Twixt Two Equal Armies

by Gail McEwen

  As he opened the door he could, to his great relief, note that at least the roof was intact and that no loss to human life or limb seemed to be the case. Miss Tournier was kneeling over what looked like books flung over the floor in a haphazard manner and with some of the pages flown away and the bindings broken.

  “Miss Tournier,” he asked, “are you quite alright?”

  In a voice laced with frustration Holly answered, “Oh, I am fine, perfectly fine. Just incredibly ridiculous!” She lifted her face up. “This is what I get for trying to hurry through my work. And I am sorry to say that a few of your books have paid the price as well.”

  He bowed down and picked up some stray pages that had scattered across the room.

  “Hmm. Virgil,” he said while he looked through them. “And a volume that brings back unimaginable Latin translatory horrors under the auspices of Mr Grimsby. Please, Miss Tournier, think nothing of it. You have fulfilled the hidden but violent ambitions of a fifteen-year-old schoolboy.”

  Trying not to look as upset as she felt, she crossed the room to retrieve the pages around his feet and held her hand out for those he held. She then sat down and hurriedly stuffed them back into the broken bindings.

  “I will take care of this . . . I am sure that the bookseller in Edinburgh can repair them . . . ” she sighed. “Stupid . . . so clumsy . . . ”

  He watched her return to the desk and helplessly sort through the pages. He was silent for a while as he heard her sigh and then absentmindedly spied another page lying behind a chair and went to pick it up.

  “Oh, I think not,” he said as he fingered part of the Aeneid. “‘At regina graui iamdudum saucia cura uulnus alit uenis et caeco carpitur igni’, indeed. In fact, this particular volume is surely not worth the effort. I think you will find that the bookseller would agree with me, that the newly edited compilation by that clever fellow Finney — a Cambridge man, by the way, so it would not do to doubt his reputation — is vastly superior both in print and form to this old cheap thing. I think you would also find he would refuse to restore this one for me and would give you a very good price for the new one, which is exactly what I wish you to do. Please add a new edition to your purchasing suggestions, if you would be so kind. When you get as far as that, of course.”

  Holly’s mind was so taken up by his first words that she did not comprehend the end of his speech for several moments. Due to her parents’ unorthodox views of equality and the importance of female education, Holly had received instruction in many areas that were considered most unusual for a female — Latin being one of them.

  She cursed the perversity of chance that Lord Baugham should randomly pick a page from Book IV as her mind automatically translated the lines he read:

  But anxious cares already seiz’d the queen:

  She fed within her veins a flame unseen

  And then supplied the lines that followed:

  The hero’s valor, acts, and birth inspire

  Her soul with love, and fan the secret fire.

  His words, his looks, imprinted in her heart,

  Improve the passion, and increase the smart.

  “UNHAPPY DIDO BURNS . . . ” she quietly said to herself before looking up again, irrationally wondering if he picked those lines purposely and what he might have meant by it.

  He was looking at her expectantly, but not with any meaning other than that he was apparently waiting for her to speak — grasping on to what little she heard of his latest words she attempted a reply.

  “Finney from Cambridge . . . yes, certainly. I should order one then?”

  “Yes, please do,” he smiled, apparently relieved that she answered. “I don’t know the man myself — he was before my time — but I believe no library should be without one. Whatever earlier editions might have done to destroy the appetite for poetry of the owners.”

  He looked around the room.

  “It is coming along nicely, I see,” he said. “Soon perhaps one might start referring to this as a collection again.”

  When she had arrived in the morning, Holly had every intention of relaying the invitation from her mother for him to come for tea, but a few dropped volumes and some lines of Latin convinced her that she was not up to it. She cursed herself for being so stupid. She was going to have to learn to come to terms with this sooner or later . . . She must get past it!

  Gathering her courage she turned to him, ready to extend the invitation, “My lord . . . ”

  Baugham half-turned towards her and let a lazy smile creep over his eyes and lips.

  “Oh, you are quite right, of course. A collection of miscellaneous whims and fancies is probably all it will ever amount to. But I will follow your recommendations, if you care to make any, as to how best to make it a good collection of whims and fancies.”

  She let out an exasperated sigh. He either was not listening to her, or had decided he already knew what she was thinking or what she would say.

  Presumptuous! she thought, but she had to admit that it felt better to be angry at him than to be so tentative and unsure as she had been lately.

  “As I was beginning to tell you . . . I must leave here early today. Maman is suffering from a cold, but she has instructed me to invite you to tea.”

  The way he lit up at the simple invitation was almost pathetic. However much she tried to hold on to that brief flash of anger, it nevertheless touched her to see his obvious insecurity and delight and she found herself smiling back.

  “It would be my pleasure!” his lordship said. “Thank you! I . . . Tomorrow then? I just received a parcel of newspapers from London. Perhaps your mother would enjoy them?”

  Holly heard herself give a little laugh. “Oh, by all means! In fact, I would be grateful if you did bring them, for, I confess, I should be very much relieved if something else was able to entertain her a little besides my own person and faults.”

  He grinned. “Well, persons and faults are to be found in abundance in our esteemed press! I should be happy to be of some small service.”

  There was a small pause where they found themselves foolishly grinning at one another, at loss of what to say next, but rather relieved that there had at least been something. Then Holly could stand the silence no more and reached for her notebook on the table.

  “Finney,” she said, turning around and leaning over it.

  Baugham watched her leaf through the pages until she found the place she was looking for.

  “By all means,” he said. “Finney. And tea tomorrow?”

  “By all means,” Holly said still with her back turned and was grateful he could not see how she winced at her own stupidity. But had she seen him she would have known he did not think her ridiculous. His quiet smile, however, might not have made her any more comfortable and so it was a good thing she briskly gathered up her things.

  “Well, I sent Hamish home ages ago,” she said and looked around for her bonnet and gloves. “I should go, too. Until tomorrow then.”

  Lord Baugham merely smiled when she hastily let herself out of the door, but when she was safely out of earshot he once again smiled and muttered, “By all means.”

  Then he laughed.

  Chapter 26

  How Despite the Cold Season People Change Abode and Grow Busy

  Unbeknownst to Holly, Dr McKenna had arrived in Clanough late the previous evening, tired and cramped from the day long ride in the post chaise. His bags and cases were taken down and he acquired a room at the Caledonian Thistle Inn for an indeterminate length of time. He took a late meal and then settled into his comfortable accommodations to reflect over his next step. Not an ambitious man by nature, and with no need to make his fortune or any mark on the world, McKenna had never gone farther than vague plans to publish his research — someday. But there he was, in a small room in a small village, all the time in the world with only his manuscript and notes for company . . . and plans to meet his illustrator the following day.

  He smiled in anticipation of th
at meeting, made plans to dispatch a note to Mrs Tournier first thing in the morning and to visit as soon as was convenient after that. So it was that as Holly was walking home from Clyne Cottage after relaying her mother’s invitation and need of diversion from her illness to Lord Baugham, Dr McKenna was even then filling that very office in the Rosefarm parlour.

  THOUGHTFULLY TUGGING at her bonnet strings, she backed into the door to close it. It had been a slow walk home, perhaps even slower than she had intended. She had taken a detour and walked by the great elm by the crossing where Elizabeth had run when she had first seen Mr Darcy after church and where they had met up and talked. Now all her doubts of him, his character and intentions must be completely swept away. Holly could never imagine her cousin marrying without being completely convinced of a mutual affection and worthiness, so it must be true. Elizabeth was going to marry her Mr Darcy. “And live happily ever after,” Holly mouthed and sighed, smiling wistfully.

  She stayed by the elm for a while. It felt good to rest a little just in between Clyne Cottage and Rosefarm Cottage and she felt closer to her cousin here, out in the fresh air. “A little too fresh perhaps,” she muttered after a while and wrapped her cloak around her before heading home. She was still lost in her thoughts about Elizabeth and her future as Mrs Darcy when she pulled off her bonnet in the darkened hallway at home and groped around for the peg to hang it on. Suddenly her foot bumped into something black and large on the floor in front of her. It looked like several large, black boxes lined up on their side.

  “What on earth . . . ?”

  She was just about to bend down to take a closer look when her mother appeared from the small dining room.

  “Ah, there you are, Lie-lie!” she said. “Where have you been? Tea’s long gone by now. Again.”

  “Maman,” Holly ignored her mother, “what in the world are these?”

  “Rock samples,” her mother said, as if nothing could be more natural.

  “Rock samples?”

  “My dear, you are being repetitious and dull. It will not do. You must try to appear industrious and clever.”

  Finally Holly looked up to see her mother’s face. Mrs Tournier looked very well, with not a hint of her former complaints although her cheeks were perhaps a little flushed and her eyes slightly more shiny than usual.

  “Well, don’t look at me like that,” she said. “It’s all your doing. Your friend brought them!”

  “My friend?”

  Her mother gave her an exasperated look. “Come in by the fire, dear. Maybe that will make your brain thaw a little and you can assume some of your usual vitality. Dr McKenna has come all the way from Edinburgh to see us!”

  Dr McKenna sprang out of his seat by the table as Holly came in. He lit up at the sight of her and Holly could not but wonder if her mother had been pressing him for more commissions or extracting promises from him that he was ill-equipped to make, since she sensed such obvious relief in him at her entrance.

  “Miss Tournier!” he said and came forth to meet her. “You must excuse my impulsivity! I know I should have given you notice of my coming, but I was much too eager to be on my way. I only arrived last night.”

  “Last night?” Holly asked, puzzled. “Oh, but it very good to see you again, of course! If, I must say, a little strange to see that my mother has offered you a seat in our dining room.”

  Here she cast an inquiring glance at her mother, who shuffled some documents that were lying on the table.

  “Oh go on, Doctor,” she said, “you can tell her and act the hero in this play.”

  Apparently Dr McKenna had no objections to that, but assumed a happy expression and cleared his throat.

  “Well,” he began, “I, of course, am here to begin work. I am finally in a position to start compiling my findings and research into printable form and as your mother’s express assured me that you were available immediately — ”

  “Immediately? Is that so?” she turned to her mother with a raised eyebrow. “By express, Maman?”

  “Yes,” was the short reply, “by express.”

  Momentarily taken aback by the almost terse exchange between mother and daughter, Dr McKenna continued with a nervous smile, “Sir John has been most warm in his praise of your talents and, having seen your work myself, I heartily concur and he further says it is my good fortune to be able to secure you. For my illustrations,” he added hastily. “Of rocks and minerals.”

  “Rocks, Holly,” Mrs Tournier said with a raised eyebrow.

  Holly gave her mother an impatient look before the doctor went on.

  “Of course,” he hastened to add, “Mrs Tournier has now informed me of your current obligations, and I will understand if you do not feel that you can take this on immediately after all.

  “However,” he went on with a hopeful look, “I confess that I am very selfishly counting on your talents and, as I will be in Clanough for some time, I am prepared to wait for as long as it takes until you can begin.”

  “Oh,” Holly said, somewhat flustered, “I don’t know that you need to wait very long . . . I mean, I do have my other work, but it doesn’t take all of my time and . . . ” she paused and gathered her thoughts, continuing in a stronger voice, “I welcome the opportunity, Dr McKenna, as I am thankful for the offer. Perhaps you can come by tomorrow?”

  The doctor’s smile was wide and immediate.

  “Tomorrow would be perfect, Miss Tournier. Yes, I am very happy to come by tomorrow! Of course, I would not take you away from your current commitments, as it is I have plenty to do on my own, which is one of the reasons I have taken a room — to work in peace and tranquillity.”

  A short time later the doctor took leave of a pleased, yet confused, young woman and a self-satisfied older one, claiming that he did not wish to intrude any further on their evening together. He returned to the Thistle in time for dinner, quite pleased with his progress this day.

  ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER MYSTERIOUS NOISE to investigate, thought his lordship. There was light streaming out of his library and a loud thumping sound emanating from behind the door. Baugham arrested his progress down the hall and took a peek. Hamish was standing on a ladder just by the door, holding a book in one hand and fingering the growing row on the shelf.

  “A,b,c,d,e,f,g,i,j,h . . . ” he muttered. “No, a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h . . . There!”

  Baugham smiled and admired the boy’s concentration for a moment before clearing his throat.

  “My laird!” Hamish said surprised. “Miss Tournier is nae here today,” he added and tried to scramble down.

  “Yes, I see that,” Baugham said and leaned against the doorpost. “So what are you doing here, Hamish?”

  The boy reached the floor and looked at his employer sideways under the long fringe of his hair.

  “I . . . ” he began. “Would ye rather I left, sir?” he said.

  Baugham looked around him. The library was still dominated by stacks of books and miscellaneous heaps of what looked like rubbish to him, but apparently had not earned that official label yet since so far they had not been thrown out. One chair, the one in front of his desk, was cleared and he fit his long frame into it and looked at Hamish again.

  “Of course not,” he said softly. “I told you that you were welcome to stay. I am just curious as to why you should want to, when you are all alone here.”

  Hamish’s eyes grew big. “Alone?” he said. “Well, I daresay I am, but I really dinnae mind, sir. Truly I dinnae.”

  “Ah . . . ” Baugham smiled, “Captain Bob is still keeping you company, is he?”

  Hamish returned his smile. “Yes. But I did promise Miss Tournier I’d put the novels up on the shelf alphabetically if I had the time.”

  Baugham looked up at the new order Hamish had been busy with at his interruption. “Novels, eh? And on the highest shelf? Do you suppose I have works that my librarian does not approve of? Or is the whole genre offensive to her?”

  Hamish shook his head. “No, sir. Th
ey are fine books, Miss Tournier said, but they’re in a terrible state. But she said she jist didnae have the heart to throw them out even if she was going to get new editions and have some of them mended.”

  Baugham gave a little laugh at that. “So she showed pity to the poor tattered, despised novels! Well, I suppose I should have expected it. I wonder if she shows as much charity to the other sad parts of the library.”

  “Well . . . some of them are too dirty to even burn.”

  His lordship laughed even more at that candid statement and confessed to Hamish that he suspected his housekeeper agreed. Hamish grinned and climbed up on the ladder again with a few more volumes. Baugham followed his progress for a while, but then his gaze wandered down to his desk. In front of him were two large boxes filled with cards edgeways and with different slips of paper sticking up. He ran his hand over them. Half a dozen quills and two different coloured inks, together with blotting paper and sand, were carefully organised at the head of the desk. Picking up the quills, he tested their sharpness with the tip of his finger. Two heaps of paper sheets lay beside his elbow. One of them seemed to be pages from old books, the other was full of scribbles and notes: “Seneca, Oxford 1788, not 1792!” said one. “History of the Saxon People. Ask Mr Griggott. Also: MacCauley, Benson and Taylor,” said another. Long lists and notes on what she had discussed with Mr Griggott, the small bookseller in Clanough, were followed by addresses to publishers in Edinburgh. There were a bunch of first pages ripped out of books with “discarded” written in bold letters on them. And then there was a hasty sketch, in the corner of a page with listed prices, of a boy sitting on the floor with his head in his hand and a book opened on his knee. “Hamish. 29th Nov, lunch break,” it said.