Twixt Two Equal Armies

by Gail McEwen

  Baugham walked slowly into the library and felt himself ease into his house. Here there was none of the affection he felt for Clyne — for outside, and on occasion even inside these walls, society pressed upon him an adopted role and persona he used for pleasure, entertainment and diversion, but which was not his own — but as he sank into his familiar chair and measured this comfort against the previous days on the road and in the inns, he realised he was happy to have arrived and would even call this his home of sorts. From where he sat, he could look out of his window onto the square — or could if the shutters were not closed. The nearest one he could nudge with the tip of his boot, but the other he was obliged to move out of the chair to open. He parted the curtains and looked out, surprised by the stillness and the tranquillity of the foggy scene. It felt soothing and it calmed him down to the degree that he even entertained thoughts about how much beauty there was in the world and in the things before him. He turned around and, from having stood in the coolness reflecting from the windows, he now recognised a new smell: the smell of his home. Familiar, dusty, warm — he searched his mind for appropriate attributes.

  As usual, he slowly went through the room to match his memory of it with reality. The bookshelves in this library bore no resemblance to the ones he had left up north. Even before he had invited chaos into his life and library, the shelves at Clyne had been a shambles. His library in London was quite different. Lord Baugham was no collector; he had no patience for the cultivating of relationships to publishers or vendors, or building stratagems for purchase. He tended to buy what he fancied and it was to his credit that he generally fancied very fine pieces, and those pieces he displayed and enjoyed on his London shelves.

  As his eyes fell upon ‘Tam O’Shanter’ lying on its back on one of the tables, never put away among its prouder brethren, yellow from age and covers missing, he gave a wry smile. He picked it up. In a very long and looping hand on the title page his mother’s name stared back at him. For a long time he let his eyes rest on the letters and old thoughts and feelings slowly welled up within him.

  She had loved that poem. “Come here, David, let me read Tammie for you,” she would say, asking him for his favourite passage. “Anything you like, Mama,” was always the answer and it was true. He loved all of it because she loved all of it. She was a good reader but then, as she told him, she had to be. All the Welsh were poets and singers and though perhaps, she laughingly would admit, strictly speaking there was not so much Welsh in her as she might want there to be, she did love a good rhyme. “And this old Gaelic fool is as good as any of them,” she had said. He agreed even now. Even on impartial evidence, disregarding his mother’s fondness and his own bias as a result, “Tammie” was a marvellous poem.

  Although he had another, better copy somewhere, this was the one he had left out, and he picked up the old battered volume and sat down on the sofa to look through it. But his thoughts wandered. He realised that the wit and recklessness of Burns had been more than a love of rhyme for his mother: it had been a way to adapt to her circumstance and fate. She had taken refuge in books and rhyme to try to bring some meaning and order to a failed marriage and a disappointed life. That had been her gift and lesson to him. But, as much as she had given him and as much as he still loved her for it, when the room grew darker and the words on the page grew more obscure, he could not keep his mind from questioning whether that strategy was not so supreme after all. Perhaps there was something to be said for not merely accepting facts as they were, but challenging them and conquering them instead of ignoring and abandoning them.

  Truth was a frightening thing and never as compatible with one’s ambitions as one might wish. Truth was a capricious master, devoid of feeling and fickle in its consequences. Truth did not always set you free — the walls of your prison could be crafted from bitter truth, as his mother had discovered. But then, he had never seen her attempt to break those walls, to stare truth in the eye, to make her peace with it. Perhaps she had not had the strength to try; perhaps a woman in her circumstances had very little choice and too much to lose. But what exactly did he have to lose? Why was his own mind rebelling against him, never allowing him to see a truth that did not seem impossible, complicated, or foolish? How was he to discover what he really needed and what he wanted, and was there necessarily always an honest difference between the two?

  ‘Tam O’Shanter’ had been lying on his knee for a long time already when he realised he was sitting in the dark and the room had grown cold. He shrugged and got up, carefully putting the book back where he found it and giving the Ex Libris one more affectionate caress before he left.

  Now, wha this tale o truth shall read,

  Ilk man, and mother’s son, take heed:

  Whene’er to drink you are inclin’d,

  Or cutty sarks rin in your mind,

  Think! ye may buy the joys o’er dear:

  Remember Tam o Shanter’s mare.

  LIFE IN CLANOUGH FELL INTO a quiet routine after Lord Baugham left for London. Every day Holly would walk to Clyne Cottage after breakfast, share a cup of tea with Mrs McLaughlin before spending the rest of the morning in the quiet library, cataloguing the existing inventory, making additions as new purchases arrived and giving Hamish his lessons. Afternoons were spent at home, more often than not working with Dr McKenna until late evening.

  On one such evening very much like all the others, she pulled out a sheet of paper and held her pencil at the ready. Dr McKenna pulled a second chair up close.

  “Why don’t we try the slate quarries in Ballachulish?”

  As Holly began to sketch to his words, Mrs Tournier interrupted her own work to watch the couple. That the doctor was interested in her daughter was obvious, but what her daughter felt she could not know. A wave of frustration washed over her as she reflected on Holly’s recent behaviours. There had never before been such reticence in their relationship; Holly had not kept secrets from her for many years, but ever since that day when she and his lordship quarrelled in the garden, she had been silent and mysterious. Why that particular quarrel should cause such a change when so many previous misunderstandings had occurred and been forgotten, she could not understand, nor would Holly explain. Her daughter was troubled, she could see that, but it appeared no inducement would be sufficient to convince her to share those troubles with her mother.

  Her hand unconsciously reached up and she fingered the locket around her neck: Yes, yes . . . I know she’s a grown woman now, she said to her long absent husband, but I don’t have to like it. And I don’t have to stop worrying because of it. The sound of soft laughter pulled her attention back to the present and she saw the two young people smile at each other over the page that Holly was now diligently erasing. Dr McKenna’s smile was beaming and Holly’s was soft, but it was a smile nonetheless. Mrs Tournier quietly closed her books, stacked her papers and rose and, after watching them for a moment longer, she slowly withdrew, quietly closing the door behind her and going up to her own room.

  In the parlour the efforts continued on, the workers oblivious of their companion’s departure.

  “The hill rises roughly at a thirty degree angle . . . no, not quite that steep . . . yes! That’s better. And the deposits are ninety feet up the slope . . . about two-thirds of the way . . . yes, good . . . ”

  Holly smiled.

  “If you would be so good as to hand me that volume on the window sill, Doctor? And the sample box? I don’t want my imagination to run away with me too much.”

  “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, Miss Tournier, it is doing no such thing. I think you must be able to read my mind. That is exactly what I wanted to portray. Now, if you could make the drift on the left side of the hill sharper, you could then insert a more detailed description of the boulder in accordance with this sample here . . . ”

  “That is a beautiful stone. It’s so dark. I hope I can catch its lustre.”

  “Oh yes, and you have to imagine the whole cliff wall shining
in the sunlight! Spectacular, absolutely spectacular!”

  Holly smiled again.

  “The way you speak of it certainly makes slate acquire new and exciting dimensions, Dr McKenna. I never thought stone could be quite so inspirational.”

  He smiled at her as she put her pencil to the page again and asked, “Tell me how the boulder is situated.”

  And so the evening passed as every other evening passed. A quiet dinner, sometimes with the doctor for company, sometimes just the two ladies. Afterward, they would read or talk, and then, to conserve candlelight, early to bed. It was the life of peace that Holly had always dreamt of when away from home, but though she appreciated it when it settled around her like a warm secure blanket, in the moments she was honest with herself, she knew she could not quite feel content with it.

  “SO HERE YOU ARE! ENJOYING yourself, are you?”

  Mr Darcy looked up from his correspondence and saw his friend leaning in the door opening.

  “Baugham,” he said. “You took your time.”

  His lordship shrugged and studied his fingernails. “Roads. Weather. The usual excuses.”

  Darcy shook his head.

  “But I am certain you were able to manage splendidly enough on your own with lawyers and bankers and such,” Baugham went on.

  Darcy grinned and leaned back in his seat. “I’m certain I was.”

  Both men smiled a little and Baugham moved to take the chair opposite his friend.

  “You must stop doing this soon, you know,” Darcy said trying to look stern, but not succeeding entirely.

  Baugham sighed. “The shackles of marriage rob more people than just the spouses of their freedom to come and go as they please. Ghastly business. Don’t know why you put yourself through it.”

  “Believe me, I made cautious calculations and weighed the matter most carefully and have concluded that the gain will clearly outdo any losses, if you will pardon me for admitting so in your presence.”

  “Well, you would have. I would be interested to see those calculations put down on paper, I must admit. The logical argumentative process must be somewhat lacking for my taste, I am sure.”

  “Not at all. You are just not in the possession of the right factual premise.”

  “Well, without true facts one cannot reach a factual truth.”

  Both men smiled, thinking of youthful debates that were more about truth than understanding.

  “You are staying for dinner?” Darcy said casually.

  “Of course. I think I can very well listen to any professed truths about love, marriage and even the future Mrs Darcy if your Cook performs as usual.”

  “I’ll make certain he does,” Mr Darcy said and laughed when his friend rolled his eyes at him.

  HOWEVER, MR DARCY WAS NOT a man whose tongue was loosened with the violence of his affections and so talk on love, marriage and the future Mrs Darcy was swiftly done with. Neither was he in the habit of influencing the conversation of his friend when there was plenty to be had of it, and so Lord Baugham was able to talk sports, horses, politics, current affairs (in the wide sense), speculations on the war and the even the general state of policing in the Capital as opposed to the provinces and Scotland in particular, without interference from him. It was not until seated with brandy, fire and nightfall that Mr Darcy fixed his friend with a scrutinising eye and became inquisitive.

  “And how are our friends at Rosefarm?”

  Just as he thought he would, Baugham gave him a look of studied surprise and indifference. “What about them?”

  “I was wondering why you have not mentioned them.”

  “There was no need. You did.”

  “But only just now.”

  “True. Still, I think Lord Sidmouth’s difficulties and the annual exploits of the Quorn are more fruitful topics for discussion.”

  “Be careful, Baugham, snide comments from you make me suspicious.”

  “Suspicious of what?”

  “That all is not well with you and the ladies of Rosefarm.”

  Baugham suddenly sprang out of his seat and walked over to the fireplace to lean against its mantelpiece, glass still in hand.

  “Rest easy on that score. All is as it should be.”

  There was a pause while Darcy tried to read meaning into Baugham’s silence and his lordship tried to kill the topic by his.

  “I am given to understand,” Darcy said finally, “by the means of which Miss Bennet’s letter was delivered to her cousin, that Miss Tournier is at present employed by you to reinstate your library.”

  Baugham threw him a quick look.

  “Yes.”

  “A laudable effort.”

  “Well, it was in shambles. You never stopped telling me so.”

  “And how is it progressing?”

  Baugham shrugged. “Well enough, I suppose.” He gave Darcy a tired look. “You’re not going to start that lecture on ‘my behaviour’ again, are you? It is not necessary, I assure you.”

  Something in Baugham’s tone of voice made Darcy frown.

  “I see no need to be defensive, Baugham. I admit the circumstance of Miss Tournier as an employee in your home is highly unusual — and some might well question the wisdom of such an arrangement — but, tell me . . . are you completely clear in the delineation between your so-called Scotland self and the man you present to the rest of the world? In your own mind. Now that you have come back, has the London rake returned in full measure? No doubt your Scotland friends would be surprised to see him.”

  Baugham watched his friend with a distinctly hostile eye.

  “Calling me a rake, Darcy, will not get you anywhere. Questioning my actions concerning the employment of Miss Tournier to reinstate my library without full knowledge of all the facts and motivations is imprudent, and doubting my morals and sense of honour is insulting. And I am very capable of performing self-flagellation should the need arise.”

  “Oh. I have no doubt about that. It is rather your consistency I worry about.”

  “Consistency?”

  “Yes. You are a good man, Baugham, I know you are. I know it because you act upon it often enough and I have seen it first hand. But I doubt whether you know it yourself. Really.”

  Baugham looked at his friend. His first impulse was to dismiss his comment as nonsense. His second to laugh at him. But somehow he was capable of neither.

  “I am the same man as I was when I left Scotland,” he muttered. “I have not changed. Everything is the same.”

  “And will it change do you think?”

  Baugham looked at Darcy. There was really nothing arrogant about him, he thought. No censure in his voice or disapproval in his attitude. It was rather curiosity and concern. It was one of those rare moments in their friendship where only the men — not the names or titles or fortunes — sat in the room talking. Last time this had happened was when Darcy’s father had died. Such a very long time ago now, but Baugham remembered the way they had talked then in this very room. “My world will never be the same,” Darcy had said and whereas the death of his own father had actually come as a relief and as a release into freedom for him, he knew that Darcy felt exactly the opposite. “You will always be the same to me,” his lordship had said and had meant it sincerely. That was still true.

  “I may be the same man as when I left Scotland,” he therefore said quietly, “but I am not the same man I was upon leaving London. What kind of man I am now, I am not certain of, but I hope . . . I want him to be the man you say you recognise in me. The one, I hope, who was always there in spite of everything.”

  Darcy gave a smile. “That makes me happy to hear. I like that man.”

  “Thank you. I can only hope others may as well.”

  HOLLY LAY IN HER ROOM under a thick layer of blankets, with only the light of the moon to illuminate the darkness. They had spent the day in preparation and the evening in packing, so both Rosefarm women were ready to leave for Hertfordshire first thing in the morning. Once her eyes
adjusted to the low light, she absentmindedly stared up at the drawings on her ceiling, too keyed up to sleep. Two things made her smile — just before they made her frown. She was excited at the thought of seeing Elizabeth again, but, at the same time, she knew that this would be a good-bye as well. Elizabeth was about to become Mrs Darcy and things would never be — could never be — the same between them again. And, as silly and vain as she knew it to be, she was excited about the re-worked gown that was placed with great care at the top of her trunk. She had modelled it for her mother before packing it away and both ladies were pleased with the result. No one would ever be able to tell that the dress was several years old. It was silly, useless, she knew, but when she saw her reflection in the window glass as she twirled around in it, she could not help but wonder what Lord Baugham might think of it.

  A deep sigh filled the small, dark room. Lord Baugham. He would be at the wedding, of course, and however much she tried to convince herself otherwise, she knew she wanted him to be there. She wanted to see him. No matter that he would probably scarcely notice her now that he had returned to his exciting life in London. It will be good, really, she told herself, in such fine company as will be there, he will have no reason to notice me, and I need to see that. And then, once this wedding is over, there is no reason for us to ever cross paths again. I will go home, forget him once and for all and move on with my life.

  Move on . . . just how am I to move on?, she wondered.

  She knew that Dr McKenna had some interest in her and that a very little encouragement would secure his attentions — she grimaced as she recalled how Lord Baugham had pressed her in that very direction just before he left. She was already well aware of the doctor’s sentiments and she was being very careful not to give a wrong impression while she tried to sort our her confused feelings, but it was so very galling to have the man she loved, even if he was ignorant of that fact, attempt to push her into an alliance with someone else.