by Gail McEwen
Holly swiftly dried her eyes with the back of her hand and Elizabeth shuffled to the edge of the bed.
“Shall I let her in?”
“No, I will,” Holly jumped up and ran to open the door, intensely thankful for the intrusion.
“Oh, I see,” Mrs Tournier said, when she saw her niece, but Elizabeth shook her head faintly and could not reassure her. Mrs Tournier’s face fell again and with a sigh she strode into the room. Elizabeth wished them both a good night and started out the door.
“Sleep well, Eliza,” Holly said and tried to sound cheerful. “Busy day tomorrow.”
“Yes,” her cousin said. “Will you be there with me? I need you.”
“Of course.” This time Holly’s smile was genuine.
“Good. Thank you.”
Mrs Tournier waited until Elizabeth left the room before she sat down on the edge of her daughter’s bed.
“Quite popular tonight, aren’t you, dear?” she said and looked at her.
“Oh, I think not,” Holly said and looked down into her lap again, refusing to meet her mother’s eye. “Quite the opposite, really. I spent most of the evening apologising.”
“And did anyone apologise to you?”
Holly nodded. Then she sighed and looked at her mother with sadness, but also with hard determination in her eyes. “I do not wish to discuss it,” she said firmly but quietly.
Mrs Tournier ran her hand over her daughter’s cheek and then her hair. Holly had hastily plaited it into one thick, careless braid and half of the front had already come undone as if she had tossed and turned all night instead of just for the past hour.
“Did you do your one hundred?”
Mrs Tournier was referring to the one hundred brush strokes she had taught her daughter to subject her hair to every evening before bed. It had been a pleasant ritual in Holly’s childhood, but now as an adult she was less than diligent about it.
“No Maman,” she therefore smiled, “there was no point to it. I will have to wash my hair tomorrow anyway.”
“All the more reason, Lie-lie!” her mother said. “Come here; let me do it for you.”
Holly still smiled as her mother picked up her brush from the small armoire in the corner and she shuffled closer to her. Mrs Tournier gently untied her hair and gathered it over her back to set to work. The first brush strokes were hampered by tangles and Holly’s head was snapped backwards several times. But the long strokes soon did their work and the rhythmic sounds were very soothing and soon Holly felt herself relax under her mother’s care.
“Maman, you mustn’t think . . . ”
“Hush, Lie-lie,” her mother interrupted her, “no talking during the counting. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen . . . ”
So Holly stayed silent and her mother slowly went through the ritual and soon her scalp was tender from the bristles of the brush and her hair was shiny and flighty from the treatment.
“One hundred,” Mrs Tournier said and put down the brush. “There.”
“Thank you, Maman.”
“It is certainly a while since I have done that. My hand will be aching in the morning.”
Holly felt her hair and wound a few tresses between her fingers. “I won’t bother to braid it again before bed, I think,” she smiled.
“Good idea,” her mother said. “Was there something you wanted to say to me?”
“No. Not really. But perhaps I could just . . . For a little while you could simply . . . ”
“Of course, my precious child,” Mrs Tournier said and closed her daughter in her arms.
“MY LORD!”
Baugham shifted his gaze with a start to rest on his valet instead of the wall. Riemann looked at him strangely. It was true, he often looked at him quite exasperated and even sad when his lordship showed blatant disregard for the finer points of his work, but this time he looked positively . . . angry.
“My dear fellow, what’s the matter?” Baugham said, puzzled.
“My lord,” Riemann said and visibly tried to gather himself before he spoke. “I would beg you to get out of your clothes and pay attention. I have coats to brush, shoes to polish, neckties to attend to for tomorrow and since it appears you are not going visiting, I would beg to attend to that coat as well in the process. It is your best. I need to get on with it. Tomorrow is a big day and it warrants the proper preparations.”
Baugham was stunned, but he obeyed his valet and struggled out of his coat. That was the longest speech he had ever heard him utter. It appeared this was to be one of those days when he seemed separated from the rest of the world by some sort of strange language barrier. Suddenly people spoke the most appalling nonsense at him and he seemed, completely unawares, to have switched his own speech to some incomprehensible foreign language his fellow Englishmen had trouble understanding.
It had begun at breakfast. After a night of heavy sleep, he had cheerfully gone down to catch Darcy and Bingley and to take part of their plans to visit Longbourn that day. But once he got there, his friends were eating a leisurely breakfast in silence while Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst were chattering away on what a lovely day it was turning out to be, completely ignoring the fact that a heavy, icy mist was hanging over the landscape and reducing the view from the windows to a few feet.
“Still here?” Baugham had cheerfully greeted the two men. “So at what time are we going to Longbourn today?”
Bingley looked up and stared at him open-mouthed and Darcy looked him up and down apparently remarking to himself on his fine coat and elegant dress with a grim look. Miss Bingley, however, seemed to find his friendly enthusiasm for visiting amusing.
“Oh, my lord!” she smiled slyly. “Really! Not even you can expect the Bennets to entertain any visitors today. I’m afraid you will really have to do with us.”
Baugham felt sheepish. “Ah,” he said and concentrated on choosing a piece of bread exactly the right size. “If you say so, Miss Bingley.”
“I’m afraid my sister and I have you gentlemen to ourselves the whole day,” she smiled and pushed her own chair back from the table, turning towards him and making an inviting gesture to the empty chair beside her.
“Ah,” Baugham said again when he was forced to accept it. “How delightful.”
He contemplated for a moment the possibility of going over to Longbourn himself in the guise of a morning ride, but then thought the better of it. Despite having exchanged embarrassed apologies yesterday with Miss Tournier, he had no doubt he had left her in a state of mind that would ensure she would have no qualms stabbing him with a sewing needle or strangling him with a lace ribbon if he should happen to demand her attention alone.
So perhaps it was for the best, he conceded, despite the fact that his musings and decisions from last night were demanding urgent action now to finally be settled. It would be good to let things calm down a little before he could see her tomorrow.
But his thoughts on the prudence of biding his time were severely tested by mid-afternoon. He had thought Darcy pretty sly when claiming he had some papers he wanted his lordship to attend to in the study and had actually looked forward to a nap — well, thinking disguised as a nap behind a newspaper, really — when it turned out the damn fellow really had papers he wanted him to look at! How in God’s name it was his business how Darcy, after he was married, settled his affairs on his wife and his sister and various theoretical off-spring was beyond him, but apparently some sort of witnessing was needed and he spent a good while glancing longingly at the chair and the paper draped across it while struggling through legal paragraphs, and signatures, seals, and attachments.
When he finally could sink into the chair and spread out his newspaper with its soothing rustling sound, Bingley set off. It was quite obvious that Charles Bingley was growing nervous about marrying his angel after all. The problem was rather that instead of confessing to his qualms and calling them by their proper name so that either Darcy or he could put him at ease, he insisted on making large tr
ansliterations of his dilemma in strange metaphors about making turns in country dances and playing more fiddles than one at the same time.
Darcy soon gave up and retired behind his paper, but Baugham could not quite bring himself to stop trying to decipher the curious workings of Mr Bingley’s mind and so he was stuck for a good while.
Luncheon, on the other hand, was a slightly less tedious affair, and he found refuge in keeping Darcy’s sister company and chatting with her about London. It was rather hard work though, and not so much from Miss Darcy’s natural fatigue after a long journey or her youth, which made it necessary for him to adapt the conversation rather out of his own customary sphere of interest, but because Miss Bingley kept interrupting and claiming their attention through exaggerated compliments directed at Miss Darcy’s accomplishments and acquaintances and Lord Baugham’s wit and conversation.
Lord Baugham did escape for a ride into the fog and icy cold weather. His spirits improved temporarily and had he been more familiar with the geography of this part of Hertfordshire, he might well have braced Miss Tournier’s certain disapproval, defied social conventions and gone down to Longbourn after all. But he returned to his prison and was awarded with more of Bingley’s conversation on the difficulty of balancing one’s necessary show of ardour for one’s beloved against the possibility of frightening the angelic creature away if one does not perfectly go about it.
After a dinner where the entire household was completely obsessed with the coming wedding — the service, the clothes, the weather, the breakfast, the cake, the behaviour of others and the stature of oneself, Baugham was very grateful when Miss Bingley withdrew with her sister to go through Miss Darcy’s trunks undisturbed and choose for her a gown in a fashion complimentary to themselves for the next day’s ceremony. Hurst was sleeping in what seemed to be his assigned chair, although Baugham was beginning to have his doubts on just how deep that slumber was in the face of Bingley’s ongoing speculations.
“I hope she will not display nerves tomorrow,” Bingley went on. “I mean, a blushing bride is very charming and of course one can’t expect her not to be nervous and apprehensive, but I do hope she gets a good night’s sleep tonight, for I know she confesses to being so much more calm and confident when she is not tired and I know I would not want to — ”
“Bingley.” Baugham stood up and looked down on his host. Behind his newspaper Darcy made a menacing rustling sound, but he paid it no mind. “You love Miss Bennet. She loves you. She will marry you tomorrow morning. You will make her your wife in every sense of the word by tomorrow night. And after that I have no doubt you will both remain just as charming, easy, courteous, forgiving, indulging, adoring, and obliging as you ever were. Now, in anticipation of the coming month when you will have nothing to do but dwell on the perfections of your bride and enjoy her charms, please find something else to speak about until then, man!”
Bingley stared, dumbfounded, but having exhausted his mental resources by being patient, civil and social to those around him while in the throes of his own turmoil and anticipation for the coming day, Baugham withdrew with his last strength and stalked off to his bedroom to plead his surrender.
It was true; he looked forward to the next day as much as anyone downstairs, but for completely different reasons than those anxious to witness or participate in the ancient ritual that would usher in a new order and life.
Riemann was still giving him a jaundiced eye when he helped him undress and Baugham pleaded exhaustion and lack of patience from the nonsense he had been subjected to all day. Riemann offered no comments — he never did — but moved around his master in silence that was all the more loud for being so quiet.
“Oh, stop it, man,” Baugham mumbled and stretched his back. “You are not the injured party here, despite my lack of interest in what constitutes a properly brushed coat.”
The unspoken disbelief in his valet’s eyes at that comment caused Baugham to retreat.
“Oh, maybe you are right,” he said. “I should look my best tomorrow. If only to grant her the fullest satisfaction when she casts me from the highest cliff.”
Riemann’s frown softened. “Early start tomorrow, my lord,” he offered. “Shall you want your book and a glass of wine all the same as usual?”
“No,” Baugham said firmly. “I am going straight to bed. And then tomorrow will come all the more quickly. Thank God.”
Chapter 33
The Lovers Finally Get Each Other
The hallways were still dark when Holly, barefoot and in her nightgown, moved quickly and deliberately through the door, slipped into Elizabeth’s room and quickly crawled into her bed.
“Holly?” a sleepy voice beside her questioned.
“Shh . . . ” she answered. “Go back to sleep.”
But it was too late; Elizabeth turned toward her and took her hand.
“I’m glad you are here. Today is going to be so hectic and I was afraid I wouldn’t have time to seek you out. Talk to me Holly, tell me it will all be well . . . I am thrilled and frightened and happy and sad all at once. And I am worried about you . . . ”
“Hush!” Holly whispered. “None of that! This is your day, Eliza, yours and Jane’s, and it will be perfect because you deserve nothing less. You aren’t to think of anything unpleasant, least of all me and my silliness. I just wanted a minute, before everyone wakes up and it all begins . . . to say a proper goodbye . . . ” she swallowed hard, “and to tell you how much I love you and will miss you. And how happy I am for you.”
She could feel Elizabeth reach out and pull her into a hug.
“How many times have we lain just like this, Holly? Whispering together in the dark, making plans and sharing dreams? Not nearly enough, I know, but I cherish every single memory. You know that no matter what I am called or where I live, I will always love you, don’t you? Nothing will change.”
“Don’t be silly, Elizabeth,” Holly smiled, “everything will change, just as it should — most especially your partner for whispering together in the dark.” She could not see, but she knew Elizabeth would smile at that. “I just wanted this one last moment.”
They talked together quietly while the house began to stir. A few times Elizabeth tried to turn the conversation in her direction, but Holly deflected it and, as is only right and proper, the talk mostly focused on ceremonies, breakfasts, travelling clothes, touring plans and a fervent insistence on regular letters and frequent and long visits once she was established.
All too soon a summoning knock sounded on the door, and Holly scooted out of her cousin’s bed after giving her a kiss on the forehead. Already as she walked back to her own room she could see that the pandemonium had begun — trays were coming up, dresses, flowers and ribbons floated from one end of the hall to the other, the smell of curling hair wafted through the air mixing with the aromas of the cooking preparations downstairs, amidst it all were the happy shrieks and giggles of the Bennet girls and the excited exclamations of her aunt.
HE COULD TELL BY THE way Darcy hitched up his right eyebrow that he was surprised to see him waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“I’m early,” Darcy said.
“Well,” Baugham said and straightened his waistcoat for the umpteenth time, “I’m earlier.”
Despite having been fussed over by his man like never before that morning, after a hasty cup of coffee and a little makeshift breakfast in his room, Lord Baugham had still descended the stairs first of all the gentlemen. The ladies were not expected to journey to the church until later and so Lord Baugham had waited in fidgeting silence at the bottom of the stairs for Darcy and Bingley to join him.
Even if he had called his valet’s ministrations a “damned fuss,” Lord Baugham knew Riemann’s work had been impeccable. If nothing else, he could take comfort in the knowledge that whatever trials he would experience today, he would do so cutting a very distinguished and elegant figure. Darcy looked him over and a silent smile of approval played on his lips.
Baugham countered with a hitched eyebrow of his own and drew out his watch to relieve his impatience.
Just then they heard quick steps on the landing above them as Mr Bingley made his way to join them.
“Darcy!” he cried only half way down. “My lord! Here you are! Splendid! All set?”
Yesterday’s nervousness seemed to have been exorcised and the man was all smiling affability and good humour. His lordship suddenly remembered his own mission that morning and waved at the footman to call for clothes and carriage.
“Well then, let’s get this misery over and done with, shall we?” he muttered and pushed the grooms towards the door.
“THERE, MAMAN,” HOLLY SAID AS she fastened the last button. “You are beautiful.”
In the hallway they could hear the sounds of opening and closing doors and footsteps rapidly running up and down the staircase, but Mrs Tournier’s room was much more subdued. As if by unspoken agreement, very little was said as they helped each other with the finishing touches of their own toilettes. Examining herself in the full-length mirror with a critical eye, Arabella Tournier pronounced a clipped, “I’ll do, I suppose,” before turning her attention to her daughter. As she busied herself with Holly’s buttons and arranging the skirt of her newly re-made gown just so, she could not help but feel relief — for her daughter’s sake — that the festivities would soon be at an end and they would, in a short time, be back and safe at Rosefarm, just the two of them. An irritated breath escaped her just then and though Holly looked at her curiously, she did not bother to explain.
There would be no such thing as ‘safe at Rosefarm’ any longer, not with that devil Pembroke in control. And just the two of them . . . well, she knew that if she tried, she might be able to dissuade Holly from her plans to encourage the doctor’s attentions. What she did not know was whether she ought to try.
The sounds outside the door were dying down and they could hear the carriages coming up the gravel drive below them. Now is not the day to dwell on these matters, Mrs Tournier silently declared to herself and, as she shared a look with her daughter, she knew Holly had just determined something similar.
