Twixt Two Equal Armies

by Gail McEwen

  Hot tears stung her eyes and she leaned her forehead against the window glass. Her mother had no idea she was so miserably idle. She thought she was in her room attending either to her sewing, or her letter writing, or even her lists for Lord Baugham’s library. She had no idea her daughter stood staring out of the window, listlessly wondering in how many ways good intentions led one straight to a personal hell.

  No letter today! Still! Mrs Robertson had told her with a barely concealed smirk. Those words, and the smug sentiment behind them, rang over and over again in her head. So perhaps he was doing what she had asked of him. Perhaps he was taking some time to deliberate. She was surprised at how his obedience and consideration felt so . . . hurtful. Like she had been pushed into a prison cell of her own making and the very door she had asked to be shut had slammed her in the face. Would she never hear from him again? Should she really have sent that letter at all? Perhaps it could have waited, but then . . . No. She shook her head and shifted her feet, pressing her other sleeve against her cold face. That would not have been right. It would not have been right towards him and if she had not told him the truth and given him a choice he would surely have ended up despising her if . . .

  Eyes drawn to a commotion in the distance, in a moment Holly realised that the rider tearing down the lane with no regard of life or limb, either for his beast or the surrounding people, was destined for her own door, she felt a swift stab of terror run through her. He had come! But why? The possible answers to that question only served to terrify her. Unable to move an inch, as if in a dream, she watched that familiar, tall figure hurl himself off his horse and just throw the reins over the gatepost without one look behind him. She heard his steps — steps of determination. Bad or good determination? Doom or salvation? She swallowed when she realised she must go down and meet him. Instinctively she knew mere propriety and a flight of stairs would not keep him from barging into her chamber if she did not cut him short. So she flung herself out of the room and to the stairs, only to find him already waiting for her at the foot of them, hatless, gloveless, red-faced and breathing heavily, looking up at her with a raging ice-storm in his blue eyes.

  Neither of them said a word and Holly felt her heart beating in her throat and her hands were now hot and clammy. Just as she was about to offer some stammering statement on his surprising presence, her mother emerged from her parlour. For a moment, time stood still until Mrs Tournier swept past her daughter up the stairs.

  “I will search for my Thesaurus in my room,” she said. “Thoroughly.”

  It broke his spell on her and she moved awkwardly, still holding on to the banister. When she could look at him again, his eyes had shifted to a duller colour and a look of desperation had overtaken them.

  “Holly . . . ” he said.

  Her first overwhelming urge was to run down to him and throw herself in his arms, but she was only two steps down when she remembered her doubts. She stopped herself and gripped the banister tightly.

  “You didn’t write.”

  “I am here,” he said in a voice strangely hoarse.

  “I know,” she murmured, her voice sounding distant and oddly calm. “You must be cold.”

  He turned his hand in a dismissive gesture, but let it fall half way. Then the silence enveloped them again and Baugham fought the urge to take the very few steps that were needed to close the gap between them. Instead he recalled his purpose and asked the question that had been plaguing him for nearly three days now.

  “What happened?”

  All those hours in the saddle, all those thoughts spinning around in his head making him lose track of time and distance, all those dark evenings at inns waiting to be off again, the fears, the doubts, the anger, the frustration all came out in that one question. He had no idea what type of reception he was expecting upon his arrival, he had thought only of getting there, but this cold and distant welcome was not it. But this was what he had needed to know — something had happened.

  Holly looked at him squarely, but failed to answer. How could she answer without damning herself?

  “That was a nice letter you sent,” he then went on crisply, offended at her aloofness. More than offended, he was terrified, and it caused him to retreat from her, from the feelings that threatened to make him lose control and throw himself at her feet. And that — the fear, the vulnerability — made him angry. “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate having my word and my character and my future happiness thrown into doubt so ably and succinctly. You have quite the gift.”

  “It is your future happiness that concerns me the most. And mine.” She gripped the railing so hard that her hand began to ache.

  “And so you have decided . . . when? . . . suddenly? . . . after much deliberation? . . . that I don’t know my own mind? That I cannot be happy with you, or you with me?”

  It was supposed to come out in a dry and matter-of-fact way, but he felt the desperation well up from within him. Was it all in vain? Had he been wrong?

  Struggling hard to keep her voice steady, she said, “I begin to wonder if that might be so, at least in your case. And if you are not happy, I could not be so.”

  His voice rose in pitch, “I see I must thank you for taking it upon yourself to determine how I am to be happy, in opposition of everything I have sworn to you of my feelings. You are indeed too wise, too kind for me . . . ”

  But suddenly he had no more strength for anger or sarcasm. His whole body ached, his bones, his head, his eyes and, feeling his legs go weak from exhaustion, he had to steady himself at the banister and look down at his feet — dirty and throbbing within their boots — willing them not to fail him.

  “Can we sit . . . somewhere? Please?”

  She was down the rest of the steps in the matter of a moment, and his arms were around her and she could feel him leaning on her for support as he rested his head against hers and whispered in her ear over and over.

  “What happened, Holly? Why? Why would you say . . . ? Why would you think . . . ?”

  She felt him wavering again so she led him to the parlour sofa.

  “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

  His head shot up, his eyes suddenly clear again.

  “Wait? No, Holly, waiting is what I have been doing for three torturous days. Now I am here; you must explain this to me.”

  “I will, just allow me to fetch you some wine.” She even managed a smile at this strange turn of events, as she mirrored the service he performed for her at the Tristam’s soiree-musicale. She did not wait for his protests, but slipped out and returned again quickly with a generous glass. Handing it to him, she sat down stiffly on the edge the chair opposite him. She looked down at the dark, red liquid in the glass he held.

  “People talk;” she said almost soundlessly, “sometimes what they say is true.”

  He drank greedily, but stopped once he heard her words.

  “Who is talking? Have they told you something? Something about me?”

  “No, nothing about you,” she said, pre-occupied and needing to continue while she still had the nerve. “Not about you . . . about me.”

  “I don’t understand.” It was true. He was at a complete loss. What did that have to do with her altered feelings for him? “What did they say?”

  She concentrated on her hands clasped on her lap and told him everything that she had overheard from Mr Grant and Dr McKenna, from Mrs Robertson, Miss Tristam and her sister.

  “And,” she continued, “the way they look at me as I walk down the street, the things they say . . . it makes it seem like you would never have loved me if I had not set my heart on capturing you, by design, or deceit, or by entrapment. And then I remember the inn, and your letter came and I began to wonder if it was true after all and maybe I am not what you think I am . . . maybe I am what they think I am, because . . . Perhaps we should . . . wait.”

  He leaned back with a sigh and closed his eyes for just a moment. The words came flooding out of her and hit his t
ired brain and exhausted body like a punch in the stomach. Gossip. Small minded people in places where everyone thinks they know everyone else and their business. Everywhere they were all the same. Whether in Clanough or in London. All the same. Lord he was tired.

  “They have no idea what you are,” he said and opened his eyes. “But I do. They have no idea why I love you. They have no idea how you made me love you. But I do.”

  He reached out his hand to her and she slowly slipped hers onto his big, warm palm. “They know nothing about you and me,” he whispered. “The way we fought so hard, so uselessly and how much it hurts to hear you say that the sweet surrender, after all that fruitless fighting, was a mistake or a whim. It wasn’t. It isn’t. Don’t ever tell me it is. Don’t tell me anyone knows that better than you or I.”

  He could see her swallow and fight the tears, but they rolled silently down her cheeks anyway. “I need you, Holly,” he said and carefully touched one of the tears with his thumb. “Don’t shut me out just when I have found you. If you need me to convince you of my love I will do it a thousand times over, but please don’t reject me like this. I don’t want to be outside of your love anymore.”

  She took her other hand and enclosed his, pulling it on to her lap, but would not meet his eyes.

  “And,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper, “what if it is true?”

  His stomach sank and his heart lurched.

  “What if what is true?”

  “What they have been saying about me. What if Primmie is right? What if I really did try to force you into a compromising position where you had no choice? I hadn’t thought of it before, but I never told Maman about that kiss while you were here. You know when I told her? It was when we were on our way to Hertfordshire — just like Primmie said — I waited until you were among your own people and society. What if I really did that to you, to try to trap you?”

  “Trap me?” Baugham sat up straight again and removed his hands. “This is madness! Trap me? As if I have not spent a lifetime avoiding traps and attachments that I could not break out of at a moment’s notice! If I did not want to be trapped, I would not be here. I would not have ridden like a madman for days, half terrified I was going to be cast aside on a whim and half furious that you could doubt my honest feelings just when I am so absolutely convinced of them myself for the very first time! What do you think I am? What does Miss Tristam think I am? A sheep? A cuckold? An idiot?”

  “No! But I . . . ”

  He sprang out of his seat. “Miss Tristam thinks you went hunting for me among ‘my own people’? Snaring me against my own intentions? Forcing me into a compromising position? I have never heard such nonsense in my life! What about me? What about my behaviour? Does Miss Tristam think it is commonplace courtship for a man to abuse his intended at every turn? Accuse her of trespassing and ignorance? Use harsh words against her and her judgement in front of her friends and family and on public roads?! Or does Miss Tristam think that is all part of your very special and successful brand of entrapment, planned and induced by you against my will?!”

  He pressed his fingertips against his temples and rubbed them slowly while he felt his purpose and grip on the situation slowly fade away with his renewed anger.

  “No . . . this is not about Miss Tristam. I will not have her in this conversation. This is about us.”

  “But, it is not just about us. It is about perceptions, and what maybe others can see in us that we do not see ourselves. And I cannot honestly say that if I had known of a way to secure your love, I would not have attempted it. What does that then make me?”

  “Holly, I refuse to hold other people’s perceptions of my conduct as the mirror in which I view myself. I will answer for my actions with my word and reputation as a gentleman and on the Day of Judgement. Other than that I will not have gossips besting my own conscience on what is right and wrong. And neither should you. Why do you even listen to that rubbish — your conscience and your feelings are clear! Enough of Miss Tristam and gossip and slighted lovers and jealousy! I did not come here for them. I came here for you!”

  “My feelings are very clear!” Holly cried in agitation. “I know what I feel for you. But my conscience is not. If you came here for me, you have the right to know what I am. There is more, something else I need to tell you. Mr Grant . . . he was right about one thing. When I came back to Clanough from Elizabeth’s wedding, I had every intention of . . . taking another path. But then I found something better — you — just as he said.” She buried her face in her hands, “You came along just in time and I was so happy I never gave a thought to anyone else but myself. Now, what does that make me?”

  Baugham stared at her.

  “But please do not think . . . Nothing was ever spoken, or assumed, or implied. It is just that you would not see, and then you left and I thought you were happy to get away from me . . . and I was so very upset and wondered if I should just be practical and . . . ”

  She tried unsuccessfully to blink back her tears while still avoiding his eyes.

  “But it was not what I wanted. Everything I have ever wished and hoped and prayed for came true for me in that willow grove. I just never believed it could, and I was sad and afraid. But all along I wanted you . . . and so I did exactly what Mr Grant accused me of doing.”

  He felt panic rise in his throat. Did she think she did not deserve him? Was she going to throw him aside because she had wanted him, but had been prepared to settle for someone else? What about the promise they had made and the promise of happiness he had so clearly seen growing between them? Was she going to doubt that for the sake of a principle? Suddenly he felt exhausted. He had no fight left in him. He had thought he would not have to fight anymore — fight himself, fight her, fight the world.

  He slowly sank down beside her feet and gently took her hand, holding it to his cheek after kissing it.

  “Holly,” he said quietly, fearfully, “you are frightening me. What are you going to do?”

  It was automatic, instinctive; she pulled his head down into her lap and stroked his hair, even as she spoke the words that would release him from his promise to her. “I just — ” her breath caught in her throat and she had to begin again, speaking as steadily as she could, “I just needed you to know the truth. What I will do is up to you.”

  There was a deep sigh somewhere in the folds of her dress and a barely audible murmur.

  “The truth . . . ”

  She looked down at his head in her lap, and it was so comfortable for him to be there like that, so natural for her to run her fingers through his hair. He looked tired; his eyes were closed but she could see the pain in his face.

  “The truth then,” she took a deep breath and from somewhere deep within found the courage to bare herself to him, “The truth is — I love you. I want very much to be your wife.” He raised his head and looked at her as she continued, “But I only want to be your wife if you love me as well. If you still want me. If you are sure of me, of who and what I am. If you do not, if you regret or question your offer, I want you to release me, as I will release you.”

  “Do you really think I do? Do you think that is why I rode over here like this? Why I now lie here and never want to get up? Why, despite everything you said and I said just now, I’m somehow smiling because you told me the truth — that you love me?”

  He turned his face and without even attempting to restrain himself drew a deep breath, feeling her warmth, her smell and the soft fabric of her dress against his cheek.

  “You are such a foolish little bee,” he muttered, “and I will never let you go. From now on, whatever comes, it must be the two of us. It can be no other way without tragedy for our poor, doubtful souls. And in view of that, please let me rest here like this just a little while before I must get up. Smack my foolish, impertinent head if you will, but let me stay.”

  The cold fist of fear and confusion, of guilt and pain slowly released its grip on her heart. She bent down and instead of
giving his head a smack, she gave it a kiss and whispered, “Stay.”

  She could feel the warmth of his breath touch her skin through her skirts as he spoke, eyes closed again, “And what else?”

  “I will marry you. I love you.”

  “Love. My final plea before I surrender. I cannot wait any longer. Marry me soon. Very soon. No talk of waiting.”

  She brushed a stubborn wisp of his hair away from his temple and looked on as she felt his jaw clench once more.

  “I will,” she whispered.

  She felt his body relax; he murmured, “Thank God” just before he dozed off still resting on her lap, his arms still clutching her knees.

  The room gradually grew dim in the late winter afternoon, but Holly was unwilling disturb his rest, so she sat perfectly still, playing with his hair until he stirred and opened his eyes. Reluctantly he pulled away from her and sat back on his heels with an embarrassed smile.

  “Forgive me. I don’t know why I . . . I’m sorry, Holly.”

  “Don’t be. You were tired.”

  He rubbed his hands over his face and tugged at his waistcoat, his face suddenly brightening.

  “And now I’m restored. I hope,” he said, moving to the sofa opposite her once more, “that you have put all these silly doubts and worries behind you, because I have something for you.”

  She pulled just a little away, sat straighter and, like all women, could not disguise the alighted interest in her eyes.

  “For me? Now? You brought me something even after my letter?”

  “Call it a foolish, or even a desperate, optimism, but yes, I carried them with me in hopes — ”

  “Them?”

  “Yes,” he said teasingly. “There are two things. One is old, one is new.”

  He grinned as her eyes flashed and her expression changed into a slight pout.

  “Oh heavens, are you going to punish me by making me do riddles?”

  He kissed her and reached into his waistcoat pocket. “Here is the first.” Withdrawing his hand, he opened it up to reveal a thin gold ring. She gasped and stared at it.