by Gail McEwen
She nearly startled when, within seconds, first one then the other jumped up and cried:
“Oh, my shawl. I must have dropped it! I’ll go and . . . ”
“No! Please, allow me . . . ”
“Goodness!” Mrs Tournier commented, not a little alarmed, before turning to his lordship and saying crisply, “Did you plan that, too?”
Apparently, Mrs Tournier reflected, she had hit a raw nerve because Lord Baugham rose with a murmur and hastily walked out. She cast her daughter a glance, but Holly was arranging her skirts and saying something inane about heat and fires. When his lordship returned, he was carrying the missing garment as if it was a rag of undeterminable origin and instead of returning it to its owner, he gave it to her with another murmur.
“Maman thought I might be cold,” Holly said in a queer voice. “She didn’t know . . . we didn’t know about the fire.”
“Oh, I didn’t light the fire!” his lordship protested and then pointedly looked about for the staff.
“No, of course you didn’t,” his betrothed said. “No, you couldn’t have known about the fire. Being so hot, I mean.”
“But it is good,” Lord Baugham said while still eyeing the room. “Hot fires are good. Just as they should be on cold . . . cold winter . . . nights. And all the way into spring of course.”
“Of course,” his bride agreed enthusiastically. Mrs Tournier narrowed her eyes.
“You must be hungry,” she said slowly. “You are no doubt affected by the excessive heat after your extended wanderings around cold hallways.”
She noted that at exactly the moment she chose to deliver this observation, Lord Baugham’s imperious look finally attracted a servant and Holly chose to take the shawl out of her mother’s hands and busily fold it into exemplary neatness.
Mrs Tournier sighed. So there was a “garden” in this place, too, but instead of abruptly finding business with his horse like the last time, his lordship had come into dinner with them. She decided to make the best of the evening and its incomprehensible conversation and thank the heavens that a separation was forthcoming.
The conversation part was perversely entertaining. Everything she said was met with excessive interest while the comments of the other party were met with hasty acceptance and monosyllabic replies — and no eye contact. The obvious trespass on polite intercourse and decorum from earlier in the day was compensated by such formal drawing room manners that Mrs Tournier was certain she was going to lose all patience.
But, it had to be owned, this obvious state of affairs did cause her some relief as well. It had been a curious and very quick courtship and it was to some degree reassuring to see her daughter so free from doubt, not to mention his lordship so single-minded. Nevertheless, Mrs Tournier decided as she watched her daughter accidentally brush over his lordship’s fingers as they both reached for the salt shaker, the situation probably warranted a candid discussion with her daughter on the ways of the world. She may be touching in her defence of Scottish marital customs, but she had a very short memory if she was likewise putting her faith in the social customs of small Scottish villages. Yes, there were plenty of reasons for a small chat and enthusiastic endorsement of a wedding before Christmas.
WHEN THE POST CHAISE AT last pulled into the Caledonian Thistle yard on the last leg of the journey home, all she could think about was the hope that Mrs Higgins had kept supper warm and lighted the fire in her bedroom. If she never set her foot in a carriage again, it would not be too soon!
It had been a difficult goodbye and that last kiss he had stole while her mother had her back turned and was arranging her skirts over the seat was too rushed and too desperate to make up for the morning’s frantic scheming to have a last moment alone.
“I’ll think of you with love,” she had whispered, “even when I curse you for being so far away.”
His smile was unmistakable and he had quickly twined his fingers through hers before parting on the top of the stairs. So she had to do with just the memory of those pressing fingers, that smile and the hasty lips on hers as she sat and watched the landscape change and the northern climate claim ground.
The next morning when she woke up in her old bed in her small room, it took several minutes for her to reconcile the events of the previous days with her present surroundings, but soon she was lying back on her pillows and remembering. Soon after that she jumped up and hastily pulled on her dressing gown. She skipped down the stairs on her way to the kitchen to share her good news with Mrs Higgins, but as she passed the parlour door she suddenly stopped. It was empty, but the sight of her worktable, scattered with papers and pencils, rock samples and specimens, halted her in her tracks. She had said in her letter to Elizabeth that nothing could be wanting to make her happiness complete, but she now knew that everything was not, in fact, perfect.
A feeling akin to regret and guilt welled up in her stomach. She did not, by any means, regret the events in Hertfordshire or her engagement to Lord Baugham, but she did hate the thought that Dr McKenna would be made unhappy and she felt guilty over the fact that he had done so much and been so kind to her. She did not believe any of his actions had been taken in order to create an obligation, but the truth was she did feel thankful to him, and obliged, for his kindness and generosity and she could not think of how she was going to tell him of her engagement. He had always treated her in a manner signifying only friendship and esteem, but the expectation that she would have been able to successfully encourage him beyond friendship, added to the knowledge that she had planned on offering such encouragement, made her feel awkward and uncomfortable.
She ran her fingers over one of her sketches and picked up a rock sample, hefting it in her hand, then allowed it to fall back on the table with a clatter. She left the room, closing the door behind her and went to the kitchen, but not quite as excitedly as she had begun.
MRS HIGGINS STRUGGLED UP THE last slope towards Clyne Cottage with the distinct metallic taste in her mouth from near exhaustion. She still held on to her skirts in one hand to ease her step and clutched her basket in the crook of her arm while panting heavily from her more than brisk pace. A woman her age should not be scampering across the fields with her skirts hitched up like some young slip of a girl, but she was in a hurry. She never stopped to socialise as she usually did on the way to visit her cousin, but pressed on ahead without more than a mutter of an apology to her neighbours and their greetings. Mrs Higgins was in a hurry, because she was in sole possession of earth shattering information and if she did not reach Mrs McLaughlin as soon as possible, someone else might claim knowledge and familiarity with the extraordinary intelligence that had just reached her from her young lady’s own lips and that would not do. It was most especially urgent since a letter was expected and it was a sure thing Mrs Robertson would not hesitate to spread the word once it arrived.
Not far now. She had been rehearsing her announcement ever since Mrs Tournier had dismissed her from the parlour and Mrs Higgins had spontaneously walked up to Miss Tournier and given her a hug and her heartfelt congratulations including a few tears and pinching of young cheeks. Very soon after that had she abandoned her post in the kitchen and set off. And now she was almost there. Just a few more steps around the house . . . through the kitchen garden . . . up to the door and . . . Better take just a few seconds and catch the breath . . . although, of course, that was equally possible inside . . .
Mrs Higgins burst into the kitchen at Clyne Cottage just as Mrs McLaughlin was serving her husband his tea. Both of them looked up in amazement and ceased their activities as soon as Mrs Higgins came in unannounced and set her basket down on the table with a resounding bang.
“Rose?” Mrs McLaughlin said frowning. “What on earth? Is everything alright?”
Mrs Higgins tried to catch her breath and steady herself at the table. Mr McLaughlin, having neglected his neeps for the moment it took him to realise it was not an escaped beast nor a whirlwind that had broken down the door to
the kitchen, calmly went back to his meal.
“Come here, cousin,” Mrs McLaughlin said. “Sit yerself down. Ye’re in a right state!”
“I . . . am . . . well,” Mrs Higgins said and tried to swallow the bile that crept up her throat.
“For certain yer nae such thing!” Mrs McLaughlin said sternly. “Yer red as a lobster in the face and yer eyes are about to pop out of their sockets. Ye’ll give yerself an apoplexy! Sit down!”
Mrs Higgins did as she was told for she could do nothing more and she needed her strength to impart her knowledge, not to argue with her imposing cousin.
“Now, don’t tell me ye’ve been running all the way from Clanough, Rose, ye know right well it’s nae good fer ye. Yer nae as young as ye used to be and with the cold in yer lungs and the way ye exhaust yerself in this cold weather, ye’d be a fool to . . . ”
“Laird Baugham!” Mrs Higgins managed to spit out. Her cousin stopped her tirade instantly.
“What about his lairdship?”
Mrs Higgins thought she might have started out at the wrong end anyway for all her careful planning.
“That is . . . ” she attempted, but had to clutch her chest again and swallow a few times. “Miss Tournier really . . . ”
Now her cousin was looking at her with a distinct frown and sat down beside her.
“What in God’s name are ye blabberin’ about? Do ye have news of his lairdship through Miss Tournier?”
Mrs Higgins nodded. “They’re getting married.”
It sounded so flat the way the words almost wheezed out of her between her attempts to steady her breaths, but the effect they had on Mrs McLaughlin was mesmerising nonetheless. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes bulged and she sat absolutely frozen in front of her, just staring back without making a single sound. Mrs Higgins sat back in silence herself and let her heart slowly slip down her throat and back into her chest again.
This singular constellation was enough for Mr McLaughlin to glance up from his meal at his wife and her kin.
“Humpf,” he concluded after a while. “Weel, nae ferlie. That was a teed baw.[1]” And he wiped his mouth and left the table.
Pemberley House
Derbyshire
My dear, sweet, excellent Holly,
I am stealing time from all my various obligations like congratulatory visits, answering felicitations (who are half of these people who write me to tell me they are so happy for me?!), learning to navigate in and outside of my already beloved Pemberley and, most especially, my dear Mr Darcy, to send you my love and heartfelt congratulations. How happy, happy you have made me with your wonderful news! Mr Darcy sits by me as I write this, admiring my hand and style, as he should at every opportunity from now on, and although he is quite jealous of my attention, he expresses full confidence in my ability to adequately portray his delight and happiness for you as well. We are both so pleased about the news! He, it must be confessed, is also astonished, but I told him it was only his blindness for my own charms that stupidly led him to ignore his lordship’s obvious feelings for you. I think he almost believes me.
Oh Holly, I wish I could find the words to tell you about married life! It is wonderful! But it is more than that, it is bewildering, confusing, so strong and at times almost feverish in its expression but it really is the most wonderful thing. And, as you too will no doubt have the joy of discovering, the stronger sex can be so weak while the weaker sex so strong that the promise of complete harmony of one mind and one flesh in a perfect state of bliss really is attainable. I do not know if one is supposed to discuss it or even how, but you will see what love can do. And when we next see one another we will drink our tea in silence and elegance, look at each other and just know.
I am so happy for you! Of course, I am happy for myself for being such an excellent cousin in my perseverance in subjecting you and his lordship to one another’s company and for being so clever as to boldly impose on two people and thus make four persons happy in one go. And I am so very happy I could extract that promise from you not to swear to things no one has the right to forsake in the name of principles. You will be very happy, I know it, and when you send that piece of wedding cake to me I shall cry a little for the childhood friends who are now so very grown-up and established beyond their wildest dreams. They will be happy tears, Holly, because of all the people in the world, I can think of no one who deserves to be happy more than you!
All my love and sincerest congratulations once more.
Your cousin
Elizabeth
MCKENNA THOUGHT HE HAD BRACED himself. He had spent the time of Miss Tournier’s absence preparing himself for any possible outcome of her time in England in the company of Lord Baugham again. Once he heard that she had returned, he made himself wait several days, but this morning when he was breakfasting at the inn, Robertson stopped by his table and asked if he would drop something by Rosefarm if he was planning to go that day, and he readily agreed.
He thought he had braced himself, but when he realised he was being commissioned to deliver a letter to Miss Tournier he felt a sinking in his chest, and when he saw a return address of Cumbermere Castle, Cheshire, he knew that he had not really been prepared at all. He tried to give it back to the landlord, but Robertson was already rushing back to the bar to address a billing dispute with another patron.
So he set out for Rosefarm Cottage unenthusiastically, but he came upon her in the lane on the way. She appeared distracted and did not see him coming her way until she was nearly upon him.
“Oh! Doctor!” she exclaimed, before quickly dropping her eyes, “It’s . . . it’s good to see you.”
So there he was, standing face to face with Miss Tournier on the road and not knowing how to approach the subject of the letter that weighed so heavily in his chest pocket. She was obviously uncomfortable and casting about for something to say, but as much as he might understand, and even sympathise with her discomfort, he was also at a loss.
“We just returned,” Miss Tournier finally broke the silence, “I mean, it’s been several days, of course, but, well . . . I am on my way to the post office.”
Her words pulled him out of his stupor. Here was the opening if ever one was to present itself. He reached into his coat pocket.
“Then it is lucky we met, Miss Tournier, for now I can save you the trip. Mr Robertson has asked me to deliver this to you.”
He watched as her eyes brightened, “A letter?” She started to reach out for it, but then she let her hand drop slowly.
“Yes. He thought you might want this particular one right away.” He held it out to her and she took it from his hand thoughtfully and ran her finger over the seal.
“You have seen who it is from, of course.”
“I have.”
“I think I should . . . ”
“No need, Miss Tournier. No need at all.”
They stood motionless again for some time, both staring at the letter she held in her gloved hands. McKenna at last cleared his throat.
“Well, I think I had best be getting back. Please accept my congratulations and give your mother my best.”
“Thank you,” Holly raised her eyes to him, “I will, thank you. But will you not come to tea, or perhaps . . . we could do some work?”
“No,” he shook his head slowly, and smiled, “Tomorrow, I think. I am sure you will need to recover from your journey. Perhaps . . . yes, tomorrow.”
“Of course.”
Stiff bows and curtseys followed and then the lady and the gentleman slowly turned and walked back in the directions they had come. McKenna returned to his room to work for the rest of the day in silence and solitude. Holly returned to Rosefarm, climbed the stairs slowly and closed herself in her bedroom.
Too ambivalent about the scene that had just passed, she could not bring herself to break the seal at first. She crawled up onto her bed and sat cross-legged, holding the letter in her lap and trying to reclaim her earlier excitement at the thought of receiving t
his very letter. She closed her eyes and pictured him, his smile, his eyes, that way he had of looking at her. She looked at the silly willow ring still on her hand and smiled as she twirled it around her finger. She examined the seal and the written direction and imagined him sitting at his desk writing to her. And eventually, her unease lessened and her anticipation grew; she broke the seal and began reading her very first love letter.
CLANOUGH WAS A SMALL VILLAGE, and like every other small village, town, or community throughout the world and throughout the ages, its inhabitants were closely connected and intimately concerned with the goings-on of all its other inhabitants. Births and deaths, one man’s habits of drunkenness or sloth, one woman’s long-suffering endurance or propensity to nag, family quarrels, financial blessings or struggles, causes of rejoicing or causes for despair — all were viewed as the rightful knowledge and property of the entire populace. And, like most small, intimately acquainted communities, the sudden elevation of one of their own to unexpected fortune and prosperity was not always greeted with rejoicing. In too many homes the cry, upon hearing the news sweeping through the neighbourhoods like wildfire, was, “Why her and not me . . . or you . . . or our Meg . . . ?” This was something Holly should have been aware of, having spent so many years in the small community of schoolgirls that was Hockdown, but she was not thinking of such things this day. This day, all she could think of was her need to get out of the house.
It was the low murmur of voices that pervaded the rooms — the voices of her mother and Mr Crabtree as they negotiated over her worth and her future — that drove Holly out into the cold wind to run Mrs Higgins’ errand to the butcher for the day’s meat.
Slowing down her steps as she neared the post office, she wondered if she should take herself inside to inquire after letters. There had been one yesterday — a very lovely letter that had put colour in her cheeks and a lump in her throat and that had convinced her that her betrothed was the sweetest, most charitable, loving and poetic man on earth. A reply had already been dispatched with Mrs Higgins that morning, but as he had said he would write to her every day . . .
