Twixt Two Equal Armies

by Gail McEwen

“Oh, I suppose you think only trees at Pemberley are good and safe enough for me to climb henceforth,” Elizabeth laughed. “And I do suppose you are right. I am quite certain in your devotion to your property you have already made them so.”

  “Pemberley does have some excellent trees . . . ” Mr Bingley offered.

  “I simply meant that I personally could not have assured the safety of two tree-bound young women and, since your cousin first claimed my attention and protection by her speed and determination, I was already committed to her safety and would not have been pleased to weigh my responsibilities between my betrothed and her beloved cousin.”

  “Oh Darcy!” Bingley said, laughingly. “As if neither of us remaining gentlemen could have assisted you.”

  Miss Tournier seemed to make a loud snorting noise, but instantly lifted her handkerchief to hide a cough.

  “That is very gallant of you, Mr Bingley,” Elizabeth smiled. “I am having a grand time now picturing the two of us wantonly falling from trees, only to be caught by chivalrous gentlemen! When you come to Pemberley, Holly, we must make a habit of it.”

  Mr Bennet laughed with his daughter, but was acutely aware of his niece sitting beside him being more than quiet, and although he was not exactly well acquainted with her, the way Elizabeth was sending her cousin anxious glances and trying to draw her in made him curious. The few glances Holly did direct anywhere else than at her plate, lap and the walls were directed to the other end of the table, and so Mr Bennet turned his attentions to a study of his sister. He was well enough acquainted with her to be able to tell her dull face and quiet habits masked a raging temper. Having missed the earlier spectacle, he wondered what had set her off. The immediate and obvious answer, when considering the demeanour of his niece, was a mother-daughter quarrel, but Arabella was no quarreller. She was a debater. Not only that, she rarely succumbed to anger in the process, so the way her mouth was pressed into a thin line and her conversation was severely curtailed was indeed unusual and not indicative of any family dispute. The distressed undertones of his wife’s conversation turned his attention across the table to another guest who was being uncharacteristically taciturn: Lord Baugham. Hm . . .

  “Now, Holly, my dear,” he said, turning back to his niece, “I suppose you must be very pleased with Elizabeth’s feat of capturing a man who will transport her nearly one hundred and fifty miles closer to you.”

  Holly pushed her potatoes around in the gravy. “I could say so, but then my pleasure would be at your expense, Uncle. I know how much you will miss her.”

  “Well, well. I confess, life has ill prepared me for loss of any kind, most certainly in areas I care so much about, but I don’t mind admitting your gain and my defeat to you. As long as you properly appreciate it.”

  Holly smiled faintly. “Of course.”

  Mr Bennet watched her for a moment. “You know my dear,” he said, “I think you and I should form a plan. I think one or the other of us — or, come to think of it, both of us — should rush up to Pemberley as soon as an invitation can be contrived and then we must establish ourselves in a pair of its smaller, but still fine, rooms, refuse to budge and thus shut ourselves out from the world around us. No one would ever find us. Would that not make a grand plan? If we need intelligent society that will not show us up in its superiority, but rather lend silent distinction to our frivolity, we shall send for Mr Darcy, and when we need lively company that will make us seem wise and contemplative in our silence, we will send for Mrs Darcy.”

  Despite herself, Holly smiled.

  “That is a grand plan, Uncle. Except I do not know that I want to shut myself out of the world.”

  “Don’t you?” her uncle said shrewdly. “You certainly give a fair impression of it this evening. And you mustn’t blush or protest, my child, for I find myself liking you very much for it.”

  Mrs Tournier saw her brother engaging his niece in conversation and even noticed him being able to draw a smile over Holly’s sour face. She found herself thankful to her brother for the effort. Words she wanted to utter to the guest opposite her burned in her throat and had not Mr Darcy on her side been solicitous enough to offer the occasional comment or question for deliberation, she was rather sure she would have succumbed to the temptation.

  When dinner was over and the ladies excused themselves, she found some relief in speaking to her oldest niece while Holly was coaxed into a game of some sort with Elizabeth — who was still behaving as if Holly needed her for a crutch to lean on through the evening — and with Mary and Kitty. Slowly, she noticed colour returning to Holly’s cheeks in the heat of the game and she even gave a small triumphant laugh when laying down a winning hand.

  “You let me win that, Elizabeth,” she said. “Shame on you!”

  “I did not! But if you are so certain about it I will claim the same from you, with interest, in the next round.”

  As expected, her brother had not been able to keep two young lovers away from the parlour for long, even with the aid of his best wine. Mr Bennet and Lord Baugham sauntered idly behind the more energetic gentlemen, deep in conversation and obviously in no great hurry themselves to return to the ladies. For some reason, this circumstance incensed Mrs Tournier beyond reason and she was once again out of sorts.

  “Music!” cried Mrs Bennet. “Shall we not have some music?” But as much as she tried to steer Kitty towards the pianoforte, the rest of the room paid her no heed and since Kitty was not prepared to claim any attention by performing, Mrs Bennet was forced to give up. She was comforted by the fact that Jane and Mr Bingley took pity upon her and she could happily entertain herself for the next hour by describing Jane’s wedding clothes and assuring Mr Bingley he would not be disappointed in his wife’s choices. In this she had a very sympathetic and faithful audience and so she was happy.

  Mary Bennet liked to sit by her aunt. She did not like to talk to her; regardless of her local reputation as an intelligent and informed woman, Mary hardly ever understood a word of what her Aunt Arabella said to her. But she sat beside her and tried to emulate her frown, which Mary thought quite intimidating and therefore probably a useful thing to learn. She also approved wholeheartedly of her aunt’s penchant for sending Lord Baugham sharp looks, and was pleased to see her aunt shared her opinion on flighty young men who brought no worthy arguments to any discussion and rather seemed to thrive on frivolity. She could perfectly well see how her aunt tensed when his lordship moved closer to her cousin, Holly, again, although this time he stayed at a respectable distance and seemed only to utter a few words to her, to which she replied with equal economy.

  Mrs Tournier could just make out three words that were repeated between the two. “I am sorry.” She scoffed. Indeed. It was a sorry affair, indeed, and there was nothing she could do about it. On very few occasions since her husband’s passing had Mrs Tournier felt helpless, and never on her own behalf. It was not in her nature to admit to such a possibility, but, just as she had for her husband when he lost his hope and will to live and ideals to believe in, she now felt powerless on behalf of their daughter.

  Holly was strong, yes, but in order to stay strong one must sometimes give in to weakness, and surrender to desperate feelings, and the truth. Time would heal wounds caused by that surrender and she was certain Holly would continue being strong exactly because she so bravely lived in those feelings and acknowledged them, but to witness it was sad and hard. Nevertheless, the hopeless feeling persisted, because there was another who refused to do the same. As his friend, she hoped fervently he would give due consideration to her words and would act accordingly. As her mother she wished him nothing but ill. It was not an easy place to be herself, she reflected, and come nightfall she hoped she could find some peace in a make believe conversation with her husband once again.

  BAUGHAM SAT IN HIS CHAIR in front of the fire in his bedroom, having absentmindedly undressed and prepared for sleep that he knew would not come easy tonight. What another singular day it had b
een! For some time now he felt he had been placed in the middle of a stage play: things were happening to him instead of him directing what he wished to touch his life. Today was a prime example. Such a day would have been unthinkable a short time ago.

  And would to God that could still be the case! he thought violently and stretched his arms above his head before he slumped back again. Here he sat, in a strange bedroom, embarrassed like a schoolboy for misbehaving, confused by irrelevant quotes from imperial plays and long drawn out analogies about the weather, and frustrated because he had failed so spectacularly in his mission. She really was a most exasperating woman!

  But that was an empty show of defiance which he did not believe in himself anymore. As he reached for a familiar, battered volume, in the quiet, the words of Miss Tournier once again came back to him:

  My credit now stands on such slippery ground, that one of two ways you must conceit me — either a coward or a flatterer.

  He had to own it, that was a sharp and daring question for her to pose. And more to the point, it was a question that he knew he had to answer, if only to himself: Which are you, my lord? Coward? Or flatterer?

  A coward, he thought.

  He sighed and stretched his legs towards the fire and reached for his glass, lifting Tam O’Shanter up from his knee. Turning a few pages he followed the lines with his eyes:

  While we sit bousing at the nappy,

  An’ getting fou and unco happy,

  We think na on the lang Scots miles,

  The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles.

  That lie between us and our hame . . .

  But a mention of Scots mosses, waters, slaps and tiles was all he needed before his mind predictably began to wander in exactly the direction not endorsed by Mr Burns.

  Her world was in suspension, she had said, and she had no protection against whatever may befall her. Something jabbed at his heart when he thought about that. She would not admit to him to have an attachment, but she would berate him for posing the question. Was he a complete fool to see that as a sign of hope? Was he deluded to think that her anger and indignation was all the proof he needed? If she had set out on another path — a path away from him — she would not have abused him so terribly, would she? She would not have dared him to reveal himself . . .

  But pleasures are like poppies spread;

  You seize the flower, its bloom is shed.

  Or like the snow falls in the river,

  A moment white–then melts forever.

  All his adult life he had sought pleasure, believing that ‘moment white’ was enough. To seek after more was to risk exposing something within him that he had spent his entire life protecting. The very thoughts now spinning through his mind frightened him but . . . it was time to let go and believe in something new, something more. He would finally believe in his mother’s words when she told him she wanted him to be happy, and that happiness was not attained through protection against the heart, but only through exposure and risk.

  Now, however, he did see the solution clearly. He had all the indication of her feelings and situation he had the right to expect. The rest was up to him and he must show as much daring as she. It was only fair, after all, and he knew he owed it to her. He needed to atone for his trespasses and mistakes against her by being as honest as he could be. In no other way could he truly make up for what he had done to her (and himself, he added sadly) in the garden at Rosefarm that cold and windy day. He felt exhilarated; she deserved to know the truth, now that he recognised it, about why he kissed her. She deserved to know he had wanted to kiss her, not to insult her, and if the truth be told — and it must — he still wanted to, and then to offer himself to her to abuse and berate and jab and finally kiss some more. That was all he wanted of her — everything. Somehow, he would find a time and a place to tell her how he felt and explain himself.

  Suddenly her feelings hardly mattered; she might despise him, and rightfully so, but he would declare himself all the same. He hoped she would not be uncomfortable, but he also hoped he could be clear and leave no doubt as to his feelings. Considering those feelings were still somewhat newly formed and acknowledged, he foresaw some difficulties. The way he had used her, he owed her the chance to throw it back in his face, and he could in no way be certain that she would not do exactly that. But, giving her that chance, putting himself at her mercy; that was the only way he could ever truly be forgiven. She had certainly abused him, and rightfully so, but she had also been brave, braver than he could hope to be. She had challenged him to be honest with her, he recognised that now, and he had been a coward not to accept it. He had to put his faith in her, knowing her as well as he did. She had every right to punish him, but she possessed a generous heart and he knew that if there was no hope for him, she would not have been so bold.

  Despite the revolution that was now spreading from his heart to his mind and the resolutions he was so bravely forming in spite of his hesitations, Baugham had to smile to himself. He could trust Miss Tournier. He knew her well enough. Yes, he truly did know her better than he thought he did, and besides tender feelings, like fragile buds only just daring to raise their heads from the dark soil of his neglected heart, there was trust and admiration. Despite whatever he had been guilty of, there had always been that, and she deserved to know that too, and so much more besides.

  He would choose his moment and, until then, let hope live within him for once and not quell it under veiled inquiries, reason and pretexts. If there could be the remotest chance of her ever letting him kiss her again, some risk taking would certainly be worth it. If she could not return his feelings — and he could very well understand how that could be for a variety of reasons — if she did reject him, he could and must live with that, because she would know the truth and the truth was what he owed to her above all. But maybe . . . just maybe . . . she might feel the same.

  OF COURSE, HOLLY WAS NOT sleeping, but it was late and she had no wish to speak to anyone and so she lay absolutely still in her bed, determined to ignore the scratching on her door. It was Elizabeth, of course, and so the scratching would not stop simply because there was no answer. Holly sighed. Just as she prepared to call out a greeting, Elizabeth popped her head around the door.

  “Holly,” she whispered, “don’t tell me you’re asleep.”

  “Very well, I won’t,” Holly answered dryly.

  “Good,” her cousin said and crept in to sneak up on her bed.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Elizabeth,” Holly said gently, “you have a busy day tomorrow.”

  Elizabeth scoffed. “Nonsense! What I really should not do is let my dearest friend go to bed alone and obviously miserable.”

  “That is very kind of you, but you should also not think of me at this time. If I am miserable it’s only because I have failed you and my family by behaving very badly and for that I ask your forgiveness.”

  “No apologies please Holly! But an explanation would be nice.”

  Holly tried to smile but she could not quite manage it. Instead she sat up against her pillows.

  “I’m sorry, Eliza, I don’t think I can do that tonight. I really am quite tired.”

  Elizabeth crept closer and took her cousin’s hand. “Holly, I know it’s terribly selfish of me, but I do want my wedding day to be perfect. And if you are not happy, it cannot be perfect.”

  “Well, as sorry as it makes me to have to say it, I’m afraid your wedding day cannot be perfect then, Elizabeth,” Holly said and fought to hold back her tears.

  “But why?” Elizabeth asked and put her hand to her cousin’s cheek to soothe her. “Why, Holly? What is the matter?”

  Holly stared at her idle hands in her lap. She did want to tell everything but should she? Could she?

  “Don’t you want to tell me?” Elizabeth asked quietly.

  “Yes,” Holly said abruptly. “Oh yes! But it is difficult. So very hard . . . to say it.”

  “Well,” Elizabeth said and crept closer, “try .
. . ”

  Holly swallowed hard a few times. “Yes. I’ll try. It’s . . . I feel like such a fool. It’s just . . . he . . . ”

  She broke off, uncertain of how to say the words to her friend, to his friend’s future wife.

  “He?” Elizabeth prompted. “Holly? Which he?”

  “What do you mean by that, Eliza?”

  “I have eyes, Holly, and I do not think that doctor you were telling me about is the one causing you so much present unhappiness.”

  No,” she shook her head. “It’s nothing. I need to . . . see . . . that it’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

  Elizabeth sat up in alarm. “Of course it matters, Holly! How can you even contemplate marrying another man when you — ”

  “When I what, Elizabeth?” Holly sat up and snapped back. “When I could instead live the rest of my years in genteel poverty and spinsterhood? That is a fine thing for you to suggest to me two days before your own most advantageous wedding!”

  Refusing to be goaded into a distracting argument, Elizabeth said calmly, “You are right. I am indeed getting married in two days, and I will become the mistress of a great estate. And that, Holly, presents you with another choice, a better choice. I will hear no protests and no proud rebuttals. I love you, you are my dearest cousin and you deserve to be happy and secure for the rest of your life. I will be in a position to care for you, Holly, to include you in my new home as a sister if you are ever, ever, ever in need of it.”

  “And why should I live as a dependent in your home if I can have a home of my own? Why should I consent to having you care for me when I can instead care for my mother?”

  “Holly,” Elizabeth spoke plainly, “I am very well aware that a marriage founded on mutual esteem and respect rather than love can be successful. I do however believe that you cannot hope to find peace or contentment in a marriage if you are in love with another man. Not you! And just think — ”

  A strong rap on the door pre-empted Holly’s reaction and both girls jumped.

  “Lie-lie?” Arabella Tournier’s strong voice rang out. “I need to speak to you.”