by Gail McEwen
Still she was hesitant. It had surely been nothing, Mrs Robertson was known for her good natured lack of tact, but lately it seemed that there were always others there too. And especially Mrs Campbell, who was really an awful gossip.
Holly shook her head and kicked a stone in her path sending it scrambling along towards the road. She wanted a letter from him more than she feared local gossip and stupidity. Had it not always been so? She had always been subject for talk and speculation and ill-advised references to “the Jacobin’s lass” and the “radical girl.” It had calmed down in later years because she was no longer a daily feature of village life and people had grown used to the war. Besides, these days there were plenty of animosity towards the powers that be in the home countries and a war weariness that could not be bothered with who was and was not of an enemy race and so talk had moved on. Those foolish people, they were like that stone in her path she had just kicked. You nudged them a little in their deep set beliefs and away they rattled for a while until they came to a standstill and lay waiting in the path of someone else to put some fuss into their dreary lives.
Holly winced to herself. That Mrs Robertson. She really had no use for any more stupidity. She was restless and had difficulty concentrating on the Doctor’s work as it was and his sad looks and obvious new reticence followed her whenever she let her thoughts wander beyond what was before her. The only thing that soothed her were his letters — his darling letters that she slept with and carried around in her pocket, fingering them at every opportunity and tried to read, listening and trying to imagine how he would say the words on that paper, how he would say he missed her, how he loved her.
“Oooh!” Mrs Robertson had said so cheerfully and winked first at Holly and then at Mrs Campbell. “I kno why ye’re here, dearie, don’t I?”
Maybe her smile could have been friendlier and a little warmer, but Holly really could not stand Mrs Robertson at the best of times and so she had thought it would be better to stay calm and unaffected.
“Do you have any letters for me, please?”
Mrs Robertson gave a cooing noise and rubbed her hands together. “Aye, I do indeed. I have been waiting all morn to give it to ye, I certainly have!” She shuffled through her post and Holly wished she would hurry up or even address Mrs Campbell because she definitely did not want to get into a conversation with her.
“Aye, here it is!” Mrs Robertson held up a folded sheet of paper for both Holly’s and Mrs Campbell’s inspection. “Such a neat hand,” she went on. “Very rare in a man. Very. And I do have some experience in that field,” she added seriously. “Quality.”
Holly had thanked her and made for the door. “And generous, too,” Mrs Robertson cooed more in the direction of Mrs Campbell again since Holly was about to walk out the door with the object of her interest. “Why, fancy him sending all that money to the mister to cover the postage! It was a canny work that caught him, my dear. Aye, but she’s always been the clever one!”
Now that she had the letter, she was in no hurry to complete her task and return to the house. She would instead savour the anticipation, holding off on breaking the seal until the last possible moment. Therefore she took her time wandering the high street, looking in shop windows, admiring the latest offerings on display and ignoring the proprietors’ new-found interest in her as they stood at the glass and beckoned for her to enter. She nearly succumbed to the temptation at the milliner’s, debating whether that lovely new bonnet in the window was too extravagant a purchase to add to her trousseau, and as she hesitated in the doorway, she overheard a conversation between Miss Primrose Tristam and her sister Prudence as they walked past without seeing her.
“But Primmie, you mustn’t say things like that. You have no reason to think . . . ”
“Don’t be a simpleton, Pru,” Miss Tristam scoffed. “How else do you think she could pull off such a coup?”
“But you really cannot suggest . . . Primmie, we have never known her to act in such a way.”
“Prudie, if you can explain why a man like him would offer marriage to a girl like her if he didn’t have to, I would like to hear it.”
Prudence blinked stupidly, “Don’t you suppose he loves her?”
“You really are a fool,” a deep disgusted sigh escaped from Miss Tristam. “Mark my words. She got up to something in England, I am sure of it. She waited until he was among his own people and society and she got him into some kind of compromising position. It’s not like she hasn’t done it before, you know.”
“Primmie, no!” her sister gasped in disbelief. “Tell me!”
“Mr Pembroke says that she tried the very same thing with him!” she said with a knowing smile. “Of course, that was years ago and he wasn’t fool enough to fall for it, like Lord Baugham did, but believe me, I’m sure his lordship had no choice in the matter . . . ”
Their voices faded as they moved down the street, but Holly had heard enough. Was this what people were saying of her? Her face turned scarlet and she felt alternately hot with shame and cold with fury. She stood, no longer seeing the beautiful display in the window, until she could steady her breathing and resist the urge to follow Primrose and scratch her eyes out.
After she was able to regain her composure, telling herself that whatever Primrose Tristam might think of her had no importance on what she knew to be the truth, she left the milliner’s and headed straight to the butcher shop to fetch Mrs Higgins’ chicken so she could go home and read her letter. The desire for delayed gratification gave way to the need for immediate assurance. Passing the Thistle on the way back, she arrived just in time to see Dr McKenna quickly stepping out the door. She drew in a breath and prepared to deliver a greeting when the door opened again and Mr Grant, obviously intoxicated, lurched out in pursuit of the doctor and crying out in a loud voice, “Walking away won’t change a thing! No matter how you look at it, or try to excuse it, you know good and well she toyed with us both, McKenna!” he shouted to his back.
Dr McKenna’s face was grim and set when he turned around to face Mr Grant.
“Grant, I’ve told you once already that I will not hear any more slanders you have to say against Miss Tournier. I am sorry you were disappointed and I can sympathise with and understand your feelings, but what you say is untrue and too much to be borne! I would strongly advise you to keep your tongue. Now and ever.”
Mr Grant answered, speaking in such a loud and rash tone that Holly, frozen to the spot in horror, felt she wanted to die from the mortification.
“She kept me on the rope for years, until you and that lord showed up — and then after stringing you along, she tosses you aside in a moment, just like she did me, when she could get her greedy claws into something better. How can you defend her?”
Before she could see how it happened, Dr McKenna had taken hold of Mr Grant’s coat and Mr Grant was being propelled over to the outer wall of the inn.
“Grant,” he spoke in a voice of deadly calm to the man pinned against the wall, “Miss Tournier has never implied nor offered anything more than friendship to me — and I am sure she was equally honest and forthright with you. I understand your regrets, but hopes are not expectations, and polite friendship is not encouragement. And if I should hear that any such talk has passed your lips again, I will bring it to his lordship’s attention — and if he is not here to defend Miss Tournier’s honour, I will take that privilege upon myself. I hope I have made myself clear.”
McKenna released him then and Holly watched in shock as Mr Grant stumbled away, mumbling to himself, but she was not able to take herself away before the doctor turned and saw her.
“Miss Tournier!” he called to keep her from walking away, as she was poised to do. She waited while he quickly stepped over to meet her. “I am sorry that you were here to witness that, but please . . . do not take any of it to heart. He could not have . . . he did not mean it, I know.”
“Then how could he speak so?” Holly asked quietly, refusing to meet the
doctor’s gaze, “What would make him, make anyone, say such things?”
McKenna let out a breath and ran his hand over his forehead, “People can say and think many things that they don’t necessarily believe when they are upset and disappointed. I know — ”
“You know?” Holly interrupted. “How do you know? What makes you so certain that Mr Grant did not mean what he said?”
A small smile played across Dr McKenna’s lips, “I know, Miss Tournier, because I know you. As Mr Grant knows you. And both he and I, and anyone else who knows you, will never believe that you are capable of acting improperly, or selfishly. It’s just talk, Miss Tournier, and talk will blow over.”
“Dr McKenna, you are too kind, truly.” Holly felt uncomfortable receiving such praise from him of all people, but she did not know how to express herself without alluding to the subject that had as yet, and always would, remain untouched between them. “But I thank you for speaking in my defence.”
“Not at all,” it was his turn to mumble. “I do it gladly and sincerely.”
There was an awkward pause, where many things could have been spoken and none were, but then, after he had ascertained that she was quite alright, and she had politely but firmly declined his offer to see her home, Holly said goodbye. She mechanically made her last purchases, wondering if every friendly smile or curious stare masked ugly and unkind thoughts like the ones she had been subjected to already. When she walked back to Rosefarm, her mind was whirling with thoughts, questions and doubts.
Chapter 37
In which we Learn that the Pen is the most Effective Weapon when Moving Opposing Armies Closer to One Another
Holly came home to the same voices of her mother and his lordship’s solicitor droning on about settlements, pin money, jointures and trusts. She delivered her purchases and told Mrs Higgins she was fatigued and would be going up to her room for a nap. The housekeeper smiled and pinched her cheek and told her to take good care of herself.
Up in her room, Holly slipped off her shoes, loosened her laces and crawled under her blankets, her mind still swirling with what she had heard that day, feeding the lingering doubts that ever hovered around the outskirts of her thoughts.
Why would a man like him offer marriage to a girl like her?
She shook her head to clear it of doubt and drew out his letter.
Cumbermere Castle
Cheshire
My Dearest, most Ravishing Bride,
The most fatal thing about you, my dear, is that you always seem to make me act against my own better judgement. Don’t think I blame you for that trait, because in actual fact I praise you for it. It has, on the whole and particularly of late, made me a very happy man. However, this letter of yours that I have just read under the eyes of my valet — a man who knows me and my bad habits and traits better than I do myself — will and must awaken that very instinct in me, make me act impulsively and raise alarm in anyone who knows me. When you write that you miss me and wish for my return, it is all I can do not to order my horse at once and be on my way to Scotland without a second thought. What does it matter that not everyone shares my opinion of just how right that would be? Good sense be damned, my love calls me and I am powerless to resist . . .
It was a sweet sentiment and she could not help but smile, but still her doubts would not rest. Did she truly, as he claimed, make him act against his better judgement? She could not deny that had most certainly been the case in the early days of their acquaintance. But even recently . . . her mind wandered, as it frequently did, to that moment at the inn in Nottingham. He had nearly lost control then; he said he nearly lost all sense of himself and he had berated himself for it. The question suddenly troubling her was: was he acting against his better judgement now? Was this engagement and proposed marriage merely an impulsive decision that sounded feasible when he was so far away from home, and desirable when he was surrounded by the happiness and celebration of a friend’s wedding? Would he come to regret his rash proposal and wish he had used his judgement more wisely? Would he come to believe, as everyone else in the world appeared to, that she had set out to secure him for her own financial and social gain? Would he end up despising her for it?
Rosefarm Cottage
Clanough
Selkirk
It is dark, but I sit here burning a candle so that I can read your last letter once again and try, somehow, to find some peace amid all my doubts and fears. But what strikes me at this moment are not your professions of love or the examples of your wit or gift of language. Instead I read your first paragraph over and over and wonder that you can so blithely exclaim over the loss of your good sense in matters involving me – and I wonder what it will mean, for you and for me, when that good sense returns, as it must. Too, I wonder if your mention of it indicates that you are beginning to see that things cannot be what you want simply because you want them, and I wonder if you are now asking yourself some of the same questions that are plaguing me.
I need to say something, but first I must tell you that my feelings for you are unchanged, nor will they ever change. I love you. I have loved you since that first kiss and before — every time you came to my rescue, every time you made me angry, every time we quarrelled and every time we enjoyed each other’s company — my love was growing, though I did not know. When you kissed me, I knew. I still know. But that is beside the point . . . maybe it isn’t even enough.
I wonder if marriage between two people such as you and me can ever be. Maybe we are too different, maybe I am not what you think I am, or maybe I am exactly what you think I am, but not at all what you need.
So now I am beginning to think that you should stay in Cumbermere for a longer time. While there, you will have time to think, to decide, perhaps to seek counsel before you are bound to me forever to your regret. If it was a momentary impulse that made you offer marriage to me, a matter of being swept up in some whim or fancy, then I will release you from your promise without reproach or condition. The thought of us marrying, as wonderful as it might seem, was probably too fantastic to be real anyway.
This I offer to you. What I ask in return is a timely answer to what your decision will be.
H.
MR RIEMANN WAS LYING ON his bed, his midday meal satisfactorily shared with the rest of the staff below stairs and with one biscuit transported for his personal enjoyment in his hand. He lay back, happily taking advantage of the peace surrounding his Master’s impending meal and that same gentleman’s habit of either taking a small nap in his library or — as was more usual these days — closeting himself into his study with his steward or some other member of his staff for a long afternoon of actual work.
After thoughtfully savouring the biscuit to the last crumb, very carefully lest he should end up with evidence of his indulgence either on the bed or on his person, he crossed his legs and then his arms behind his head and felt himself drift off into well-deserved relaxation while doing a mental inventory of what was still needed to supplement his Master’s wardrobe for the upcoming nuptials. His thoughts had just slipped over into that unregulated state between rational thought and untamed dreaming when he heard rapid footsteps approaching his chamber through his lordship’s dressing room.
Before he had time to fully get off the bed, the door flew open and Lord Baugham pushed his head through.
“Riemann,” he said in a queer voice, “we are leaving.”
Neither the order itself nor the manner of it came as a surprise to the valet.
“Very well, sir,” he said calmly and discreetly buttoned his waistcoat. “And where to, my lord?”
Strangely enough, his lordship paused for a moment. “Clyne,” he then said forcefully and left the valet’s room.
When Riemann caught up with him a few minutes later in his lordship’s own bedroom, Lord Baugham was rummaging through a pile of books on the table.
“Put these into my trunk,” he said. “And I have some more downstairs that belong at Clyne. And then I ne
ed the papers. Let’s leave in an hour.”
“My lord,” he said, “I think you mean you will leave in an hour.”
He was answered with a waving hand and receding steps towards the door. “Certainly!”
Mr Riemann watched his Master walk out the door leaving him to his chores and he started preparing his lordship’s riding satchel, mentally calculating weather conditions, the distance and necessary stops at inns along the way while trying to recall what — if anything — he had left at Clyne in the way of adequate clothing. He was despondently thinking he would have to reconcile himself to the fact that before he could reach Clyne with the rest of his lordship’s effects, his Master would already be roaming around his Scottish hideaway, making his social visits and doing his courting in his less than his best clothes. That was when he discovered a letter that had been left under the pile of books and he carefully removed it. It was a lady’s hand — long, neat and dutifully crossed. Without reading any further, Riemann noticed it had been scrunched by a strong hand and he instinctively smoothed out the page, re-folded it in the same neat fashion and, smiling a little to himself, decided to deposit it in his Master’s already cramped luggage.
HOLLY’S HANDS WERE COLD. SHE held them in front of her mouth and blew on them to keep them warm. Her nose was cold, too. She touched it with her sleeve and rubbed it gently to warm it up, but as soon as her hand left her face she could feel the tip of it go numb again. She could, of course, have moved away from the cold window and stopped staring out of it at the even colder view outside, where a few people passed their house swiftly to be out of the freezing weather as soon as possible, but she found she could not. If she did, if she abandoned her vigil, she would have had to find something else to do and she was paralyzed and unable to concentrate on anything other than her rambling thoughts.
