by Gail McEwen
That was when she had realised, truly realised, that all her hopes were impossible and that she was better to look ahead and stop wasting her time on unattainable dreams. Thunderbolts out of the blue did not happen to former schoolmistresses in Scottish villages.
Part of her said that there was no need to hurry any decision, but the other part reminded her that even in this remote little corner of the world time did not stand still. The future for herself and her mother was by no means secure; their income being derived from commissions they managed to procure with no promise of more in the future. Mr Pembroke would never grow any kinder or more generous and they would constantly be seeking to keep the wolf from the door. She had told Elizabeth that she was giving up her dreams and lofty goals and would dedicate her life to taking care of her mother — and there was only one way for her to do so with security.
She could not marry Mr Grant — as respectable as he was, every feeling within her revolted at the idea. Dr McKenna was a good man. Nice, handsome, comfortable and easy to talk to, gentle like the rain . . . and he was here and interested now. Not off in London doing who knows what before . . . Stop it, Holly! she reprimanded herself and returned her thoughts back to the subject of the doctor. It would be wrong of her to mislead him or keep him dangling in the hopes that . . . well, in a vain hope for the thunderbolt. She knew she must either give up hope or give in to it — though she really could not bear the thought of either one.
I will give myself until after the wedding, she determined, once we return home, I will give Dr McKenna all the encouragement he needs and I will move on with my life. Once and for all.
LORD BAUGHAM HEARD THE DOOR close behind him as he entered his house. In the hall, he was relieved of his outer clothes and he lingered a while, aimlessly shuffling through what certainly would seem a respectable number of cards and invitations on the table. There was one thing to be said for hanging about that tired old maze of chambers and antechambers they call Whitehall, conducting business and greeting colleagues: he had missed three separate acquaintances who had tried to call that morning. Beside the cards, there were the usual invitations and billets. He turned one over and could not disguise his surprisingly strong reaction to the inscription on the back. Lady Merriwether apparently was entertaining again and he had been restored to her guest list. He looked at the directions without reading them. Memories and random words, accusations, and looks assaulted him suddenly:
You trifle and charm and flirt and play your way through the lives of people you hardly know and think you can go back to your London circles and everything will be as it has always been here . . .
And those words had been followed by more harsh words, and then he had stared, and taken a step and reached out to pull her to him and . . . he shook his head violently. Why? Where had that come from?
You think you can go back to your London circles and everything will be as it has always been here. Well, it will not!
As it always has been there . . . But, she was right. No matter how much he had wished and hoped that his leaving Scotland behind would solve this unsettled feeling within him, no matter how he desired to be able think of them as quiet and unchanging and going on peacefully with their lives, he knew that was conceit on his part. He had acted unpardonably and caused her pain; he could not turn back the clock and he had no inkling of how to make up for it, and as a consequence, he had done exactly what she accused him of doing.
Do you imagine that we disappear into our little holes as soon as we are not needed for your entertainment anymore? Well, we do not! We are left with exactly what you leave us with in terms of irresponsible behaviour and hopes and interpretations . . .
They would not disappear, even from his thoughts. Life for them would move on, only without him; time would pass, the rent would come due, roses would bud and bloom, and her work with Dr McKenna — a good man, a good friend, but more to the point, a man who knew the treasure he had found there in the remote village of Clanough — would continue.
He wondered if she would marry him, and concluded that she very likely would. It would be a good match, he acknowledged. She and her mother would be well cared for, and the doctor would treat Miss Tournier with kindness and respect as his wife. His wife. Baugham realised he was crunching Lady Merriwether’s invitation in a tight grip. Away, he must throw this silliness away, and stop allowing senseless regrets and recriminations to preoccupy his mind. Quickly he took all the remaining letters, cards and notes and bolted for his study, where in one violent gesture he flung the morning’s correspondence into the fire. Despite the early hour, he poured himself a generous helping of brandy and watched the papers turn into curling sheets of ash and smoke.
You make it your business to charm and endear yourself to every female you happen upon . . . I am sorry if it disappoints you that I do not wish to be among that number . . .
No, of course it doesn’t, he thought, but . . .
The fire crackled as a log collapsed on top of another one and sent a myriad of tiny sparks upwards. Then it was quiet.
Baugham took a deep drink. What if he didn’t stop at that ‘but’? What if he, for once, could let down that infernal guard he always held so tightly over his thoughts and permit them to wander in the direction they would? And so, after another fortifying swallow, he let them.
The first thing that wandering brought to mind made him smile. Her flashing eyes and quick tongue and all the ways she had reprimanded and infuriated him. Why should that make him smile? She had shown him grace and very pretty behaviour, too, but oh, that pride of hers! Oh, that stubbornness that had the exact opposite affect on him than she no doubt intended! But when she smiled and when she sat in concentration at her work and when she looked at her mother, there was a calmness to her, a sense of purpose and beauty that was irresistible.
Irresistible . . . he sighed and suddenly he knew. He had, from the very beginning, been resisting her and what she made him think, and feel, and want. And when it came to Miss Holly Tournier, in every encounter — disastrous or unexpectedly pleasing — he wanted more than he could have. He wanted to go further than he told himself he could or should go. He wanted more of her. The truth, the most curious truth of all, now stared him boldly in the face; he wondered how he had never come to see it before. Standing in his London study, staring into the fire and thinking over his many failures, his heart burst and revealed itself to him — too late.
“So what am I to do?” he sighed aloud. “I must love her. I can do nothing else. I must.” Hearing the words hang in the air made them real, and as if to punish himself he repeated them. “I do love her, and I have wronged and degraded her, and then practically handed her over to another man — a man who is not a damn fool! But, it is nothing more than I deserve. And after all, what indication is there that I would not have added injury to insult if I had done anything else than finally left her alone . . . just as she wanted.” He slid down in his chair in front of the hearth, clutching the bottle in his hand and thanking whichever providential power that had not forsaken him, that it was nearly full.
MCKENNA STOOD LOOKING OUT THE window of his room at the bustling scene below. He resisted the urge to go downstairs as he had already said goodbye to the ladies the night before. There was no reason; he was in no such standing with them to warrant another leave taking at the moment of departure.
He clenched his fists open and closed, watching the scattered leaves blowing down the lane in the cold wind and Miss Tournier bracing herself against it as their effects were stowed and secured. He could not tear his eyes from her — the girl that had bewitched him so quickly and so innocently from the first moment of their acquaintance. A chuckle escaped him as he remembered that party at Rosefarm — Sir John’s pyrotechnics in the kitchen, the jig she and her cousin had danced so unaffectedly and joyously, the lovesick suitor she kept trying to avoid. What was it about her? Was it the way she was so . . . well, sensual was the only word he could use to describe her. The way s
he would always turn her face toward the warmth of the sun or the movement of the wind. How she would stop everything right away when she got hungry, and then, when he would work her too long, how she would stretch like a cat and declare she must stop and get some rest. How — with her French father, English mother and Scottish upbringing — she had this unusual way of pronouncing certain words that was quite endearing. This girl . . .
This girl that probably had feelings for another man.
He was not a stupid man, and he had seen enough to know that there was something between his lordship and Miss Tournier — but not enough to know what that something was. And she was, in effect, going to him right now. In fairness to all concerned, whatever feelings were there must be resolved before he could take any sort of action, but he fervently hoped that Lord Baugham would continue his indecisive ways. He had too much at stake to expect it, and he did not think that any man could be so blind indefinitely, so he tried to prepare himself for whatever might come. However, if his lordship should still chose to do nothing, once Miss Tournier returned to Scotland he would know what to do.
His eyes rested on her as she beckoned to her mother who had been waiting inside out of the cold. She was smiling, but her eyes were distant and a little sad.
She is unhappy, he thought as he watched the door to the carriage close and the vehicle begin to move away. But there was nothing he could do for her right now — maybe later, but not now. He prayed that he would get that chance.
Chapter 30
There is a Party Gathered for a Wedding in a Small Village in Hertfordshire
The coach creaked and rocked as it travelled on the last leg of the journey from Clanough to Hertfordshire, but in a pleasant change of circumstance, Mrs and Miss Tournier were now the sole passengers. Though it was mid-afternoon, the light coming in from the windows grew increasingly dim and Holly looked across to see her mother squinting at her book. She smiled faintly and reached out her hand to rest on the pages.
“It is beginning to rain outside, Maman. You should give your eyes a rest.”
Mrs Tournier closed the book and turned her attention to her daughter, who was once again, as she had been for the majority of the three days previous, staring out the window at the passing scenery.
“It’s a bit hard to believe that we are going back to Hertfordshire again,” she said thoughtfully. “So much has changed since that day I dropt you at your Aunt and Uncle Bennet’s for the summer. I was afraid you would never forgive me for leaving you . . . and then when I came to get you at the end of the summer, I was afraid you would never forgive me for taking you away.”
Holly smiled, but her mother talked on.
“And now, Elizabeth, that little slip of a girl, is going to be married, and Jane too,” she mused, almost to herself. “So many years have passed, so much of good and of bad has happened, and now you girls are all grown and will be leaving your childhood homes behind.”
“I do not want to leave Rosefarm, Maman, not after I am back at last.”
“That may be so, but you will. It must, it ought to happen sooner or later, and I rather get the feeling that it will be sooner. And I will be painfully blunt and tell you I will not have you using me or my feelings as an excuse not to.”
She directed a glance at her daughter who sighed but said nothing, settling back into the shadows of her seat so her face was not discernable.
“Besides, I find myself looking forward to being a grandmother, especially if my grandchildren are close by. Say . . . in Edinburgh?”
“Maman!”
“I am merely stating a fact.”
“There is no such thing as a ‘fact’ about it, Maman!”
But Holly’s indignation had to surrender in the face of her mother’s arched eyebrow and her own need to finally share the thoughts that had been plaguing her by running through her mind and leaving her no peace since they had left home.
“Oh well, perhaps,” Holly sighed. “Perhaps there is an . . . opportunity for it. And perhaps that is just what I ought to do.”
“What you ought to do? Yes, and one ought to get a bad tooth pulled when it is necessary too, but I would expect a little more enthusiasm from you when discussing your choice of husband. Holly,” she leaned forward earnestly, “it is obvious to anyone who cares to see — and I do care to see — that Dr McKenna only wants a little encouragement from you to declare himself and offer marriage. That is a fact, but — and I am surprised at you for making me feel the necessity to add — do not by any means contemplate giving that encouragement unless you are absolutely certain it is what you want. Both for you and for him.”
“I don’t know why would I not want to marry a handsome, kind, and respectable man and have a home and family of my own,” Holly said almost irritated at the way her mother’s ignorance of all her thoughts made her treat such a matter as so simple. “I would be a fool to turn my back on the opportunity. It would be a privilege to be the wife of such a man and I would certainly be very lucky!”
“That is true, Lie-lie, however, I am not blind and I am not a simpleton and I rather take offence at being treated as such. Besides regard and respect for the doctor, I also see unhappiness in you and I would do anything in my power to steer you away from that.”
Holly leaned her head back in frustration, but managed to send her mother a desperate look.
“You are a grown woman,” her mother continued, “and you can make your own decisions, and I am more than happy to respect those decisions provided they are made sensibly — and if you think I am advocating sense over sensibility you are even more of a fool than I thought. Still, I want for you to be happy and sometimes in order to be so you must stop looking for things in persons that — ”
“I am not looking for things in anyone,” Holly interrupted, “Not any longer . . . ” She broke off abruptly and then went on in a more subdued voice, “But you are right and that is what I’m trying to do. I really am, Maman. It is time to open my eyes to what is around me, time to accept reality. I think, perhaps, I can be content in a life of quiet comfort with a man I esteem and respect and that is what I want. Hoping for more is just — well — it’s just a foolish waste of time and will make me miserable. As you say — impossible.”
She dropped her eyes to her lap, but looked up a moment later.
“A good man can be like the gentle rain, can he not, Maman, rather than a thunderbolt?” Her question was almost a plea. “One can be happy with kindness and caring and intelligence; it can be no sacrifice to become a wife to such a man and give him a happy life. And what is so appealing about lightning and thunder, after all? The rain can be enough; no flash, no noise, no surprises . . . just comfort . . . there is nothing wrong with the rain . . . ”
Mrs Tournier shook her head, a feeling of sorrow swept over her in hearing the resignation and dullness in her daughter’s words. With every word she uttered her suspicions about the state of her daughter’s heart were confirmed and it made her sad beyond words and at a loss over how to counsel her. Hoping for more might well be fruitless, but settling for less could have unhappy consequences for more than just her. In her heart she feared the joyous family occasion of a wedding would turn out a heavy and disappointing business indeed.
“No, Lie-lie, there is nothing wrong with the rain, if that is the life you choose and if it suits well with your nature. I hope I have taught you that being honest with yourself is the best way to achieve happiness. It may look like rain now but the weather changes. For everyone.”
Closing her eyes and leaning back into the seat, Holly had to choke back a sob.
“Oh, Maman, what does it matter? What does honesty help? Or preferences, when one’s choices are made for them?”
The carriage was quiet, except for the creaking of the springs and the periodic squeak of the turning wheels, for a long time. Mrs Tournier waited for Holly to go on; Holly wished she could take back every word she had just uttered.
“Dear,” her mother sai
d, “all I am saying is that safety and comfort are important considerations when the alternatives are uncertainty and a broken heart, there is no doubt, and not to be lightly dismissed. Life very rarely turns out to be what you think it will, seen through the hazy perspective coloured by strong emotion. You and I know that, don’t we? But don’t ever think I am advocating shutting out your heart and disregarding your happiness as well as your security, before you make any decision. That is what is meant by ‘knowing thyself’. This what the road to hell looks likes when you set out with your good intentions and even though your goal is to make everyone happy you may very well end up failing miserably on everyone’s account.”
It had been a long day and a tiring journey, the gloomy weather combined with the waning season brought an early and profound darkness and suddenly Holly was very tired.
“But Maman, what if I decide to hold out for what I really want and it never comes? What if I see hope and I have no other proof than my heart and my faith? What if I am wrong and I lose everything?”
IT HAD BEEN A VERY long time since he had cause to deal with the unpleasant after effects of a night of excessive drink, but even in his unhappy condition, Baugham counted it as a blessing to be preoccupied with the state of his head and stomach rather than with the newly discovered, and infinitely more wretched, state of his heart. The journey from London to Netherfield was passed wallowing in intense and self-inflicted misery; the subsequent journey some time later from Netherfield to Longbourn was passed swallowing a sudden, irrational panic.
A quick glance around the small parlour told him what he already knew — they had not yet arrived. Of course they had not yet arrived; he shook his head at his own stupidity even as he let out the breath he had been holding. There was no possibility they would come until tomorrow at least. He had time. By the time he was faced with her again, he would be in control of himself.
