by Gail McEwen
Hamish was slightly taken aback by this intelligence, but he also had to reflect that that man was someone to watch with his strange, barely hidden accent and footsteps quiet enough for any villain. He turned around again and, as he headed back to the library, he could see the tall frame of Lord Baugham coming down the corridor.
Hamish shyly approached him, but not without some pride. His lordship turned around and smiled at him and, feeling much encouraged, Hamish held out the book he was still clutching.
“This is the last one, m’laird.”
SHE WAS ALREADY PUTTING HER things in order when he knocked on the door and caught her.
“Miss Tournier?” he said “Were you leaving? I have been out all day, but I am glad to have returned in time. I understand I have been invited to a ceremony of some importance! I must say I am honoured!”
Holly turned, surprised that he had come, “My lord! I didn’t expect to see you today. I assumed you would be busy with preparations.”
“Oh, I prepare to leave in quite different ways than my man does. And mostly as far away from him as possible.” He smiled politely, Holly smiled politely and the ensuing silence threatened to grow awkward. Again.
Baugham cleared his throat, “I hope you and Hamish have been adequately fed and attended to?”
She gave him a small but genuine smile. “Do you think we could be otherwise with Mrs McLaughlin in charge?”
They stood, looking at each other, looking at their feet, until an impatient sigh from Hamish caught their attention. Holly’s expression brightened a bit more as she remembered her purpose in inviting him to the library. She turned and gestured around the room.
“But have you not noticed, my lord? The piles are gone!”
Baugham looked around.
“And so they are!” he said and smiled. “Goodness, but if there isn’t almost an echo in here now! A temporary echo, I presume.”
He had his library back, just as he was leaving it behind. The shelves were obviously lacking in inventory and all the miscellaneous piles and bric-a-brac were cleared away, leaving them bare and strangely gaping, and his desk was still claimed by her correspondence, notes, papers and cards with no room for his own work but it certainly was a library — his library — again. She was obviously and justifiably proud of her accomplishment and he made all the appropriate comments to that effect.
She returned his smile.
“Thank you, sir. Now, Master Nethery and I are preparing to place the final book into the final shelf of the final section; we have long felt that such an occasion should be treated with the respect and dignity it deserves. We would be honoured if you would join us.”
She nodded to Hamish who, with a very serious expression on his face, crossed the room holding the book out in front of him as if it were a sacred relic. He carefully and deliberately, with a bit of a dramatic flourish, slid it into its rightful place. He turned, grinning, and Holly beamed back at him, her face full of tenderness and pride.
“Thank you,” Baugham said softly as he watched the two of them. Turning to Hamish he shook the boy’s hand in an adult and dignified manner. “Excellent work, young man!” he said and clasped his shoulder. “I am very proud of you. I can think of no more appropriate additional award for your hard labour than a trip to the kitchen. Give my compliments to Mrs McLaughlin and she will see that you are well taken care of. Miss Tournier and I have the small matter of a bill to settle.”
Hamish thought Mrs McLaughlin’s pastries could very well fit into the celebratory nature of the occasion and happily took his leave. Baugham pulled out a chair at the opposite end of the writing desk and invited Miss Tournier to sit down.
“No my lord, you mistake me. There is still much to be done. I have only just begun the catalogue, my purchase list is not complete . . . please . . . there is much more to do before we settle the bill.”
“Ah, but this is my last opportunity to be able to do so in person. Please indulge me; any future compensation will have to be settled through my bankers.”
“I take it, then, you have no plans to return to Scotland soon?” She bit her lip in concentration. “I suppose once you get back to London, you will be quite busy with social obligations and . . . friends. I hope you will find the time to travel to Hertfordshire after all.”
Baugham shuffled through the piles looking for a blank sheet of paper.
“Yes well,” he said slowly while he searched again for a quill, “Hertfordshire is quite settled. It all depends on Mr Darcy, of course; I have placed myself at his mercy and pleasure, but I suppose I shall not be obliged to dash out into the country again immediately upon my arrival in London. At least I should hope not.”
He prodded the tip of the quill with his fingertip and handed the equipment over to his librarian. “There! Go on, make your demands and don’t be gentle!” but she was looking back at him with something like disapproval.
“What?” he found himself reacting impulsively. “Have I not expressed adequate enthusiasm over my friend’s upcoming marriage? Very well, I hope he will be very happy and I am sure he will be, but I am not overly thrilled at the thought of spending time at another country house in another quaint country village in the anticipation of the event. And so I hope to go down later rather than sooner.” He gestured to the paper on the desk, “Now, if you would be so kind . . . ”
Holly stared at the quill in her hand. What was she supposed to do with this?
“You mean you have given no thought to what this job is worth? You wish me to make that determination? I am sorry, but I think that is for you to decide. I fear it is too much responsibility for a simple country girl like me.”
Baugham gave a little snort. “My dear Miss Tournier, please do not tell me a woman like you is not aware of exactly how much an hour of her work is worth!”
Holly gasped and put down the quill.
“A woman like me? And what exactly does that mean, a woman like me?”
Baugham looked at her, puzzled. “Really, Miss Tournier. You work for a fee; what is that fee? Or does your mother keep you in the dark as to how much your efforts are worth when she settles things for you on your behalf?”
It was a reasonable question, if not put forth in the most reasonable manner, but Holly could not see it.
“Yes, yes she does. I am completely at her mercy in such matters,” she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I am just as much in the dark as you must be, as it appears your bankers are the only ones who know how much you pay your employees.”
Baugham made no attempt to disguise his surprise. He snatched the paper back from where it had been lying in front of her and picked up a new quill.
“Well, yes, I do have quite a number of them,” he snarled. “Besides you.”
He started scribbling on the paper. “What is your estimation then? Are you worth as much as a valet or a housekeeper? Perhaps you are nearer to a tailor or a butcher?”
Holly drew herself up to her full height. “You, sir, are insulting me,” she said in an ice-cold voice.
“And you, ma’am, are acting irrationally.”
“That may be so, but . . . ” she broke off, “but so are you if you trust an employee to set their own wage. I might just as well say I require fifty pounds! And if I did so, you would come back with what your idea of an appropriate fee is, the idea you most assuredly already have in your head.
She flopped back in her chair in a very unladylike manner, arms crossed defensively, “You might just as well say the figure at once and spare us both the discomfort.”
“I thought,” he said calmly once again, “I was just asking you to do that.”
“Well then,” she said, equally calmly, “I will say fifty pounds!”
“Very well,” he said, “that sounds fair as an annual wage for a librarian and secretary.”
“Very true,” she smirked, “but as I have no intention of continuing in your employ for any longer than necessary, perhaps you will be so kind a
s to suggest a fair wage for the duties of a temporary librarian.”
He got up in a hasty gesture that startled her and leaned down on the desk.
“So you really want me to do that? You want me to put a price on this? You want me to appraise you? And what then? What if I offer too much, too little? What will you do? Will it be a triumph for you either way, Miss Tournier?”
Holly pulled away from his cold, angry eyes, and stood up from the chair sputtering, “I . . . but you . . . you expect me to do the same . . . I cannot . . . ” She walked away, keeping her back to him and he could see her shoulders rise and fall with the deep breaths she took.
“I think now is not the time . . . ” She turned around a moment later with a lift her chin, “I think that I would like your secretary or banker to determine the proper amount.”
“I think he had better,” he answered, obviously concentrating hard on controlling himself, “because however much you ask me to, I cannot and I will not.”
“Neither can I,” Holly said, almost in a whisper.
Silence filled the room. Baugham searched desperately for something to say to take the edge of his last statement and Holly fought frantically to master her own feelings, not to make a fool of herself here in front of him again. Thankfully the creaking of the door soon shattered it and they each knew without looking that it was Hamish. Holly jolted into action and walked over to the boy.
“Well, Hamish? Have you eaten Mrs McLaughlin out of all her pastries already?”
“Aye, miss,” the boy smiled sheepishly, “Well, not quite. She sent these, miss. And some tea for ye, miss.” Hamish carefully put down the tray on the table among the piles of paper. “But I thought I might read a wee bit before I walk home. If that’s alright, that is.”
Baugham watched the boy come in and break the tension and he was relieved. Relieved and incredibly frustrated at the same time, funnily enough. He stayed in the room, unwilling that their last encounter should end in such a way, and once Hamish was firmly settled into his book, curled up in another corner of the room, he cleared his throat and tried again.
“You have earned some rest as well, Miss Tournier,” he said quietly. “As well as some tea and pastry. The transformation is already enormous and I am grateful.”
Her discomfort was evident but she answered him calmly.
“As I have said, there still is quite a bit of work left for me here, but I think I must also now concentrate on things closer to home. I still have my work with Dr McKenna . . . he is anxious to spend more time on it than we have been able to do so far.”
He was quiet for a moment and she looked up at him. His next words were slow and thoughtful.
“Yes, I imagine he is. Dr McKenna is a good man and an excellent scientist. His good opinion of you and your work is certain to lead to opportunities for you that are to your advantage.” He smiled wryly. “Science and flattery. A very tempting prospect, and, in the right hands, difficult to resist I imagine.”
“Opportunities?” she blurted out. “Opportunities!?” What a thing for him to say! She could read his meaning clearly enough! He meant to push her off on the doctor on his way out of town and then he could leave it all behind without a second thought or regret. Very well then, she would show him that she had no regrets either. “But you are right,” she said defiantly, “he is a good man. A very good man, and I look forward to becoming even better acquainted with him.”
There was a moment of silence when it seemed she was daring him to respond, but he told himself he did not wish to risk another spate of harsh words, so he quickly changed the subject.
“So . . . ” he said slowly. “This wedding in Hertfordshire . . . you must be looking forward to seeing Miss Bennet again, and the rest of your family, in this happy time. And, after all, it is a splendid romance as well as a splendid match, don’t you find? That is rare these days and worth celebrating.”
“Yes, quite,” Holly answered, her voice tight with frustration,
“And yet, the charms of Hertfordshire will not long keep either of us, I expect. I will be off on my neglected business soon after the wedding, and you will want to get back as well . . . to the doctor and his rocks.”
“Yes, quite,” she repeated and suddenly crossed the room and sat down by the table again. “And with that in mind, you really must excuse me.”
Baugham watched her as she turned her back on him and bowed over her work. However, she sat quite still with quill in hand and paper before her without giving it any attention, instead listening intently for him to walk away.
ONCE HE CLOSED THE DOOR behind him, Holly leaned back and sighed and briefly closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she spied the sugar bowl, crammed in with the rest of the serving paraphernalia on the table between stacks of books and loose papers and cards. It was silver, with two fine handles that curled down on the shiny sides like the top of a Corinthian pillar. The fine snowy white crystals twinkled in the light. Softly, the silver spoon had shaped small hills and dales from where someone before her had carelessly scooped an appropriate amount to sweeten and break the strength of the strong tea.
So he was leaving. Tomorrow. For London. To assist Mr Darcy. In preparation for the wedding. In Hertfordshire.
She did not quite know what she was doing or, more importantly, why she was doing it, but Holly slowly lifted her finger to her mouth while still contemplating the silver bowl. Then she resolutely stuck her finger into the sugar so that the fine crystals parted and pushed upwards on the sides with a small crunching noise. Not until the tip of her finger touched the bottom did she stop. Then she slowly withdrew it again, watching the sugar crumble back into the hole she had made.
She lifted her finger to her mouth and carefully closed her lips around it. Slowly — very slowly — she swirled her tongue around her finger and nail. She felt the sharp taste curl around her tongue and seep through every corner of her mouth. It was heavenly. She could feel the sweetness all around and as the crystals turned liquid and ran down her throat, she smiled and very carefully removed her finger. Carefully pushing whatever miniscule traces might be left in the corners of her mouth between her lips, she swallowed again.
The taste still lingered and Holly could not stop smiling to herself. An indescribable and surprising sense of triumph rushed through her. She licked her lips once more, then turned to her library cards and went back to cross-referencing.
Chapter 29
Events Move to the Great Metropolis while Life Goes on in the Village
As the carriage drew up before Sunderborn House in Berkeley Square four days later and very late at night, his lordship felt more exhausted from this journey than he had ever felt in his whole life. The journey down from Clyne at this time of year was draining in itself, but, in addition, his mind was in disarray. He had not adhered to his usual whims of departure and as a consequence, instead of feeling a relief and anticipation to be on his way, he had suffered exceedingly from the long miles of travel. He had furthermore been cursed with the most unimaginable winter weather in living memory and the fog that had rolled in over London was so thick that his coachman had lost his way twice between Tyburn turnpike and Berkeley Square. Indeed, his lordship wryly reflected, the peculiar air certainly reflected his growing impatience to see the end of this trip, the end of these wandering thoughts and his repeated failure to bring them into any order.
He was greeted by his butler, who with great ceremony and obvious concern, ushered him quickly into the house, lamenting about how this sort of weather brought out the worst kind of criminals and mischief in the streets, and how he and the whole household had been most anxious and Cook had wanted to send Will, the footman, out since yesterday to try to meet his lordship and assure his safety. It bore testament to Lord Baugham’s distraction of mind that he let these obvious expressions of affection and concern pass him by without countering them with either impatience or incredulity, but rather thanked his butler and bid him convey the news of his sa
fe return to the rest of the staff.
“Should you like your bath now, sir?” Townsend asked as he folded away the heavy winter travelling coat and stowed away hats, gloves and personal effects.
A great wave of fatigue washed over him. His staff stood eager and ready to see to his every need . . . yet, what he most needed, they could not provide. Peace, both within himself and within the realm and world. A very simple request and yet a fancy not to be dwelt upon further. A bath would have to suffice.
“Yes, I should!” was his lordship’s adamant answer as he freed himself from his last pieces of outer clothing. “Yes, I can see you notice how I reek even from that distance. Dirty business travelling. A bath — that would be marvellous.
He then gave instructions for a roaring fire to instantly be lit in the principle rooms of the house, most particularly his library. He was met by his footman at the door as he proceeded up the staircase.
“Good to have you home again, my lord!” he shouted as he watched his master ascend. “You were very much missed!”
“I highly doubt it,” his Master muttered between his teeth, but continued his way. All the same, the simple sentiment touched him and made him feel grateful. If servants are all the family one is to have, he thought resignedly, it is nice that they show a measure of affection toward one.
After his tea and attending to the most pressing business at hand that was his bath and the removal of strange smells and the dirt and grime of the road, his lordship took a stroll through his house with the intent of finishing in his library, where he could linger comfortably until dinner. Sunderborn was a small but comfortable house, perfectly fulfilling both the requirements of easy bachelorhood and Earldom. Where size had been bartered for the sake of convenience and expense, elegance and refinement had not been spared. It reflected his personality well, Lord Baugham thought, that outward luxury and taste would never stand in the way of functionality and expediency.
The sitting rooms and drawing rooms had benefited in style from the absence of family heirlooms, the most precious and ostentatious pieces having been sold off long ago by his late father to feed his gambling habits, the un-sellable ones being stowed away at Cumbermere Castle against the unlikely day such artefacts would tickle anyone’s fashion fancy once more. Contrary to what might have been expected of a gentleman, Lord Baugham favoured light colours and fabrics and easy seating arrangements, with no guns, trophies or battle scenes adorning any part of the establishment.
