Twixt Two Equal Armies

by Gail McEwen

  Baugham looked down at it and smiled. It was a good enough likeness, but more than the features, the artist had managed to capture the way the opened book and the story within it had caused the boy’s surrender. He was interrupted when the subject of that drawing cleared his throat high above him.

  “My laird,” he said anxiously, “I would beg of ye not to touch anything. Miss Tournier wouldnae like it and . . . she is most pernicketie, sir.”

  Carefully Baugham put the drawing back where he had found it. Contrary to his usual habits and inclination, he straightened the sheets and made certain everything was exactly as he had found it.

  “Yes, she is, isn’t she?” he said and left Hamish to his chores and Captain Bob.

  THERE WAS A NASTY WIND reaching into his collar and up his sleeves past his gloves as he walked through the fields towards Clanough. In this kind of weather it was no surprise Hamish had preferred to plead working engagements indoors, which included a chance at literary adventures on the High Seas, and had made the journey to attend to his dilapidated novels in his deserted library. Actually, Baugham reflected, there was a reason why he had made his way there that morning as well and it could not all be blamed on the weather.

  His library was his favourite place. It was comfortable despite the obstacles and the dust, it was welcoming despite the chaos, and it was interesting even if he was there all alone — not that he ever was alone in his library these days. Although, of course, things had changed lately. She seemed preoccupied when she worked now and, as much as he really could not blame her, he was saddened by it. Perhaps it was always going to be awkward and painful, but he missed her spirit which seemed to have been replaced, through his imprudence, with withdrawal and cautiousness. It was only natural of course, and it was his fault, but once again his thoughts rambled on in the same track they always did when he got thus far. He had kissed her — insulted her — and as much as he still was unable to reconcile his reasons for doing so, he was forced to admit that, amid his regrets there was a feeling of fond reminiscence too. And one thing that made his memory so pleasant was her response. Or should that be her lack of the expected response? Or perhaps the surprise of a response at all?

  He had pulled away, aghast at what he had done, realising too late that he was committing a serious offence against a lady, but her realisation of having been used so shamefully had hit her rather late it seemed. Or was she simply stunned? No, stunned was not the word for her reaction. He might be an expert at moulding his world according to what suited him for the moment, but not even he could fool himself into thinking that she had been simply stunned or shocked.

  But what he had felt her to be was really of no consequence; her expressed wishes and words were his guide, and there she had been adamant. “And so,” he said aloud, “I promised . . . ”

  He hit some innocent shrubbery viciously with his cane a few times and felt ridiculous, but slightly relieved all the same. What did this invitation for tea mean if not forgiveness and progress? If Mrs Tournier knew about his trespasses, it seemed she was not about to put too much importance to them. The more likely explanation was, of course, that Miss Tournier had not told her mother and simply wished to return to things as they were before.

  As they were before . . .

  He should stop hitting bushes and slap himself instead, he thought as he turned onto the lane leading up to the village. He walked briskly over the bridge. It had begun to rain. A tiny drizzle that hit him in the face as the wind turned it sideways with surprising sharpness. Damned inhuman weather. Exactly the sort of conditions when a sane man would count his blessings in front of a roaring fire and turn his back on prospects of the outdoors.

  He quickened his pace, as much to leave his thoughts behind him as because of the weather. In the end, he successfully managed both as he was shown into the parlour by Mrs Higgins, where, to his great astonishment, he discovered that tea was already in progress and a guest was already being entertained. A man sat conversing with Miss Tournier in hushed tones by her drawing table, which was over-run with what looked like a manuscript and rough sketches. Miss Tournier sat with pencil in hand, sometimes chewing on it, turning the sketches around as if to understand their right angle. She looked up and the frown on her studious face disappeared for an instant, but was back again with doubled intensity before he could react, but whatever her daughter’s reaction, Mrs Tournier looked pleased when his lordship descended on her straight away and in teasing accents inquired after the state and spirits of the invalid.

  “Well,” she said gracefully, “I suffer a vast deal, of course. There is really nothing else to be claimed. But I shan’t bore you with the details for however much you confess you want to hear them, you really do not, and even less do I want to tell. You may fetch yourself some tea and then introduce a topic for our mutual amusement.”

  Baugham confessed he knew he had been summoned all the way from Clyne to perform this duty so he had not come unprepared. He fished out the London Gazette and its lists of appointments to the Court, saying she no doubt would find the governmental appointees of interest.

  “And tea comes with scientific company this time, my lord. Dr McKenna, Sir John Ledwich’s good friend and another hapless victim of his concern for us, is here to ascertain whether my daughter’s skill as an illustrator encompasses the challenge of drawing rocks to his satisfaction. Rocks!”

  By that time Holly had risen and was at the tea tray, pouring a cup for their newest guest. The two gentlemen exchanged greetings and Holly could not help but secretly study his lordship’s face for some reaction. She did not know . . . she did not admit what she might have been hoping to discover from it, but as she saw nothing but polite interest directed toward the doctor, she only let a small sigh escape her before handing him his cup. Lord Baugham thanked her with friendly politeness, while she met his eye as indifferently as she could — and though his face was open, she thought she could detect a slightly guarded expression in his eyes as he looked at her, a guardedness which had not been there when he spoke to her mother.

  So, that is that, she thought, realising that at some level, she had been anticipating some difference when encountering him here at Rosefarm. There is nothing. He does not care . . .

  Baugham prepared his tea thoughtfully as Miss Tournier returned to her seat next to the doctor, and even then it took him a moment to notice. The pitcher contained rich cream — no honey or treacle to be seen, the sugar bowl was filled to capacity with no frowning Mrs Higgins hovering about standing sentinel, and the aroma rising from his cup . . . pure black tea. His eye wandered back to the visitor with greater curiosity, but McKenna had already resumed his conversation with Miss Tournier and they were both once again bent over the pages on the table.

  He took his cup and briskly walked to a nearby chair.

  “So, Dr McKenna, is it?” he asked. “Have you come all the way to Clanough to steal my librarian from me?”

  The doctor smiled easily and leaned back in his seat, “Not at all, my lord; Miss Tournier and I have already discussed it and she will work on my sketches as time allows. I still have a great deal to do on my own, and after giving the ladies the opportunity to review my writings, I find I might have a little more than I had thought.”

  “Good thing that,” his lordship said amiably and twirled the tea cup in his hand. “I’m afraid my particular workload is rather like an Augean stable.”

  “Does that mean I am expected to display Herculean efforts to ever be free of dust and crumbling bindings?” Holly asked, gently smiling.

  “Well, at the moment,” Baugham said and gave a wry smile, “it certainly looks like it. Although I should hasten to add that I have no doubt you will perform miracles — eventually.”

  “It seems you will be surrounded by the natural cycle of scientific publications, then,” Dr McKenna smiled. “Laborious birth and drabbling with multiple manuscripts in an attempt to add to the advancement of mankind and then witnessing that glorio
us final product disintegrate at the other end and being made redundant, perhaps only fit for firewood!”

  A quick, spontaneous look passed between Baugham and Holly. “In the case of my collection, not even fit for that, I’m afraid,” his lordship said dramatically. “But take heart, Doctor, perhaps your work will be cared for by a librarian with a fondness for hopeless cases even if they are tried by ungrateful times and owners.”

  “Or it will end up more famous for its illustrations than its thesis,” Mrs Tournier interjected. As her daughter gave her a look she retorted, “It has been known to happen!”

  Baugham laughed and Dr McKenna confessed he had nothing against that notion. “I should be so lucky; a picture says more than a thousand words. And if those were to be the wrong words . . . ” He shrugged.

  “At least the pictures will be pretty!” his lordship quipped.

  “Pretty!” the ladies cried at the same time and turned their eyes to Dr McKenna.

  “Oh, now I suppose all of you will turn to me and demand to know whether my scientist’s sensibilities are offended by having my ‘rocks’ deemed ‘pretty’!” he laughed.

  “And I will have to amend my appalling manners by finding a way to profess illustrations of geological specimens to be perfectly impressive and interesting, even though the picture that portrays them is decidedly pretty,” Lord Baugham smiled. “I think I must admit defeat and practice my apology instead.”

  “I should hope so,” Holly said with a smile, keeping her eyes on the doctor. “While I will aspire to be accurate and true, and although some of the doctor’s specimens are very lovely indeed — there are certain samples here that can in no way be rendered both accurate and pretty.”

  Her eyes shifted quickly to Lord Baugham, “I expect to find the work both fascinating and challenging.”

  “I hope,” McKenna laughed, before his lordship could comment, “that I will be able to engender in you at least some interest in my field, Miss Tournier, as we work. I will give you this much instruction now: one should not presume so much based upon first appearances.”

  With that he rose and pulled a few stones out of his case.

  “Now, do you see this unassuming bit of sandstone?”

  A curious audience gathered round him and all let out gasps of surprise when he turned it over to reveal the imprint of a strange looking creature imbedded within the stone. Then he showed them what looked to be an ordinary, roundish, grey rock. With Mrs Tournier’s permission and a few tools he deftly broke it open on her desk, revealing a glittering treasury of smoky violet and white crystals.

  Holly could not help but reach out for it and he smilingly handed it to her. “Oh, Dr McKenna, it’s beautiful.”

  Baugham leaned towards her, curious as well, and together they studied the rock in Holly’s hand like small children, their heads almost touching as Holly tipped it so that the light from the fire reflected in the shimmering middle.

  “Amethyst?” asked Baugham as he studied it.

  “Yes,” Dr McKenna smiled. “And quartz. I found it in the Tayside region, just outside of Monifieth. They are not plentiful, so it takes a bit of searching to find them, but they are worth the effort to seek out, are they not Miss Tournier?”

  Holly looked up, transfixed by the dancing light in her hands.

  “It is one of the most marvellous things I have ever seen!” she said beaming at McKenna. “Hidden away like that!”

  Dr McKenna returned her warm smile and gave Mrs Tournier a look. “Quite a pretty rock, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Oh,” Holly gasped and returned to admire the small miracle in her hand. “After seeing this I should be very happy and proud, indeed, if I could produce something that could show just how pretty — nay! — how beautiful your rocks are . . . ”

  She reluctantly held the rock out to the doctor, but he insisted that she keep it. He looked at her closely, “It is a good lesson, is it not?”

  Baugham watched her nod in agreement, a smile slowly growing on her face and somehow felt that there was something being shared that did not include him. He turned to Mrs Tournier for support, but she was watching the scene before her with interest.

  Chapter 27

  Things Finally are Resolved in his Lordship’s mind as the Evidence Mounts

  Baugham stirred his coffee cup and reflected he had no idea whether he had added one or two spoons of sugar and that in all probability that meant he had added at least three and would be forced to discard the drink and begin all over again when he finally got around to tasting it. He sighed heavily. Lord, this preoccupation was annoying! He was preoccupied with thoughts of Darcy and the increasing urgency of needing to arrange for his departure, but also the obvious happiness evident in his letter that not even his friend’s natural reserve could hide. It was a happy event that would bring Baugham into Hertfordshire to see for himself how such a long struggle would end in perfect happiness in a little village church in a town of no consequence called Meryton. He sighed again and pushed the cup around. What was this restlessness in the face of that prospect?

  The house was quiet. Well, the house was always quiet — that was the way he liked it and although Darcy’s visit surely had not brought any discernable or even unwelcome change to that fact, it seemed as if the silence was what was now annoying him. Yesterday had also been quiet, but Miss Tournier had been working away in the library and they had exchanged careful comments on the prospect of the happy event between her cousin and his friend. He had detected a sadness in her and thought that perhaps she was missing her cousin or feeling wistful at the romance that had been played out before them so honestly. Maybe she was worried she would not see as much of the future Mrs Darcy now that she would be married, but then surely a trip into Derbyshire would be easier than a journey to and from Hertfordshire? Well, he had confessed his envy at their apparent happiness and she had looked at him without comment, which had made him very uncomfortable and he had left soon after.

  He looked down at the drink in front of him and decided to be brave. Just as he thought, he had to put it down again hastily, but to his surprise he found that he had not added any of the sugar he thought he had and that it was still salvageable. Carefully counting the spoons he added the sugar and then got up to look out of the window. Quiet, quiet, quiet. Even nature was subdued and dull — and upon this thought his thoughts turned automatically to the one place he knew was never dull. He would pay a visit to Rosefarm. Here was an excellent time to fulfil Darcy’s long delayed commission and assure that Mrs Tournier intended to take advantage of the arrangements made for her and her daughter to travel to the weddings. A perfect excuse for a visit, if there ever was one. The prospect arrested him when he put down his cup and quite unexpectedly he smiled broadly. “I am such a simpleton,” he said. “I should just stop.”

  Once arrived at that entertaining location, he found Mrs Tournier sitting in her usual seat enjoying the blissful solitude and quiet dignity that came from spending an afternoon undisturbed by servants, scientists or young people in general. Not for long though, and she had given a wry smile when the gravel path outside her window betrayed the grating sound of determined male footsteps. She therefore displayed no surprise when his lordship slipped in through the door and greeted her with his brilliant smile. Mrs Tournier noted dryly that, unlike some of her youthful visitors, at least he had the excellent manners not to let a shadow of disappointment wash over his face when he found her alone in her parlour.

  “Well, so you are the one daring to interrupt my solitary enjoyment of a quiet read, my lord? I’m afraid you have caught me feeling very smug with myself, having sent my daughter out for an extensive walk. Will you not sit down?”

  His lordship happily proclaimed Mrs Tournier’s company to be no sacrifice and he settled down after telling her he was pleased to see her again. He let his eye wander around the small but comfortable room and noticed a slight change in the arrangement of the furniture in the corner. There was a seco
nd chair pulled up very close to the old, wobbly table where Miss Tournier was accustomed to work, and a shipping crate sitting close by.

  “Yes,” his hostess told him, “it’s just arrived this afternoon. Courtesy of my daughter’s newest employer, I presume. Can I interest you in some tea, Lord Baugham?”

  He confessed she could and gave the table and the rest of the arrangement another glance before he concentrated wholly on his hostess again.

  HOLLY WAS HAPPY THAT SHE had agreed to accompany Dr McKenna on his outing that morning rather than spend another day indoors in the library. They had walked over miles of woodland, wilderness and creek bed, the doctor collecting specimens and pointing out to her how they appeared in their natural state.

  He was a pleasant companion, his knowledge extensive and interesting, his enthusiasm contagious, and soon Holly was picking out intriguing specimens on her own to ask and learn about. So even though the day was cold and the wind colder, she had enjoyed herself very much. She was especially glad to have a partner in conversation with whom she could be completely relaxed — Dr McKenna was comfortable and easy to talk to, with none of the misunderstandings or awkwardness that had lately plagued her interactions.

  The two of them stepped through the door upon their return to Rosefarm and burst into laughter as they each got a good look at the other’s appearance. With the doctor’s hat and Holly’s bonnet commandeered for the transportation of the numerous mineral samples they had collected, their morning outdoors had left them looking decidedly windblown.

  “Miss Tournier,” the doctor said in an amused voice, “I must say that you look . . . exhilarated!”

  She could feel her cheeks and nose tingling in the warmth of the room as she entered the parlour and unceremoniously dumped the contents of her bonnet into a pile on a table.