Twixt Two Equal Armies (3 page)

“Perhaps I should,” he said and closed his eyes.

T
HE JOURNEY PROVED TO BE
one of the more comfortable ones Lord Baugham had experienced on these roads. It was true he had the hospitality of his old friend, Lord Grifford, and his most comfortable arrangements at Millby Hall to thank for one night, and although the beautiful lady of the house begged him to stay a few days more, he was eager enough to be on his way to spend the next night on the road, much less comfortable but much closer to his final destination.

Yes, he had left Town early, but upon reflection he had no regrets about that. If he had been a more self-searching individual, he might perhaps have regretted more the circumstances which necessitated the decision to leave sooner than planned, instead he felt only relief and anticipation — and boredom. Lord Baugham sighed as he stared out at the landscape that was so numbingly dull and unchangeable. Mile after mile of the same muddy road, batches of trees and sleepy hamlets. He could not even make out any landmarks to tell him how far he had come; he only knew there were at least two more nights on the road before he arrived.

On the other hand, as the distance from London grew, any possible lingering thoughts or regrets on the two lovely sisters, Mrs Ashton and Lady Merriwether grew more distant as well. Yes, two sisters, equally lovely and spirited and safely married to older doting husbands and both equally as interested in the young Lord Baugham, who seemed unhindered, willing, and able to brighten up a dull season with some flirtation, fun and, well . . . more. How could he have been expected to choose between them? And who would have supposed that sisters talked of such things amongst themselves? Surely it would have been more dangerous for him to profess a preference for one over the other? As it was, neither of them had been happy with sharing his attentions, once discovered, and it had very nearly come to a scene at Wellstone Manor, where the delightful clandestine flirtations and relationships risked exposure in a most embarrassing manner. The whole business had suddenly and definitely lost its charm for him and the truth was Darcy’s urgings that perhaps it was high time for him to follow through on his frequent threats to leave the whole business behind him and run up to Scotland were received with a willing ear. Since his friend usually took great pains to distance himself from his affairs, Baugham had been surprised at his friend’s sudden interest in saving him from scandal, but he had to admit that Darcy was right; the situation
was
close to spiralling out of control and the advice was not unwelcome.

He sighed. Trust Darcy to keep on the sidelines and just enjoy the spectacle with a mix of incredulity and amusement only to suddenly take matters into his hands with a definite opinion and a well-thought out solution. Of course he was right, there had been nothing else to do but go, and having taken definite steps to do so, Baugham was not especially surprised at the relief and happiness he felt by quitting Town and leaving society behind.

C
HEERED IMMENSELY BY THE SIGHT
of a few fine and massive specimens of the otherwise long-gone Ettrick Forest oaks and sunny weather after two days of incessant rain, Lord Baugham strode into the Caledonian Thistle post house in the village of Clanough on an early October afternoon and cheerfully greeted Mr Robertson, the proprietor. He was splattered with mud from head to toe, his coat was filthy and his manservant would most probably experience palpitations upon observing the state of his boots and breeches, but he was in a splendid mood. He had escaped the confines of his carriage and ridden the last stretch of his journey, he was home, or would be within the hour, ahead of schedule and just picking up his mail before disappearing from the surrounding world into the haven of peace and anonymity called Clyne Cottage.

As the small stout figure of Mr Robertson disappeared to fetch possible missives for his lordship, Baugham leaned leisurely at the bar and sipped at the tankard that had been drawn and placed before him without question. He wiped the sweat off his brow, sighed deeply and listened absentmindedly to the busy noises of a coaching inn preparing for the departing Edinburgh stage. There was some sort of commotion at the door and suddenly it was flung wide open and a cloaked, stooping figure pushed a large bandbox through the door. He watched as this figure, a young lady as it happened, placed the bandbox to the side and began dragging in a trunk. Absently, he wondered where the boy was that should be helping her with such heavy work.

The young lady, Miss Holly Tournier, was wondering the same thing when the strap she had been tugging on suddenly snapped and nearly sent her onto the floor on her backside. Holly looked around in embarrassment, but thankfully saw that the room was nearly empty, except for Mr Robertson, who had his back to her at the moment and apparently did not notice her distress, and one other gentleman leaning against the bar — watching her with a smirk on his face.

“Quite heavy those things, aren’t they?” he said in a refined drawl, partly in her direction, partly at Mr Robertson who had returned with his mail. He slipped the proprietor a third coin in addition to the ones for the ale and the service and, nodding towards the lady, gave him an encouraging look. Consequently, Mr Robertson disappeared again in search for Tommy.

Holly stared in disbelief, not only at his smile and callous remark, but at the fact that he could simply stand there and watch her struggling and not even
think
to offer any kind of assistance. Of course, at the sound of his voice she thought she knew exactly who the gentleman was; he was that lord who had bought the Clyne lands up by Nethery Farm a few years earlier. On further reflection it did not surprise her that he should be so ill-mannered. What else was to be expected from a rich member of the peerage, brought up to a life of idleness and privilege hiding away at his little plaything of a cottage and probably engaged in unspeakable sloth and indulgence? She rolled her eyes at his comment and gave him her best smirk in return.

“
Please
, do not trouble yourself, sir,” she replied in a voice that she hoped reflected the full level of sarcasm she intended. “I am sure I can manage it quite well on my own.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that!” The reply came in the same cheerfully lazy drawl. “I’m always amazed at the amount of stubbornly capable women in this part of the world. Can’t make it easy for aspiring chivalrous men.”

“Well, it is certainly obvious you have learnt that lesson to heart, sir,” Holly muttered, shuffling her luggage out of the way across the floor.

Her comment was lost in the sound of the bandbox scraping the floor and Lord Baugham threw a glimpse over his shoulder towards where Mr Robertson had disappeared.

Holly stood up and tried to straighten her clothes. She was tired, her limbs ached, her nose was full of the dust of the road and the odours of her fellow passengers and on top of everything she now had to stay dignified in the face of a rude and boorish man who had left all his gentlemanly habits south of the border, thinking people up here were not entitled to his good manners. It was almost too much. She just wanted to be home already.

She felt her throat constrict and concentrated on looking haughty and fixing Lord Baugham with her best dark look, perfected over all her years as a schoolteacher.

“They’re in such a hurry these days,” the man she was busy disliking suddenly said. “The stage I mean. You know, I was told once by this fellow I met out with a shooting party that the passengers on the stage he came on were given three minutes over a hundred miles to get something to eat over two stops! Reading and Millsby, I think. Or Millston. In Linconshire at any rate. Can you imagine, he came to join us for shooting by taking the stage!”

“Really? How shocking.” Holly did her best to ignore him but found great relief in answering him in her iciest tone. However, Lord Baugham did not seem to notice her frosty reply but carried on.

“Well, of course, he never heard the end of it! Imagine! Guns and such on the stage! I’m amazed the stage master didn’t throw him off. Although, perhaps he had no time to do so since, as I said, there was very little time to stop anywhere. But it just goes to show you.”

Holly briefly closed her eyes and then gave him a disgusted look.

“That the stage is really rather impossible. I suppose they just threw down your luggage outside and left you to fend for yourself, didn’t they?”

Somehow it galled Holly to no end that he was absolutely right. She had barely climbed out of her cramped seat on the coach before it set off again and she found the luggage unceremoniously left in the middle of the courtyard with no ostlers or post boys or anyone in sight to help her. It seemed so humiliating to her that he should have guessed at her humiliation, too.
It must be written on my face,
she thought.

She swallowed. “
Some
people,” she said sharply, “have no choice whether to take the stage or no.
Some
people are happy not to have to sit on the roof or walk. And some people don’t mind very few and short stops because they could not afford any fare or drink at the exorbitant prices avaricious landlords charge at their postal inns anyway.”

It was an outburst she had not planned and she had to admit she felt rather better for having succumbed to it, but the way the man opposite her hitched up his eyebrow and gave her a long look with what she noticed were exceptionally bright blue eyes in such a dimly lit quarter as this, was slightly uncomfortable.

“Well,” Lord Baugham said slowly, “I suppose you have a point.”

“I know I do,” Holly answered, not quite prepared to admit that she was done with him. “And that is perhaps one additional reason for this imposed self-sufficiency to which you seem to take such offence, my lord.”

Baugham tried to give her a friendly smile, but she merely narrowed her eyes and turned away. Just then Tommy breezed in, stammering apologies and taking charge of her belongings, looking confused as the lady slipped him a coin for his services. Baugham just cleared his throat and shook his head, smiling. There was a moment where the young lady glared at Tommy for what she must have considered extremely peculiar behaviour and inattention and then caught his lordship whistling a little tune to himself. She gave him a stare, but as he seemed oblivious to her displeasure she silently articulated a few more very uncharitable thoughts about “gentlemen” and “nobility” and turned on her heel.

Baugham stole an amused glance at her while he watched her walk out the door, then flipped through the mail, discovered nothing but business from his steward and secretary and, giving a small sigh of satisfaction, pulled on his gloves to leave again.

J
UST DOWN THE WAY, IN
a snug little parlour crowded with newspapers and unfinished books piling up on the empty chairs and tables, Mrs Arabella Tournier sat upright, reading, her handsome face set in its habitual frown. She was by no means an unpleasant or disagreeable woman, but there was little enough cause for smiles and happiness in her life and so they were seldom seen unless she was in the presence of her daughter. Suddenly, however, a small chuckle escaped her, because the only other thing guaranteed to relieve the perpetually down-turned mouth and knitted brows was her correspondence with her family in the south. She was contemplating a missive just arrived from her sister-in-law all the way from Hertfordshire. The correspondent’s polite amazement at the speed of His Majesty’s Mail Services and, in the next line, her sincere assurances that Elizabeth was very welcome to stay up north as long as possible and even a bit longer than that, if you please, were met with a wry smile and distinct amusement in her lively and intelligent eyes. Mr Bennet’s protests, she was very candidly told, were not to be heeded. Elizabeth was much better off with her aunt where she would be far less trouble and might possibly come to realise and regret her shameful treatment of her mother in the midst of the harsh and grim weather they must surely be suffering from at this time of the year. Life in Hertfordshire at the moment was perfect, and Mrs Bennet intended to enjoy it as a just reward for all her struggles. Mrs Tournier had no qualms in allowing her the right to do so. Especially since it meant Elizabeth’s removal to their home was one part of it. It could be said a letter had seldom been sent and received with equal, yet quite opposite pleasure in both sender and recipient. The receiving of Mrs Bennet’s letters was an expense Mrs Tournier would be loath to forego but perhaps not entirely for the reasons her sister-in-law imagined.

Notwithstanding the excellent news contained in this particular letter, what Mrs Tournier was so fond of in her sister’s infrequent letters was that there was no art about them. They perfectly mirrored their authoress’ tone and personality, not to mention were most informative about the wealth and prospects of her future son-in-law and his impressive connections and Mrs Tournier, however much she was glad the writer was not there in person to deliver her news and opinions, appreciated that. They were so very different from her brother’s letters. Mr Bennet was a most unreliable and frequently exasperating correspondent, because though Mrs Tournier felt no regrets in leaving the place of her birth and girlhood, she did retain an affection for it and, more importantly, for her nieces. Her brother could never be relied upon to be as candid about the goings on in Meryton and at Longbourn as his wife was certain to be.