Twixt Two Equal Armies

by Gail McEwen

  “Remember you promised I could give you another?” he said. “This one is a little more durable, which in view of what we have just gone through I should say is most appropriate, and I hope it proves to you my love isn’t a fancy or a feeling. ‘Nor will it change, though all be changed beside’.”

  “Quoting poetry to aid your wooing, my lord?” she asked with a smile. “And such a fanciful poet like Mr Coleridge.”

  “Oh, I have done much better than that,” he said with a self-satisfied air as he handed her the ring. “Take a look.”

  She held it up to look at the engraving — a delicate filigree design on the outside and, on the inside, these words: ‘To adore thee is my duty — Goddess o’ this soul o’ mine!’.

  “Oh,” she sighed in delight. “Burns.”

  “Who else?”

  “Oh, my . . . love, it is perfect! I could not want for a better . . . ” she stammered at a loss for words, so she reached out her left hand. The battered willow ring was still there, dangling precariously and looking as if it might fall off any moment.

  “You do it, love,” she said. “It’s only proper.”

  His eyes warmed and he took the golden ring and slipped it on above the willow one. She gave a little laugh and drew herself up to the crook of his arm again and lifted up her hand to admire it. He took it and caressed her hand with his fingers.

  “Yes, it is perfect, isn’t it? But there is still something else.”

  Her eyes lit up and she looked at him eagerly.

  “As if this wasn’t enough,” she said and smiled.

  “Well,” he said as he dug further in his waist pocket, “when it comes to trinkets I do not think there can be such a thing to a woman’s mind as enough. And in your case I wholeheartedly agree.”

  He finally withdrew his hand and handed her a faded, battered box. In it lay a small reddish-gold locket on a delicate golden chain.

  “Try it,” he said.

  There was no question that the locket was ancient. Directing her questioning eyes at him, she took it with her trembling fingers and held it up for inspection.

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Whose is it?”

  “It’s yours, of course. But before that it was my mother’s,” he said simply. “I think she was given it on the marriage of her sister when she was a bridesmaid. It is not worth much in monetary value, but since it is the only piece of her jewellery left that my father did not . . . well, that is left, it is very valuable. I sent for it from London, where it’s been stashed away with the bankers. First time it has seen daylight in years.”

  Holly turned it over and narrowed her eyes at the faint engraving on the inside.

  “Lady Amelia Isabel Gwenllyan Richwood?” she read. “That was your mother?”

  “Yes,” he smiled, “before she married my father.”

  She looked at him, detecting a hint of withdrawal in his eyes and she hastily decided not to ask what she so wanted to ask this time. He took the locket from her and, leaning in close, reached around to fasten the clasp at the back of her neck. The soft brush of his fingers against her skin sent gooseflesh down her entire body. He kissed her lightly as he drew back, meeting her soft gaze with his own.

  “It’s beautiful. You are beautiful.”

  She was indeed beautiful; her face was beaming as she held her hand out again to admire the thin band. She then raised her hand to the locket and fingered it, reading the inscription once again before turning to him with a look of concern.

  “You should go,” she tentatively touched his cheek. “I still cannot believe you are actually here, but you look so tired.” she smiled. “I have abused you so terribly in making you come because of that letter and yet I am so glad you did. But I will be selfish no more. You must rest.”

  He briefly leaned into her palm before taking her hand and kissing each finger tip and then gave a grimace as he got to his feet.

  “I suppose I must. But I will be by tomorrow again and that will be even more heart-wrenching because I understand you have been receiving regular visits from a certain Mr Crabtree?”

  Holly smiled. “Maman has.”

  Baugham cast a glimpse up the stairs as he put his gloves on. “Is it very hard to find your mother’s Thesaurus?” he asked.

  “Almost impossible sometimes.”

  “Ah.”

  He met her gaze and hesitated. “May I?” he said and caught her hand again, pulling her closer. “Before I go?”

  She nodded her consent and the kiss they shared served as the sweetest balm to their wounded hearts. When he at last let her go, she took his head possessively in her hands and looked at him closely.

  His hair was flat to his head from too many hours under his hat, the grime of the road showed on his face and clothing, he smelled like horse and sweat — and he had never been more beautiful to her. He was like wine to a mouth grown weary of water — and he was looking at her with warmth and love and desire and total surety. And she knew that everything was right and good.

  Holly watched him disappear down the lane from the front step of the house until she could hardly keep from shivering from the cold. Then she re-entered the house and quietly latched the door behind her.

  ON THE LAST OF HIS leg home, his lordship recited nursery rhymes to himself not to fall out of his saddle. His trusted mount could probably have taken him straight home even in an unconscious state, but since Weimar was known to sometimes put his own interest before his Master’s, Baugham did not trust him not to forsake his normal box in the stable at Clyne and instead take refuge in some farmer’s barn nearer by. But when he was close enough to Clyne Cottage for Weimar not to be tempted any longer, he struggled out of his seat, patted his horse on the rump and sent him to the stables on his own for the last few yards.

  Thus he arrived on foot and he automatically steered his steps towards Mrs McLaughlin’s kingdom. The Queen was, indeed, at home, nursing a small nick that she had sustained while cutting turnips in the perfect sized chunks for mutton bone stew while her mind was occupied elsewhere. She had just finished cursing and was reaching for a cloth to wind around her finger when the door opened.

  “Bless me!” was all she could utter when the very person she had been thinking about walked into her kitchen. “Laird, bless me lownly!”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs McLaughlin,” the Master of Clyne said, drawing out a chair and sitting down immediately. “I shan’t drag mud all over the house. I think I’ll just camp out here and rest a bit before I go upstairs, if I may.”

  But Mrs McLaughlin paid his words no heed as she put the kettle on in one stroke and then watched his lordship leaning his head in his hands at her kitchen table, sighing deeply.

  “Is ought wrong, sir?”

  “No,” he said not looking up but rubbing his neck with his hands, “thank God, no.”

  Mrs McLaughlin turned into her larder. Wordlessly bread and cheese and meat appeared in front of his lordship, who just eyed the offerings while he played with the knife. Finally the housekeeper reached up on to her highest shelf and brought down a bottle and a glass.

  “Here,” she said and poured him a measure. “From my cousin up in Aiberdeen. It cures any trouble so ye don’t have to fear I’ll bring out the tonics next and gar ‘em on ye in yer feeble state.”

  Lord Baugham accepted her offering with a smile. “Ah yes,” he said having finished it in one go. “Quite.”

  Mrs McLaughlin took a step closer and looked down at the young man in his sweaty and dirty clothes, pale face and sagging posture. She slowly eased him out of his coat as he sat and let his fingers play over the now empty glass and then lay it over her arm while picking up his hat and gloves.

  “Ye eat now,” she said. “Ye cannae wash or go to yer bed hungrysome. I’ll prepare it for ye meantime.”

  Baugham nodded. In the doorway Mrs McLaughlin halted and looked around once more.

  “Did ye see her?”

  Still he did not answer her in words,
but his countenance told her all she needed to know.

  “Things will be unalike here from now on. That’s good. She is a good woman, that I know. And she brought ye back here, my laird, and for that I will always love her.”

  With that Mrs McLaughlin climbed the stairs with a light heart, curiously stinging eyes and constricted throat to prepare his lordship’s bath, lay out his nightclothes, put extra blankets in his bed and fluff his pillows to perfection, so he could rest under her care for until it was no longer her sole duty.

  IT IS OFTEN SAID THAT all things must come to an end and this is often said with regret at the passing of what was thought or even hoped to be a permanent state of affairs. Our present state is often more comfortable and preferable than changes we have willingly or unwittingly invited into our lives. Even if that change is welcomed and sought after, few of us can leave our old habits and arrangements behind without some slight regret. Who of us has not been guilty of sentimentality and lack of faith in what the future might bring when one season has come to pass and the next is yet waiting to be ushered in? We dwell on the passing and, because man is a creature who likes his history, we parcel our experiences into small narratives, hoping to give meaning and value to the eras of our lives that will soon be delegated to memory.

  It is safe to assume, however, that the close friends we have met in our little Scottish village had few or no regrets in the changes that this new season would bring. Yet, they could not help but realise that the upcoming St. Thomas’ Eve would also bring many comfortable and beloved aspects of their present lives to a close. The end of a daughter and mother in a small cottage together, the end of independence, and even an end to mothers’ exclusive caring concern, whether the object be one’s own daughter, or a charge loved as dearly as a son. However, each of them knew and welcomed this change as far more than just an end. They very clearly saw the beginning as well, and that is the thought we wish to leave our reader with as well. Every end is a beginning and it is never more true than when the story is a love story.

  It would be foolish and unfair to extend our original analogy of two equal armies marching toward confrontation any further. After all, the purpose of this campaign was never the complete victory of one party over the other, but rather a mutual surrender on favourable terms for each. Still, it is the nature of our combatants that arms and strategies will not be easily abandoned, even though they aim for peace. There are many targets to lay siege to and conquer yet, many campaigns and marches to struggle through. It is a happy story, for it is a story about life and love and in every end along the way there is a promising new beginning. In the future, love will change and grow. Love will spread and multiply. Love will be tested and ignored. Love will be in peril and it will be fought for. Lord Baugham and his bride showed much courage in Mrs Tournier’s parlour, for they recognised that their fates lay with the other despite dangers and uncertainties. It is perhaps good to bear in mind that courage is usually rewarded and that Love, if it is trusted, can be stronger than any adversary. But that, as has been said above, is another story.

  But as all several souls contain

  Mixture of things they know not what,

  Love these mix’d souls doth mix again,

  And makes both one, each this, and that.

  — John Donne

  [1] Well, no wonder. Cut and dry from the start.