by Gail McEwen
“Perhaps we can flee this by retracting our steps a little,” he said and moved sideways slightly.
To his great surprise, Miss Tournier simply looked at him with a frown and did not move.
“Your plan is a good one except for the fact that I seem to be stuck.”
She moved her skirts aside, determining that she had sunk up to her ankles in thick, sticky mud. She pulled up with her right foot but only succeeded in raising it an inch or two against the strong suction before nearly losing her balance. Lord Baugham reached out to steady her then withdrew his hands again as quickly as possible.
She huffed in frustration and with hands on hips, looked around for something, anything, that might give her an idea for getting out of this predicament, but no remedy presented itself.
Baugham played with the idea of either placing his hands around her waist and lifting her up, or of extending the end of his walking stick for her to grab and then to pull her out, but both seemed inappropriate. He therefore finally reached out his gloved hand to her and said, “Here. Let’s see if I can pull us out of this.”
With no other alternative presenting itself, she reached out and took his hand. He tugged at her arm while she tried to lift her foot.
After a long time, being pulled so hard that she felt like her arm would come out of its socket, her foot suddenly broke free. Unfortunately this only caused her other foot to slip in the mud and she lost her balance again, nearly tumbling headlong into his lordship. She could not help but nervously laugh at his obvious confusion and discomfort as he tried to set her aright without actually touching her. Once she was steady again, she reached out both her hands, “Maybe we should try it this way.”
He looked down at her as he heard her laugh. It was incredible how the sound lifted a weight off his mind and how the sun seemed to break out from behind all those heavy, grey and forbidding clouds that had hung over and between them.
She should laugh more, he found himself thinking. If only she would laugh more. If she had laughed more, maybe . . .
Slowly he reached out his two hands to meet hers and he could feel his face break out into a relieved smile.
“Yes,” he said, “that is a very good and practical idea. Just the thing, in fact.”
She put her hands into his and allowed him to slowly pull her, one step at a time, across the muddy crossroads. Most of her attention was focused downward, keeping her feet from slipping, and the rest of it was concerned with keeping her skirts untrodden and muddying them up worse than they already were.
Eventually they reached the grassy roadside and she looked up to thank him for his assistance. He still had hold of her hands and when she met his gaze she felt a familiar jolt. He was looking at her with tenderness in his eyes — the same way he had looked at her right after he kissed her. For a moment, he looked as if he was going to speak. She held his eyes, waiting . . .
But he dropped her hands and turned his head; she dropped her eyes and commented on the state of her boots. They moved on in silence.
They walked for some time, staring straight ahead. Baugham’s feelings were a mixture of relief at the moment of cooperation and familiarity between them and fear that the strange discomfort they were now feeling would affect it. He had wanted to say it; he had nearly done so. Why had he not said it when the moment presented itself? He risked a glance in her direction, though he could only see the top of her bonnet, and shook his head. Before he laid himself open to . . . well, he could not even consider it without first ascertaining her circumstances. In that moment of hesitation, between impulse and prudence, he had once again lost an opportunity. At the same time, he also did not want to allow the resulting silence to damage the little bit of progress they had made. Still looking ahead, he quietly began again, this time actually uttering a few tentative words.
“You must allow me to apologise, but I wonder — ”
“No,” Holly interrupted. “Please. No.”
“Miss Tournier, I fear I have upset you again and please allow me . . . ” The look on her face as she turned to him made him stop, but only for a short time. He had to say something, at this moment he didn’t care why, but he had to try so he rushed the words out. “ . . . to tell you, you are absolutely right about Mr Darcy and about romance being for other people . . . too . . . people like your parents. For you, in fact.”
“For me? Who are you to . . . ” she broke off and looked away momentarily, but as she took a breath and fixed her eyes on him again, he felt a surge of admiration for her courage, despite the words she said next. “I never said I didn’t . . . I never did not want to . . . thank you for the reminder — yet again, my lord, but only a fool holds out for childish notions.”
“Childish?” He felt compelled to press the point, “Or brave? If you choose the right battle, isn’t it foolish to surrender without a fight?”
“Choose battles? Just exactly what is the one you have chosen, my lord? And why do you plague me with it? There is no point in fighting a battle that is already lost. Perhaps I am guilty of cowardice there, but I don’t know that I have the strength to do otherwise. I may be a fool, but I am not such a fool as that.”
“Is it foolish to dare to trust your own heart?” he pushed.
Holly felt a lump growing in her throat and her breath becoming shaky, but she knew she must answer somehow. Something was happening, something was being addressed and this might be the only time she would be able to speak to it. She looked up at him and met his eyes solemnly and squarely.
“What about those who do not even know their own hearts? What about those who might love such a one as this? What is to become of them?
“How long should they wait before they admit that the thunderbolt has passed them over and there is nothing to fight for? Are they not better off to look elsewhere and learn to be content with the gentleness of the rain?”
She held his gaze and did not look away.
Baugham swallowed. “Are you? Are you happy with the rain then?”
“Happy?” Holly’s cheeks were flaming red and her breath came short. “Rain?! My lord, at the moment the whole meteorological world is in suspension! Seemingly the weather gods cannot quite decide what to subject this poor mortal underling with! All I know is that inevitably the heavens will open up on me and right now I have no protection against anything whatsoever!”
He looked back at her steadily, thinking to himself how good it felt to have her complete concentration even though it seemed to be effectively hindering him from releasing the words he wanted to say. “I can say nothing against the gentle rain,” he smiled sadly, “it can be a blessing where the earth is scorched and dry, and thunderbolts are admittedly frightening when one has lived in the desert all one’s life. They can easily be misconstrued. No, I could never take offence at the gentle rain. But perhaps, there ought to be more than looking for a way to make the desert easier. Perhaps it is a matter of having the courage to find a better place to live. Or perhaps there just has never been anyone who — ”
Just then the sound of distant shouts could be heard and they saw Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy walking toward them, waving. Holly turned to his lordship.
“My credit now stands on such slippery ground, that one of two ways you must conceit me — either a coward or a flatterer,” she blurted out in a rush. Then she tilted her chin defiantly at his increasing frown. “Are you acquainted with Julius Caesar?”
“Acquainted with whom?”
“Julius Caesar. Act three.”
“I have read all five acts, Miss Tournier. But what does that — ”
“Antony’s speech,” she said abruptly. “It surely puts the matter much more succinctly than what has been attempted by either of us just now by debates on battles or the weather. Which are you, my lord? Coward? Or flatterer?”
Baugham drew back instinctively. He had gone too far, while at the same time being nowhere near his goal, but she was, as always, infuriating in her ability to pinpoint his faults. W
hy was she always so quick to judge, so quick to accuse and presume at his motives?
“Well, I expect that you would have no trouble charging me with both, Miss Tournier. ‘What should such fellows as I do, crawling between heaven and earth?’ It seems I am doomed in that respect, regardless of my sincere efforts.” He turned away from her and waved to the approaching gentlemen.
“Ho, Darcy! Bingley! Here.”
Holly froze momentarily at the studied casualness to his tone that appeared so readily — he kept his gaze forward and any hint of tenderness that might have shown itself before was carefully masked. But it was no matter; she drew in a deep breath and followed him to the waiting men.
BAUGHAM WAS BEGINNING TO BREATHE more easily, thankful for the gentlemen’s belated interference. The four new arrivals had healthy blushes on their faces and it was evident that their dawdling had a pleasurable reason. The frosty roof tiles of Longbourn were clearly visible behind the trees and Baugham longed for a change of scenery, a chance to regroup, to disappear behind normal social discourse. In his relief at being rescued from the uncomfortable direction in which the conversation with Miss Tournier had gone, and in an attempt to draw her cousins around her, he spoke brightly to the ladies as they caught up with them.
“Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, you may rest easy. I have brought your country cousin safely back from her romp in the mud.”
A cold voice sounded behind him.
“My romp in the mud? Their country cousin?” Baugham closed his eyes and sighed. Here it was, he could feel it building. Their halting conversation had left them no choice, it seemed. It was about to happen . . . again, and this time they would be performing for an audience. But no matter, it was inevitable, unstoppable. He turned around, appearing a little cold himself. Yet Miss Tournier had already stalked off in a furious pace, leaving him behind with four pairs of puzzled eyes upon him.
“I beg your pardon . . . ” Baugham muttered and took a few long strides to keep up with her. He hoped the rest of the party would have the sense to revert to their slow pace, but he realised Miss Bennet, and therefore also Darcy, were closely following.
He caught up with her in the courtyard of the house.
“Miss Tournier, please forgive me. I was wrong and I didn’t mean to — ”
“No,” she interrupted, “of course you didn’t. You never mean anything do you? You go through life speaking and acting and never meaning anything, you pompous, arrogant, thoughtless, over-privileged London clown!”
He realised Miss Bennet and Darcy were close behind him, but at that moment, he did not care.
“If I was not so busy defending myself to you at every single turn, perhaps you could let your preconceptions go for once and understand my meaning instead of turning everything I say or do against me! Eloquence in the face of hostility is not very easy to accomplish!”
Holly gasped. Elizabeth had entered the yard and looked dumbfounded at her cousin and Lord Baugham. Mr Darcy opened his mouth to interfere, but Elizabeth put up her hand to hold him back.
Holly turned around and walked up to the door, which inconveniently enough had been opened to let the returning party in as soon as possible. She stopped at the threshold and spun back around to answer his accusation.
“How can one understand anything about your meaning when you are always acting without reason, speaking without thought, and then running away without explanation? If I compel you to defend yourself against that, my lord, I cannot apologise for it.”
“That I have difficulty with my mode of expression must be a singular personal opinion of yours, since you seem to be the sole sufferer thereof!”
“If that is the case,” Holly spat out, marching back onto the walk toward him. “I would suggest that you continue to restrict yourself to the society of those that have neither discretion nor understanding. It is only when you are in decent company, apparently, that your shortcomings are exposed.”
“Baugham, should we — ” Mr Darcy stepped out from behind Elizabeth, but she grabbed his hand impulsively, which was enough for him to forget to go on and shift his focus back to her.
“I beg your pardon, I’m sure.” Baugham, ignoring his friend, was nearly shouting, “I never knew decent company that felt their only course for redress against feelings of maltreatment was to behave like a common fishwife!”
“When one is treated in a common way, I suppose that reaction is only natural.”
Her face was flushed and her eyes were shooting daggers at him. Her breath came quick and her brows were drawn together in a truly menacing look. Wisps of hair had come lose from under her bonnet and she tugged her earlobe in an effort to control herself.
This is all wrong, he thought, if I could just smooth out that brow, take her hand and reassure her I mean no harm. I never meant any harm, if I could just make her see that. If I could just tell her, ask her, explain to her, kiss her . . .
He moved toward her, but stopped himself abruptly.
“I see that my vulgar behaviour has shocked you into silence. I am happy for it,” Holly said. “I shall make note to try to inspire the same reaction in you as often as possible henceforth, for I do confess I prefer it!” She brushed past him on her way to the door, “Even if I am a mere country girl, as you take every opportunity of reminding me.”
Nearly speechless with confusion and anger, Baugham could only retort to her back, “You are not . . . ! I do not . . . It is you who are always . . . !”
He strode to catch up to her, oblivious to all the eyes upon him, but she had stalked in through the door and even though she was met by Mrs Bennet, eager for her guests return, her mother, who had quit the library as soon as she saw her daughter stomping over the green, and Mrs Hill, who just stood staring with her arms held out in readiness to accept any garments anyone cared to dispose of with her, Holly did not care.
“I will be in my room, changing for dinner,” she told no one in particular. “Getting rid of the mud!” she added a little more loudly.
Lord Baugham had stopped just outside, leaning against the outer wall, eyes closed and struggling to control his breathing, but Elizabeth came flying through the door, followed closely by Darcy.
“Holly!” she called, but her cousin was already at the top of the stairs. Elizabeth raised her eyebrows almost to her hairline and sent her fiancé a telling look and an excited smile.
“What?” Mr Darcy said, completely puzzled.
Elizabeth frowned and looked for her aunt. Their eyes met, but Mrs Tournier did not look as excited as Elizabeth expected. In fact, she appeared distinctly furious. After a moment of silent communication and questioning, Mrs Tournier turned on her heel and returned to the library. Mrs Bennet found her speech as her oldest daughter and Mr Bingley came through the door offering profuse apologies for having tarried so long, and a quieter, more subdued Lord Baugham joined them, smoothly admitting he was looking forward to dinner with the immense appetite they had all worked up in the frosty weather, but resolutely refusing to look anywhere but into the roaring fire.
Chapter 32
We witness Several Persons being Dissatisfied with the State of Affairs and Learn of their Various Ways of Coming to Terms with It
Mrs Bennet shuffled her meat around on her plate and looked anxiously down her table. Something had gone wrong and she could feel one of her spells coming on. It was a disaster, but she had no idea what had happened. Of course, that strange scene when her niece had burst in and been most violent in her speech against one of her fine guests had been quite out of the ordinary and now her dinner — her dinner was ruined!
She glanced at Lord Baugham sitting beside her. Was he offended at the early hours of the dinner? Oh, she should have kept late Town hours, but Mr Bennet would insist on adhering to backward country customs. Was that why his lordship’s thin smile seemed to turn into a grimace only a few seconds after she addressed him and tried to engage him in conversation? It couldn’t be the fish — surely not! It was a fi
ne piece of fish and yet he had hardly touched it. Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy had eaten well enough and Mr Bingley had even complimented her on it. No, it couldn’t be the fish.
It could very well be her peculiar sister, sitting opposite him, and in that case she could hardly blame him and could only curse her own stupidity for seating her in his lordship’s vicinity. They kept exchanging glances. Or rather, Mrs Tournier kept sending him glances and he kept avoiding them by offering very strange comments on really quite ordinary things: the silver, the light, the weather, and the wine. But not the fish.
As a consequence, the conversation she was desperately trying to hold up at her end of the table slipped downwards and rested firmly between her daughter Elizabeth and Mr Bingley, with occasional interjections from Mr Darcy and support from Jane. They seemed happy enough, although Elizabeth in turn kept throwing comments and questions at her niece, Holly, who was next to Mr Bennet and her younger cousins at the far end of the table. She seldom answered more elaborately than in monosyllables. By the time the stew arrived Mr Bennet, had for some reason, decided to enter the fray. This particular circumstance, Mrs Bennet decided, was a most grave and suspicious thing indeed.
“Climbed up to the tree house did you, eh, Holly? And none of these gallant, protective gentlemen tried to stop you, my dear?”
The gallant gentleman at the farthest end of the table staunchly looked down at his plate and, chewing the same piece of meat that he had been chewing for the past five minutes, tried to ignore the conversation and what it did to his feelings. But Mr Bingley confessed Miss Holly had looked so competent that he would not have dared interfere. Mr Darcy muttered that she did come down soon enough, so there had been no real worry.
“I think, sir, you will want to profess more surprise at the fact that I did not join her,” Elizabeth said. “A decision I regret already.”
“I cannot agree with you there,” Mr Darcy smiled.
