by Gail McEwen
Right then a languid voice interrupted his thoughts.
“I have always thought,” Miss Bingley said right above his shoulder, “that the charm of the country lies in the contrast it offers to Town. Just as you can find something soothing in old buildings despite their discomfort, draughtiness, dullness and impractibility.”
Baugham looked up and noticed Mr Bingley ducking his head to avoid his or his sister’s gaze.
“You’re not fond of the country, Miss Bingley?”
She gave a little laugh. “Oh, Lord Baugham. ‘Fond’ I certainly am. As long as there is always the reliability of the season that will allow me to quit it in time.”
In one long, graceful movement she descended on the other end of the sofa and placed her arm to decoratively rest along the back of it.
“Am I to understand you share my attitude? I have heard you are very fond of your country estate — as long as it does not interfere with your London pleasures.”
Baugham frowned. Was this woman hinting at his past troubles and his flight to Clyne? But no, how could she know. She was not an intimate of his, regardless of her insinuations and he had never come across her as part of polite society in Town. As for Clyne and his reasons for taking up residence there . . . Well, presumably there had been gossip, but that had died down long ago and no one cared about that anymore.
“Scotland,” Miss Bingley prompted with a small smile. “What on earth did you find so enticing in Scotland?”
“The same you found in Town, I suppose,” Baugham smiled back. “Novelty.”
Miss Bingley looked down on her string of pearls and managed to look both amused and offended.
“But,” Baugham amended, “even if that was what lured me there, novelty was never what kept me coming back.”
“Are you a romantic, my lord? An avid admirer of scenery? A finder of truth in nature?”
That Miss Bingley could have come so close to reading his heart and yet been so mistaken at the same time amused him.
“Truth,” he mused. “Yes, I think that is exactly it, Miss Bingley. I did find the truth and as we both know, that is one thing neither one of us will ever find in London.”
“SIT YE DOWN, ROSE, AND rest yer feet.”
Mrs McLaughlin abandoned the dust covers she was spreading out over the furniture and sunk down into the soft chair upon her cousin’s arrival. Mrs Higgins threw her a quick look and followed her example, putting her feet up on the fender in front of the small and economical fire as well. She lifted the small glass Mrs McLaughlin had given her and sniffed.
“Elderberry?”
“Aye. I made fifteen bottles of it and now there’s no one here to drink it.”
“Well, the ladies will be back after the wedding . . . ”
“Ye’re right, Rose, I’ll pack a few bottles in yer basket afore ye leave. This is dusty work.”
The women sampled Mrs McLaughin’s homemade potion and licked their lips in silent appreciation.
“Och,” Mrs McLaughlin finally said, “an empty house again . . . ”
“But he stayed longer this time than usual, dinnae he?”
“Aye, that he did. I was thinking he’d never be gone.”
She had meant it to be a dry comment indicating she treasured her reclaimed peace and quiet, but Mrs Higgins knew it was the confession of a hope that his lordship would have stayed even longer.
“And when will he come again?” she asked.
Mrs McLaughlin shrugged. “No one knows. Mebbe when the salmon fishing starts.”
The women sighed in unison.
“I’ll tell ye something, Rosie,” Mrs McLaughlin said, “and I dinnae mind if ye think I’m daft but I did think . . . Well, I thought the reason he stayed so long was mebbe . . . I mean, he always liked his stay here, I know he did. It is a shelter for him, he says, a sanctuary that he treasures and even when he does leave he is already looking forward to coming again, even if he doesnae know when that’ll be. But this time, with him staying so long an all, I thought that mebbe there was some new . . . attraction that kept his interest. Ye’ll think I’m daft, I’m sure.”
“No-oo Heather,” her cousin said, “I’ll match yer confession and own up I . . . well, I know that it is presumptuous of me, but one does hear things, and see things, and sense things, even if they do go on in a respectable parlour under the eyes of a chaperone like Mrs Tournier . . . ”
“Well, Mrs Campbell was wrong then,” Mrs McLaughlin said. “Although . . . ”
“Yes,” sighed her cousin and looked into the fire.
For a while they each contemplated the if’s and delicious consequences of what the realisation of their fancies would have brought, but since there was nothing to be done about that and plenty to be done about his lordship’s drawing room, they soon abandoned their empty glasses and set about rolling the carpets aside and covering the ornate candle holders on the walls to shut all the rooms of Clyne Cottage except the library.
Chapter 31
The Days that Led up to the Big Event
The parlour was filled with women, all sitting in a circle and busily sewing. In the middle of the night, Mrs Bennet had been struck with the sudden realisation that she had not ordered nearly enough handkerchiefs for Mrs Bingley and Mrs Darcy to begin their married lives with, so every available seamstress was recruited to remedy the oversight. Arabella Tournier plied her needle alongside the rest and watched as her daughter valiantly tried to keep pace with her more skilled cousins. She saw, too, how Holly’s smiles looked slightly strained, and how, as thrilled as she obviously was with her cousins’ good fortune, there was a dullness about her that she did not like — as well as a question that hung, unasked, in the air. She decided to take the initiative in the one area she could.
“So, Sister,” she turned to her brother’s wife, “Has his lordship arrived in Hertfordshire yet?”
At one and the same time, her sister’s exclamations and her daughter’s cries filled the room.
“My dear sister, how kind of you to ask . . . !”
“Ouch! Oh, it’s nothing, just a prick. I’m so clumsy . . . ”
Holly was tended to by her solicitous cousins who wrapped her finger and declared that she would be excused from any further needlework if she would instead consent to read to them while they worked, but not before Elizabeth looked up to meet her aunt’s eye. The young woman’s questioning gaze was met by the older woman’s wiser one and Elizabeth returned to her work with the belief that perhaps her cousin was suffering from another sting as well. Mrs Bennet’s effusions were not so readily dealt with.
“Oh yes, indeed he has and he graced us with his presence the moment he arrived. Who would have thought I would be entertaining an Earl in this very parlour . . . ”
She abandoned her smug face for a moment and leaned forward in confidence.
“He is an odd man, as far as I can tell, a nervous, restless sort and I could not interest him in my poor Kitty, though she did try her best. Snubbed her is what he did.”
“It is no matter, Mama,” Kitty replied, “he talks too much anyway.”
Elizabeth, who had sent her cousin a searching look, but been assured by a quick shake of Holly’s head that she was fine and it was nothing to remark upon, noticed her aunt still watching her daughter with narrowed eyes.
“I think you must take great care, Kitty,” she said in an attempt to steer the attention away from Holly and let her surprising clumsiness be forgotten. “I distinctly remember sitting in this very parlour and comforting Mama with the promise of never dancing with Mr Darcy when he had been so unforgivably rude to me at the Assembly Rooms last Michaelmas. And now it seems I am expected to dance with him at every event we ever find ourselves at together again,” she finished with a dramatic sigh.
Kitty looked at her sister and scrunched her face in disbelief, but Mrs Bennet put down her work and looked at Elizabeth.
“Yes, yes . . . That is very true, I suppose . . . ” she said, a
mercenary hope kindling in her eye. “I remember it distinctly. Kitty, you know there may still be . . . ”
“The Lady of the Lake?” Holly said quickly and picked up a book from the side table.
“Oh yes, please!” her cousin said, instantly regretting that she planted such a thought in her mother’s fertile imagination.
“Perhaps if he could be persuaded to come and dine and even a little dancing afterwards,” Mrs Bennet persisted and turned to Kitty. “And you must wear your blue gown — ”
“Harp of the North!” Holly suddenly exclaimed, a little more loudly than necessary. Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up and Mrs Bennet gave a start in her chair and lost her train of thought. Mrs Tournier’s lips tightened and she turned her attention to the lace in front of her while Holly lay the book on her lap and continued in a more subdued tone. “That mouldering long hast hung, On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan’s spring, And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung . . . ”
As Holly drew her breath at the end of the tenth stanza, Mrs Bennet had already grown tired of verse and seized the opportunity to return to her favourite subject.
“As to your kind inquiry, Sister, perhaps I should add that the gentlemen have been here every day. Except yesterday, unfortunately, because . . . well, I’m glad you are settled in now and I dare say they will come running again as soon as they’ve . . . well, done whatever it is gentlemen — fine gentlemen — do in the mornings before going visiting.”
Mrs Tournier gave her daughter a look. “How about some more of those ‘wondrous scenes’, Lie-lie?
Holly quickly picked up again, but she had not been reading for long before Mrs Hill announced the arrival of the gentlemen from Netherfield. All pedestrian sewing was hastily put away and replaced with delicate embroidery, a move performed with the deftness and skill that could only come from much practice. The gentlemen entered, the ladies rose in greeting, introductions were made, bows and curtseys were exchanged and Holly paled a little at the sight of Lord Baugham among them.
Thankfully . . . ? yes she decided, thankfully, she was spared the necessity of speaking to him right away, because once he had politely extricated himself from his gushing hostess, he strode directly to Mrs Tournier and greeted her enthusiastically.
She watched their exchange out of the corner of her eye. To her dismay, her mother was short in her tone and her facial expression showed none of the regard she knew she held for him. Oh no, Holly thought, she is going to tell him. She is going to let him know she knows . . . Oh, I should not have said anything. Her thoughts were muddled and she turned away from the scene in an effort not to see, not to hear.
She could have cried with relief when Mr Darcy approached and smilingly sat in a nearby chair. They talked amiably and as Elizabeth came up to his side, his whole being lit up and the smile, which had seemed almost apologetic and sheepish earlier, turned into a definite satisfied grin.
Had Holly not turned away from her mother and Lord Baugham’s exchanged greetings, she would, perhaps, have been comforted to know that not even her mother’s staunch resolution to give his lordship a piece of her mind could override what she knew was expected of her in her sister’s salon.
Thus she restricted her words to an absolute minimum and very soon gave him to understand she was very eager to greet Mr Darcy and become acquainted with Mr Bingley rather than enter into any extended conversation.
The affianced couples having gradually separated themselves slightly from the group, Mrs Tournier purposefully moved over to Mr Darcy and Elizabeth’s side. Mrs Bennet was flitting around the parlour and trying to position Kitty to her best advantage and Holly again found herself somewhat at loose ends. She had no fine sewing to turn her attention to, as Mary had quickly done, and her reading could be no longer wanted, so she retreated to the fireplace and stood quietly, ostensibly admiring the screens. However, it was not long until she felt a presence behind her, and knowing exactly who it was, she turned to him.
“My lord.”
“Miss Tournier.”
Baugham found his puzzlement over Mrs Tournier’s reticence was forgotten as soon as her daughter spoke to him. He pasted a smile on his face and set about his task. He would act as if everything was as it had always been between them — and that called for playful insult and flattery.
“What are you doing here, skulking alone by the fireplace?”
His voice was warm and soft. Despite herself she felt her stomach flutter and she involuntarily blushed and looked away.
“Sir,” she said, squaring her shoulders and gazing out over the room, “I absolutely never skulk.”
“Of course you don’t. Perhaps you are just prudently waiting for me here so I can tell you how much I have missed your company.”
“Is London really so dull, my lord?”
“Frightfully. No one has scolded or abused me for an entire week. Just look at Darcy! I held high hopes for him to perform when I finally arrived at his doorstep, but all he can think about is his bride and for some reason his docility is quite frightening.”
Holly smiled, but still did not meet his eye. “I think you don’t miss my bad temper as much as you miss your library at Clyne. I am very happy to report it is coming along very well. So you have absolutely no excuse to pick a quarrel with me, however much you feel you need one.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But what on earth shall we do with one another if there is no dispute to be had?”
“How about a stab at some civil conversation? I’m sure we can manage it if we try.”
“Hm. And what if we grow unspeakably bored very soon? Will you abandon me to the tedious admiration of other people’s blatant happiness straight away again?”
“No,” Holly smiled, “I suppose I will just return to my skulking and leave you to fend for yourself, as you always do so well. But, have you truly grown tired of bearing witness to so much bliss?”
“Bliss is, in itself of course, all good and well, but it does not make for very exciting conversation. So you see, I have missed you.”
“Sir, that is the second time you profess such personal sentiments to me. Are you fishing for me to express reciprocal feelings?”
Baugham’s smile faltered and he began to grow desperate as she met each of his attempts at humour with mere polite conversation. He struggled to keep the bitterness out of his voice when he replied. “Oh no. You may lie to me as much as you like.”
Her eyes darted to his immediately. “Lie?” A wave of relief washed over him as he saw a familiar spark of defiance in her expression. “You mean you wish for me to tell you that for the past fortnight, life in Clanough has been just as dreary as life in Town has apparently been? I should flatter you that, without your presence, nothing whatsoever of interest could ever happen?”
“That would be a very good start, Miss Tournier. But would that be a lie?”
Once she finally met his eyes, it was hard to look away. He was very beautiful, she found herself thinking. Just as he was, bordering on impertinence, his blue eyes twinkling and his smile widening. It was a dangerous and foolish time and place to do so, but she so wanted to give in to the temptation to let go of the tight control she had held over herself for so long. Each word he spoke cut sharply, but she had to admit that she preferred the pain over the deadness of feeling she had been left with lately. She dropped her defences and strode bravely into the line of fire.
“I think I must leave that up to you to determine. Am I being truthful, or merely taking advantage of the liberties you have just offered me? What say you, my lord? Will you call me a liar?”
If it was possible, his smile grew even bigger, his eyes even more blue as he stepped closer. Leaning in, he said almost in a whisper: “Liar.”
He was so close; it was hard to breathe, hard to think. One of them should move back, she thought, if he would not, then she ought to. They should maintain a proper space between them, but at the same time she had to fight the almost irresistible urge to close
what little space was left between them and . . . what? Swallowing the silly lump that rose in her throat, she drew herself up with dignity and smiled shakily, teasing back as best she could.
“Sir! Is it really gentlemanly to rise to every bait that is laid before you, even when it is most imprudent?”
He was now impossibly close to her, his voice was soft, almost intimate. “Oh, Miss Tournier, I think we both know that as far as you are concerned, self-control is not an option.”
As soon as he said it, he regretted it. He watched her staring in confusion for a moment; she moved forward, then blushed scarlet and turned quickly away, only managing to utter a confused, “Oh . . . ” before suddenly bolting away. As he stood, kicking himself for going so far, for judging her and their meeting so falsely, for stupidly pushing what should have been a friendly greeting between acquaintances into flirtation and embarrassment, he could feel the eyes of Mrs Tournier boring into his back from across the room.
His sense of failure was complete, there was no denying it. He decided there and then to abandon all pretence of equilibrious relations with the Tournier family and tread very, very carefully instead.
Taking refuge the only way he could and inflicting suitable punishment on himself in the process, Lord Baugham hastily engaged Mrs Bennet in conversation. He was engaged in a long discussion on the trials of providing a house full of girls with an appropriate education, with the youngest Miss Bennet called upon by her mother to provide an example for his lordship of how well she had succeeded in preparing her daughters for any social sphere.
