Twixt Two Equal Armies

by Gail McEwen

  With that he left her looking at the letters on the table and removed himself. As he reached the door, he spied Hamish quietly coming in. Baugham smiled and ruffled the boy’s hair.

  “Well,” he said in a cheerful voice, “had enough apple loaf to get you through til dinner, eh? I hope you left some for me, for I have tedious work ahead of me — not unlike you — and I quite depend upon it to sustain me for quite a while longer.”

  Hamish looked at him under his fringe and smiled.

  “It’s very good, sir,” he said, “and I think Mrs McLaughlin could possibly forgive me if ye went back and ate the rest I couldnae. But I didnae want to keep Miss Tournier waitin’.”

  “No, you’re a good boy,” Baugham said and smiled back as he stepped through the door. “Now run along and make yourself useful.”

  Hamish nodded and took a few running steps up to Miss Tournier.

  “Here I am, miss,” he said. “Let me help ye now.”

  Holly had picked up the letters and was looking at her name and her mother’s in Elizabeth’s distinct hand. Of course she knew what was in them; there could be no surprise there. Still, she was hesitant. Could she read it here and now? Was it advisable? Would she regret reading her cousin’s intimate confessions or joyful exclamations in this room?

  With Hamish looking at her expectantly, she made her decision and stuffed the letters into her apron pocket. She let her hand rest on them while she addressed the boy.

  “Yes, Hamish. There’s a lot to be done!”

  AT THE END OF THE day, Holly walked slowly down the hall as she was leaving Clyne, steeling herself toward the possibility that he would appear out of obligation to walk her out, but he did not. She sighed; no explanation, no hint of . . . anything. Simply more apologies and remorse and back to work. Telling herself she was relieved, she made her way home undisturbed and occupied by her thoughts.

  It occurred to her that she had never thanked him for the letters. Those long awaited, eagerly anticipated letters. Thus, she could not help but feel as if she had failed both Elizabeth and Mr Darcy in not mustering up a more enthusiastic reception. He must feel that she was not pleased or that she was incapable of rejoicing on her cousin’s behalf. Lord Baugham was right, it was a good match and everything she wanted for her cousin, too.

  She squared her shoulders and forced him out of her mind once more, patting the letters thorough her apron for the tenth time that afternoon. This had nothing to do with him and she would not let him interfere with what was a joyful family concern! She pictured Elizabeth in her mind’s eye: how she must have smiled and laughed while writing, how happy she must be now that all her uncertainties and struggles were at last resolved. This was about her beloved Elizabeth, and Holly determinedly kept that thought foremost in her mind as she walked, and when she reached Rosefarm, she once more turned her thoughts away from the uncertainty and doubt that the messenger of the letters had induced in her.

  “Mother!” she shouted as soon as she opened the door. “I have news!”

  She knew exactly where to find her. Her mother sat with her feet up on a stool in front of the fire, reading a book in the parlour.

  “News? From Elizabeth?”

  “From whom else?” Holly smiled. “They were delivered to Clyne Cottage with Mr Darcy’s letter to Lord Baugham.” She congratulated herself for hardly hesitating at all when mentioning his name.

  “Shall we guess what’s inside?” She waved the letters in front of her mother dramatically.

  Mrs Tournier laughed. “Two? May I chose which one?” She took her feet off the stool and Holly slipped onto it. She placed her mother’s letter in her lap. “I can wait a few moments more. Open yours first and read it aloud!”

  Her mother gave her a sly smile and carefully broke the seal.

  “Dear Aunt,” she read.

  “I have a few facts to relate to you, which you and Holly may discuss amongst yourselves. Furthermore, to ensure you have topics on which to speculate that meet with your standards of both currency and depth, I have added a few points on which I would have your reactions to post haste.

  “I am marrying Mr Darcy within the month. I love him very much and he is devoted to me. So far, there has been not a single matter for dispute among the two of us during our engagement (besides who is the more worthy of adoration, of course), but I do not expect that to last for very long. Then again, neither would I wish it to always naturally be so. One would not want to be forced to create artificial bones of contention with one’s spouse based on merely a desire for lively discussion, after all.

  “ — The wedding will be on the 20th.

  “ — You must both come as soon as possible and I will arrange it all.

  “ — You must stay at Longbourn.

  “ — You must wear something gay for the wedding and let your boldness for once outweigh your sense.

  “Brevity is the soul of wit and so I embrace both of you warmly and close this in anticipation of your quick answer.

  “Your,

  “Eliza”

  Holly gave a smile. Her mother looked up from the letter and met her eyes.

  “Oh she is a sly girl! Poking fun like that, but I suppose brides-to-be may be as sly as they want while they still have time, before marriage effectively cures them of it.”

  “Do you think Elizabeth will be cured of it?” Holly said surprised. “I think not. It is who she is. And after all, Mr Darcy seems to be a great admirer of her pert opinions. I should think she would take care not to change, wouldn’t you?”

  Mrs Tournier smiled at her daughter. “If I should hazard a guess, I think Mr Darcy will be the sly one for a while after they are married. But let us not speculate about the intimacies of a marriage that has yet to take place,” she hastily added when her daughter gave her a curious look and opened her mouth to ask what she meant. She couldn’t possibly explain that bit to her daughter.

  “Do you think they will be happy?” Holly asked thoughtfully.

  “No one knows,” her mother answered. Holly looked a little disappointed. “Oh, I don’t mean they do not stand an excellent chance of coming to an understanding and finding many unexpected things to delight in one another. But no one knows. I hope they will.”

  “I think they will,” Holly said determinedly. “Although she will be very grand, will she not? Oh! Do you think they will invite us to Pemberley! I would love to see it!”

  Mrs Tournier smiled. “Now that I am certain they will.”

  Holly sat quietly for a moment, lost in daydreams of what a grand house such as Pemberley might be like inside and picturing her cousin ruling over it all with grace and benevolence. She was interrupted by her mother’s impatient fidgeting.

  “And your letter, Lie-lie? Have you any plans to read it anytime soon?”

  Smiling, Holly opened her letter and held it out so they could read it together. She could almost hear Elizabeth’s voice ringing through the words, see her beaming face and she sighed in what she assumed was happiness and anticipation.

  “So . . . we may go, may we not, Maman? If it is all arranged?” At Mrs Tournier’s assurance that she would not miss the event for the world, Holly ventured another hopeful question. “Maybe . . . do you suppose that we might . . . buy gowns for the occasion? Gay ones, as Elizabeth says. Do you think?”

  Mrs Tournier looked at her girl. Her little girl, who was not so little anymore except in some cases. She smiled.

  “I think I can very well do without one, my dear. If you like, I will dye an old feather and stick it in my hair in a savage fashion and that will do for gayness on my part. But you — well, I think you might rather have at least two thirds of a new gown. I suppose that can be managed. In fact, it must be managed. Perhaps the two of us could pay Mrs Peterson a visit tomorrow and I’ll see if I can bully her into redoing something for you for a pittance. Something appropriately gay.”

  HOLLY SAT DOWN ON HER bed and took out Elizabeth’s letter from her pocket again. She
had hardly had time to read it properly before. Now she was alone with the sheet of paper burning between her fingers, and she could finally give it her undivided attention.

  Longbourn

  Hertfordshire

  My dearest, sweetest cousin,

  I must, of course, as is polite and right, start by offering my excuses for being so lacking in my correspondence. Wedding preparations, as you must understand, take up a large amount of time just thinking about things to be done and remembered. Brides-to-be are notorious for thinking the needs and wishes of everyone else can very well wait while they ponder ribbons and the very demanding question of veil or not. Even dear Jane, as good and considerate as she is, is not beyond such selfishness, I have found. The colour of the wedding gown alone is a matter worth several hours of study and reflection, I have learned.

  So there is to be a wedding! And you are cordially invited, as is my aunt (I will send her the particulars in a separate letter — I know how she despises receiving invitations through someone else). I shall be very happy to see you if you should be able to spare the time, for I miss you very much even though it is but a short time since we last saw one another. However, if you cannot, both bride and groom in their infinite sweetness and evenness of temper will quite understand and look forward to seeing you at some other time.

  Nonetheless, there is another wedding taking place at the same time and I warn you right now that this bride will not be so sanguine about your inability to attend as her sister might. In fact, it is very probable that she will shut herself into her room and weep, only to emerge armed with fantastic accusations and presumptions towards you in her grief. It will most likely send the groom into a frowning state and he will dash off to Clanough to ascertain for himself the whys and wherefores of your refusal. That is his habit, as you know.

  So please, Holly, say you will come! Say you will be there with me for I cannot think of anything that could make my day happier or more perfect. No protest is accepted. It has all been arranged.

  As for the details of my happiness and how it came to such a joyful conclusion, I will not tell you anything here in the hope that you will soon be with me and I can tell you everything in person. I shall only venture to say what you already know and that is that I am very happy and both proud and humble in my affection for Mr Darcy, as — he has assured me on countless times — he is in mine. We are fortunate in that we will be very well suited, I think, for we already know the worst of one another’s character and can now spend a lifetime finding out the best.

  And as far as breaking our mutual vow, I promise you I will only break our pact once. After I’ve married my Mr Darcy, I shall happily forswear all other men for the rest of my life.

  Your affectionate cousin,

  Eliza

  P.S. You may also congratulate me on my goodness in still having thoughts for others than myself at such a time. In my cleverness I have chosen to have Mr Darcy include this letter and the one to my aunt in his missive to Lord Baugham. That way, I shall have done my dear aunt a service by forcing that secluded peer out of his hiding place at Clyne and into her parlour, where I know she likes him to be and where he enjoys himself despite his protestations of solitude. I hope that will go some way to make you happy, too, Holly. If nothing else, leave the two by themselves and take my letter outside while you send good thoughts and make arrangements for our imminent reunion! E.B.

  As she ploughed through it, contemplating every arch of the letters and the distance between the lines, her heart jumped and skipped at Elizabeth’s words. It was as if she was speaking to her, sitting right here beside her. But as she reached the postscript, her vision suddenly blurred. She tried to blink the tears away, but they stubbornly welled up again and obscured the text.

  “Make me happy too . . . ” she whispered to herself, unable to actually see the lines of her cousin’s letter. “Oh Elizabeth!” And with that she sunk down on her bed and buried her head beneath her blankets, where she helplessly felt her tears spill into her pillow, ending up pressing cold, wet fabric against her hot cheeks.

  THE DINING TABLE OF LEDWICH House was covered with scattered pages of manuscript and was repeatedly circled by two gentlemen in the process of sorting them into something resembling an orderly progression.

  “I must commend you, McKenna,” the older gentleman remarked. “You have accomplished more in this past fortnight than you have in all the years I have known you. I am happy to see that you are finally becoming serious about advancing in your field.” McKenna just gave him a sheepish smile so he continued, “There is no reason to feel guilty about wanting to put forth your research and findings, and if, in the process your name becomes more recognisable and a few opportunities happen to come your way, there is no harm in that either.”

  “I think categorising the minerals by region of origin rather than by properties would be best, Sir John.” McKenna acted as if he had not heard him and began shuffling the stacks around. “Highlands. Midland Valley. Southern Uplands. And the Hebrides.” As he worked, he commented, almost in afterthought. “You know, Sir John, if I divide them up regionally, what do you think about including some illustrations of the landscape — nice ones, you know. Almost like those colour plates you had done . . . ”

  Sir John’s eyes shot toward the young man, they grew a bit brighter but betrayed nothing. The doctor continued with his thoughts, while still busily sorting and leafing through the piles and pages.

  “And I suppose I should do something about these abysmal sketches of mine. I doubt I will impress anyone with my knowledge if it appears that I cannot distinguish granite from slate.”

  A knowing smile spread across Sir John’s face, but he simply said, “I like your idea of the landscapes, they could add interest and colour, and I absolutely concur on the wretched quality of your sketches. Perhaps you need an illustrator.”

  “Precisely what I was thinking,” McKenna agreed, keeping as unstudied a look on his face as he could. “Any ideas as to whom?”

  “Hm . . . ” Sir John thoughtfully paused, “There’s always Bigsby. He has a fairly good eye and is well-travelled — he ought to do a passable job.”

  “And if I want more than passable?”

  Sir John sat down, closed his eyes and leaned back as if in thought.

  “Then it’s Carruthers you want.” He did not let on that he heard the sigh of his colleague, but after a brief pause he added, “Of course, he’s extremely busy and you might have to wait quite a while for him . . . but then, you have already waited all this time. What would a little longer matter?”

  “And if I don’t want to wait any longer?” a slightly impatient McKenna rejoined.

  “Why then,” Sir John opened his eyes and announced in triumph, “you must ask Miss Tournier! Of course.”

  “Of course,” McKenna said casually, but after noticing Sir John’s smug expression, gave up all pretence and smiled broadly. “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Good, because I was beginning to worry about you, boy. Not only is Miss Tournier an excellent artist needing work, she is a fine girl with a sweet disposition. Very pretty, too, in case you have not taken the trouble to notice.”

  “I have.” McKenna inexplicably felt his face flush.

  “So I would hazard a guess that to spend time with her in such an endeavour would not be disagreeable to you?”

  “Sir John,” the doctor smiled, “you are anything but subtle, but I don’t expect that my employing Miss Tournier would entail a great deal of time spent together. No more time than you spent when she illustrated your book. But if my commission will bring her peace and comfort, I am happy to be of service.”

  Sir John sat, thoughtfully rubbing his chin with his thumb as he tilted his chair back on two legs.

  “Now, Philip, let’s not be too hasty,” he said. “This is your first major work, very important to your profession — it would not do to take any aspect of it too casually. I would advise you to oversee all the details carefully �
�� even going so far as to take temporary leave from your position here so you might devote all of your time to it.”

  He gestured to the table.

  “What you have here is an excellent beginning, but you need to organise, to edit, to polish your text, and you need each and every illustration to be exactly what you envision.” A mischievous grin appeared on the old man’s face.

  “Yes, that’s it. As your advisor and friend, I insist that you take some time off, take yourself away from the city to more . . . remote environs, a small village let’s say, and devote yourself to your pursuits — whatever they may be.”

  McKenna could not mistake his meaning, but he had not thought about taking such a bold step himself.

  “Take a leave? For how long?”

  Still looking at him with that sly smile, Sir John simply said, “For as long as it takes.”

  Chapter 25

  In which the State of Things and Feelings are Reviewed Before the Reader is Introduced to New Facts and Events

  At this point in the story, dear reader, a curious kind of contradiction reigns. Just as in winter, nature settles into a period of recuperation and quiet before the bustling activities of springing to life once more, so man also withdraws in the prevailing season. He stops his frantic activity and stays inside. The dark days take their toll and man becomes generally dull and fond of his after meal naps. Nowhere is this truer than in the country. Unpredictable weather, bad roads and dark evenings restrict society; social intercourse slows down or goes into hibernation. So it is also with our protagonists. But their outward resignation to the mood of the season is deceptive, because within them great spring storms and restless, unseasonable stirrings of life rob their supposed repose of comfort. Furthermore, for them there is no long rest in sight. Very soon they must challenge nature’s state of slumber, only to be thrown into events that change their lives. But this they do not know yet and so cannot prepare themselves. As is so often the case, they sit and regard their current state as incomprehensible and even reprehensible, yet are unwilling or unable to change it, believing themselves to be forever trapped in winter, whereas spring is even now, slowly and inexorably rolling in over the sea to sweep everything away.