Twixt Two Equal Armies (21 page)

“Ye bag the roe buck and ye’ll have yer wish, my laird,” Mrs McLaughlin said with no attempt at disguising her wounded pride. “That’s nae where the problem lies at all.”

There was a brief moment when Holly caught Lord Baugham’s eyes and stifled a smile and Lord Baugham looked back feigning complete innocence. The housekeeper got up to fill the cups and Lord Baugham let her pass. As she swished by, his eye caught the arrangement above the hearth of one pair of stockings, a petticoat and a bonnet hanging to dry.

Of its own accord his eye then swivelled back to the owner of said garments and immediately and unconsciously ascertained that the petticoat was indeed missing. As soon as he noticed her deep blush he realised what he had done and looked away, gazing fixedly into his plate instead. Teacups were returned but, as his lordship was about to excuse himself, the clatter of dropping silver sounded.

“Please, let me get that for you, Miss Tournier,” his lordship cried, feeling a sudden need to be chivalrous. Holly, at the same time, felt very much like crawling under the table and was making ready to duck down herself to retrieve her dropped spoon. Her movements shifted the careful arrangement of her skirts and Baugham found himself kneeling at the base of her chair, spoon in hand and in full view of two well-turned but quite bare ankles, and ten, it must be admitted, attractively plump toes.

This time it was his turn to blush scarlet, and he rose with alacrity, returned the offending spoon and quickly excused himself, pleading — well, he hoped it was a somewhat coherent excuse.

S
CARCELY MORE COHERENT WAS
H
OLLY
as she rushed to gather her garments from before the fire, despite the housekeeper’s protests. “No please, they are quite dry enough, really. It’s just a short way now, and I really must . . . ”

She struggled to pull her damp stockings up as Mrs McLaughlin, shaking her head and muttering under her breath, placed the game in her basket and fixed a cover of oilcloth for the journey home.

“Should I nae have Mr McLaughlin bring ye home in his lairdship’s carriage? The rain’s not yet stopped.”

“No!” Holly exclaimed as she tied her petticoat and shrugged into her cloak, still cold and heavy from the soaking rain. “Fine. I’ll be just fine. Thank you for everything, Mrs McLaughlin,” she called behind her as she grabbed her basket and practically flew out the door.

Mrs McLaughlin stayed looking after her, shaking her head, and then returned to the heap of winter chanterelles now awaiting her attention on the kitchen table. Muttering to herself she cleaned and cut and spread them out on a piece of gauze on the warm hearth to dry. Just as she was finishing, Lord Baugham returned, again poking his head around the door, but with much less alacrity than the last time.

“Ah . . . I think I forgot. I
am
going to Brachan by myself tomorrow — even if Mr Darcy will not. Would you be so kind and prepare something in the way of fare. I shall leave first thing in the morning.”

And with that he was just about to withdraw again when Mrs McLaughlin made a threatening, distinctly Scottish noise in her throat.

“What?” said Lord Baugham, sighing at what he knew was a sign of serious annoyance by his housekeeper.

“Next time I’ll thank ye to be a wee bit less chivalrous round women taking refuge frae the rain, my lord.”

“Oh. So you would have me forget my manners while I am here?” his lordship teased, giving her his best charming smile. One look told him that his attempt at disarming her was unsuccessful, so he tried another tack.

“Really, Mrs McLaughlin, it was just an innocent mistake. Unfortunate, I grant you, but no harm done I am sure.”

“Well, ye did nae maybe notice her running out of here, red in the face as a lobster. I tell ye plainly enough, my lord. I’ll have none of that sport in my kitchie. She’s a douce young lass although of, maybe, misfortunate kin and circumstances and she is as good as promised to a young man, too, so she’s nae game for any of that wicked London stuff.”

“Mrs McLaughlin, honestly, I hope you don’t think . . . Promised? Promised to whom? Someone in Edinburgh?”

“To a Mr Grant — a friend of the family.” Mrs McLaughlin, realising she had perhaps been engaging in what could be construed as gossip that bordered on speculation based on neighbourhood tittle-tattle, busied herself in her larder once more. “Will the cottage pie from yesterday be sufficient for ye for the morrow, my lord? I’ll pack some cider as well.”

“Yes, that would be fine,” he answered. “To Mr Grant! The gentleman from Crossling? Are you quite sure? He doesn’t seem quite the type to . . . Are you
quite
sure?”

Since she was far from sure, Mrs McLaughlin simply made a Scottish noise again and hoped his lordship would not press the point. From what she had seen of the young woman today, and from what Mrs Higgins had told her, Mr Grant was eligible, suitable and respectable but would be a clear catastrophe for Holly Tournier to marry.

L
ORD
B
AUGHAM FINALLY HAD HIS
way with his friend the next day as Mr Darcy confessed he was most eager to join his lordship on a fishing expedition. It adhered to all the rules of masculine camaraderie in that the fish, and the success and skill with which one caught them, was the primary object for conversation and debate. The weather cooperated for the most part, the food was Spartan, but enjoyed in silence with a good bottle of whiskey by an open fire. Topics larger than life were kept to one’s own thoughts and communication as to direction and timetables were kept to a minimum.

At dusk, when they made their way back across the fell heading towards the darkening eastern sky, the return to civilisation seemed to prompt little more philosophy and chat.

“How long will you be staying?” Baugham asked as Clyne Cottage could already be seen casting its shadows over the slope behind the River Kye.

“Well, there’s a wedding in Hertfordshire I must attend soon. Bingley has asked for my assistance. I shall be going down to Netherfield shortly.”

“A wedding, eh?” Baugham said thoughtfully. “Just one?”

Darcy gave one of his indeterminable low laughs. “Christmas is a popular time of year for weddings.”

“So I hear.”

Darcy gave him a quick look and he could read hope and determination in it, but it was not confirmed with words.

“Chess later?” Baugham said.

“It would be a pleasure,” Darcy said. “Although I do not plan on letting you best me this time.”

“You didn’t plan it last time either.”

“Ah, but I have luck on my side these days,” Darcy grinned.

“
A
ND
I
TELL YE,
R
OSIE,
I put him right straight on that kind of foolery! I said I will nae have this sort of conduct in my kitchie and I would thank him to keep out of it in the future if he cannae behave himself!”

Mrs McLaughlin was still reliving her indignation at Lord Baugham’s misdirected chivalry towards Miss Tournier a day later when her cousin came over.

“The cheek!” Mrs Higgins had the good sense to say and look extremely appalled. “But . . . surely quite innocent when it comes down to it? I mean, bare toes . . . ”

Mrs McLaughlin slammed down her rolling pin so that the open jars on the table rattled.

“She was a visitor and he made her ill at ease and it is sore unfair for such a fittin and well-favored man to take advantage of his situation and with the young woman practically promised an all — ”

Mrs Higgins looked up from her potato peeling. “Miss Holly is promised?”

A faint blush spread over Mrs McLaughlin’s features, but she pressed on with the dough.

“Heather, ye don’t mean Mr Grant?! I should surely hope not!”

“You did say . . . ”

But it was useless. Mrs Higgins stopped her industry and gave her cousin a stern eye.

“Cousin, that was nae right. I said
he
made out as if it were a done deal. I said
nothing
about her.”

The two women faced each other in silence for a moment until Mrs McLaughlin slammed a bowl in front of her cousin.

“There’s two fine birds there if ye’ll have them. Fat and all.”

In silence Mrs Higgins inspected the birds. “Och aye,” she finally conceded, “they’ll do.”

“And I merely wanted to put him in his place. He had no business acting like he did.”

“I dare say,” Mrs Higgins muttered, “but still — ”

“Och, he’ll forget about Mr Grant soon enough an he’ll show Miss Tournier some respect in the future. Which is as it should be. Right?”

I
F NOTHING ELSE, THIS PARTICULAR
sojourn to Scotland was unique, Lord Baugham decided as he once again sat in the parlour at Rosefarm Cottage waiting for tea. So far from his cherished solitary existence here, he seemed to be seeking, rather than avoiding, company.

What possessed him to accompany Darcy to Rosefarm when his friend obviously no longer needed his assistance to be welcomed there, he could only attribute to a vague curiosity of wanting to see how his friend acted while around his declared love. It was perfectly clear to anyone with normal sight, hearing and understanding that Darcy and Miss Bennet got along very well indeed, and that the looks exchanged between them spoke of more than friendship. If there was a deeper understanding than that, it was hard to tell. Mr Darcy was not one to wear even the most violent feelings on his sleeve for anyone to gawk at and Miss Bennet addressed him with remarks that could just as easily be interpreted as impertinence as intimacy.

Also, Lord Baugham was acutely aware of a nagging feeling that he needed to atone for the uncomfortable, unfortunate scene that took place in his kitchen a few days earlier. Not that he could mention the matter, of course, but at least he could show Miss Tournier that he felt the affair to be of no great import — to put her mind at ease in the event she was feeling uncomfortable.

And really, he
did
enjoy Mrs Tournier’s company quite a lot, and what better reason could there be to accompany his friend to Rosefarm than to show respect and kindness to such a woman?

Polite chatter filled the room and soon Mrs Higgins brought the tea tray in without ceremony. Baugham’s attention was diverted momentarily when he noticed Miss Tournier stand and quickly meet the woman as she set it down. A few moments of hushed conversation, gestures, and nods captured his notice. He watched as Miss Tournier took a dish from the tray, handed it to Mrs Higgins with some obvious words of instruction. Mrs Higgins shook her head but left, apparently acquiescing, returning a short time later with that same dish filled to the brim with lump sugar, and with a rather sour look upon her face.

His attention was taken up again by his hostess and he thought nothing more about it until he was served a short time later. The tea was poured and prepared to everyone’s liking, but though he was not one to usually notice such things, Baugham did see both Miss Tournier and Miss Bennet bypass the cream pitcher entirely and choose the honey pot over the sugar bowl. A picture then flashed through his mind of Miss Tournier in his kitchen, her finger in her mouth after collecting a few stray grains of sugar off the tabletop. His eyes then darted around the room — a work desk where Mrs Tournier performed editing and clerical duties for pay — a rickety drawing table with a half-burnt tallow candle, covered with colour plates in various stages of completion that Miss Tournier, no longer employed as a schoolteacher, was commissioned to make for an old friend, the smell of tea stretched with herbs gathered wild from the countryside or perhaps even from the garden outside, and he could only picture the basket of winter mushrooms found by Georgie’s Cave that must be now drying in the kitchen. His eye and mind took this all in and, when he next sipped his drink, he was suddenly aware of how very sweet a cup of tea with three lumps of sugar in it really was.

He put down his cup after hastily draining it to escape the realisation of his failure to be more aware of his surroundings. The sweet liquid stuck in his throat and he grimaced. Miss Bennet, who was sitting beside him, noticed his predicament and smiled.

“It takes some getting used to,” she said in hushed, tones her eyes winking at him in sympathetic conspiracy, “but after a while I find that I prefer it this way.”

Baugham felt uncomfortable, but then he realised Miss Bennet was no stranger to his dilemma and he smiled back.

“Tea is mostly about the company it’s taken with, I believe,” he answered, “and therefore I know you are absolutely right.”

“My aunt is a very hospitable woman and so I have ample proof of my assertion. And I think, my lord, you are beginning to enjoy your tea more and more each time we see you.”

“I think so, too,” Baugham smiled. “And you, Miss Bennet, seem to positively blossom in the fragrance.”

Elizabeth laughed but declined to answer.

“Tell me,” his lordship continued still with a smile on his lips, “how would you rate the tea when Sir John Ledwich comes to call compared to today? Or Mr Grant?”