wretched. She was miserable. She was mortified that she had responded to him and returned his kiss. She was embarrassed and ashamed and angry.

  His words, her words, the warnings of Miss Tristam, tormented her and though it was still mid-afternoon, she stripped to her chemise, crawled into bed and covered her head with her pillow — willing sleep to come and rescue her — at least temporarily — from her distress. But she could not escape the facts. He had kissed her. He had kissed her and then he had walked away.

  Netherfield

  Hertfordshire

  Baugham,

  In keeping with all the traditions of our longstanding friendship, it is my pleasure to inform you of the fact that I have once again, as is my habit, bested you. For not only have I proven the existence of true, disinterested love as I watch the happiness of my good friend Bingley — I have at the same time secured that same love for myself, in the person of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. As for you, since Bingley and I have at this point secured the affections of the two brightest, liveliest and most beautiful women alive (although the exact numbering and order remains a matter of much debate between the two of us), I’m afraid you will be left with third best — if you should ever decide you are no longer satisfied with being a bystander to love and muster up the courage to enter the fray.

  As I assume you mean to quit Scotland after Christmas and return to Town for the winter season, I have no hesitation in telling you that I would be much obliged if you could see your way to leaving a bit sooner than planned, staying here at Netherfield with Bingley and me until the ceremony. Your presence and company will be greatly appreciated . . . if for nothing else than to keep the rest of the Bennet family charmed and occupied.

  I must confess to one more favour I must ask of you, if you still maintain your friendship with the ladies of Rosefarm Cottage. It appears that the presence of her cousin and her aunt are necessary for Elizabeth to be completely happy on the day of her wedding so I would ask you to deliver the enclosed missives to them. And . . . if Mrs Tournier appears to balk at the arrangements I have made for their travel, that
you will do your best to smooth things along and assure their arrival.

  Yours in triumph,

  Darcy

  SO BAUGHAM SAT IN HIS darkened library, looking at the letter in his hand even though there was no longer enough light to make out any of the words. The news it contained was not unexpected, but its contents had sent him into turmoil nevertheless. When it rains, it pours . . . he thought. Now why should he make that deduction? It was a happy letter; a letter he knew had been on its way and a letter, the contents of which he had been impatiently waiting for.

  He separated the two additional folded up sheets from within the letter and looked at the directions. They stared back at him, the one made him wince, the other made him feel acute shame. He sighed. After an excruciating hour at Tristam Lodge, surrounded by smiling and giggling girls, unfortunately all lined up on the parlour sofa just as Miss Tournier had said, he had at last been able to take his leave and go home, expecting shelter and peace to sort out his necessary feelings of doubt and shame and regret. But he was faced, not with a place of refuge, but a letter which further accentuated his crime, rubbed his nose in his shortcomings — all of them — and most effectively not only conjured up his broken promise to his friend, but also imposed further obligations to live up to his friend’s expectations and atone for his sins

  Among the sundry thoughts swirling through his mind was the question: how the devil was he supposed to deliver the enclosed letter to Miss Tournier with how things now stood between them, and knowing what news the letter contained? Under his breath he cursed Darcy for putting him in such an awkward position, then he cursed himself as well.