Twixt Two Equal Armies (31 page)

“Never,” he said darkly, “never have you inflicted such pain upon me before, my friend. Not through broken ribs from fist fights or sparring matches ending in bloodshed or mental agony over hurt pride and lost challenges. The only comforting aspect is that you suffered as much as me.”

“I did,” Baugham said through clenched teeth. “God, if I have ever done anything so painful before in the name of charity . . . ”

“Next time,” Darcy said, “make a subscription to some worthy society instead.”

“Like ‘The Society for the Forceful Eviction of Pompous Persons from the Homes of Deserving Women
’
.”

“Or we could just kill him,” Darcy added darkly. “He is the sort of man who plans his own funeral meticulously. It would be a shame to miss it.”

Wry smiles spread over the men’s faces as they finally relaxed into a peaceful silence and the comfort denied them for so long. They sat, they drank a little more, they watched the glowing logs turn to black charred remains as the rain slowly picked up and began to drum on windows and roof.

“Rain,” Darcy remarked. He got up from his chair and faced his friend. “One stag and I lost count of how many birds. The debt is yours, my friend. You will repay it handsomely when I invite any interested party from Rosefarm Cottage for tea tomorrow.”

Baugham groaned. “Just not Mr Pembroke!” he shouted, as Darcy was about to walk out the door.

“I’ll certainly do my best,” was the answer before the door closed behind him.

Chapter 14

Tea is once more Enjoyed and Important Thoughts are Shared at the Eve of Departure Ending in Both Tears and Hope

“We will walk,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Whether we are offered a carriage home or not probably depends upon how well ‘we’ can behave ourselves, but I will risk it. In fact, walking both ways is not an entirely unappealing prospect at this point.”

Holly just smiled. As soon as Elizabeth had told her there was an invitation to Clyne Cottage for tea, she had gone around to the kitchen to see if her boots had dried up from her last venture outside that morning. Now her cousin and her mother stood facing each other in the hall ‘discussing’ the mode of transportation available and Mrs Tournier was frowning at Elizabeth’s refusal of Mr Darcy’s carriage. Mr Pembroke sat in the parlour swinging his crossed leg, listening to them with an amused smile. This was about him, he was certain. Since the carriage was refused and the young women were going to walk, he had declined the invitation, as had Mrs Tournier. If the carriage had been accepted they would have all gone.

“Holly needs this,” Elizabeth said tightly and both women knew they were referring to an absence from Mr Pembroke. Mrs Tournier narrowed her eyes.

“And I do not?”

Elizabeth said nothing but returned her gaze steadily.

“You are entirely too stubborn for your own good, Elizabeth,” her aunt finally said.

“Sticks and stones, Aunt,” Elizabeth said and smiled.

It was a grey day, but the rain from the previous evening had stopped and the air was filled with scents and fresh reminders of the dormant green and earthy world. The two young women who made their way through the village, over the fields, and across the woods felt as if they had been released from a dungeon.

To her great surprise, Holly had felt a surge of happy expectation when Elizabeth shared Mr Darcy’s invitation. Despite her difficulties with the present owner and the more than confusing way in which he had been acting lately, she had always viewed Clyne with curiosity and a wish that she might one day be so bold as to actually see what it was like inside. The old owner of the property had never earned the respect of anyone in the neighbouring village; it was common knowledge he preferred his other estate in Perthshire when he was not in Town pursuing a political career, and the estate had been all but ignored. But the house, with its warm coloured sandstone and unsuspecting prospect down to the river had always held promise — and, of course, the dilapidated estate of an absentee landlord was an ideal playground for disrespectful local children, which explained her familiarity with the grounds.

The inside of the house, however, was still a mystery; except for the kitchen. Holly told the story of her humiliation to Elizabeth, warning her against getting her feet wet. Elizabeth laughed and threatened to do just that, saying the prospect of digging her bare toes into a thick rug at a lord’s lair was fast becoming too irresistible to ignore.

“
I
TRUST YOU ENJOYED YOUR
walk, ladies?” Mr Darcy’s mouth twitched slightly without ever losing its pleasant curve when he greeted them in the hall outside the drawing room where Mrs McLaughlin had escorted them.

“Of course, sir,” Elizabeth said, smiling pleasantly. “I think I told you I would enjoy it. But I am rather surprised to see you did not feel a corresponding need to walk as a consequence.”

Darcy sent her a smile and then turned to Holly and took her hand instead, welcoming her as well. It was a good thing he did so, for Holly felt slightly overwhelmed when finally confronted with the interior of the house. She looked around her: not grand, not fashionable, not overly impressive as far as furnishings at all, but it was a surprisingly warm and welcoming house, comfortable and certainly far more homelike than she had ever imagined. True, that stag head over the fireplace in the drawing room was very imposing, but other than that the room had a certain feel of domestic blindness to any desire to impress and an obvious inclination to bow more to the comfort and indulgencies of the inhabitants.

Just then the inhabitant himself stepped out of his drawing room to greet them.

“You took us quite by surprise!” the owner of Clyne Cottage said and smiled at them when Mr Darcy ushered them in. “Or me, rather. Darcy here was quick on his feet as usual.”

“I think Mr Darcy could have told you we would most likely take the opportunity to walk, had he wanted to. He is well acquainted with my stubbornness on that subject,” Elizabeth smiled. “Then you could have positioned yourself in the window, too, and been prepared.”

Darcy gave what was a ghost of a smile, but Lord Baugham laughed.

“How well you know my friend’s habits! But I will give you the best seat in the room if you guess my excuse.”

“Sleeping, perhaps?” Holly said quietly.

Lord Baugham cast her a quick glance. “I see I shall have to do with the second best, Miss Tournier,” he smiled. “What betrayed me?”

Holly gestured to her cheek and Lord Baugham wiped his with his coat sleeve.

“Printing ink?” he laughed. “Well, I am glad the offending newspaper has been banished from the room already. But you are here for tea, not parlour games, I hope.”

His voice was pleasant enough, but a surprising question ran through his brain when Miss Tournier pointed to her cheek:
Is there no privacy from that woman?

However it had begun, it turned out to be a very harmonious company that sat down for tea. As Mrs McLaughlin brought in offering after offering, even the gentlemen raised eyebrows at the abundance on display.

“I think Mrs McLaughlin was never convinced you would come by any other means than walking,” Baugham finally observed. “My dear woman, there’s enough here to feed an army!”

“We shall certainly be able to march on our stomachs back home again,” Elizabeth remarked.

That exchange was typical of the afternoon. Elizabeth mostly kept up the conversation with able help from his lordship, while Mr Darcy was obviously content with watching Miss Bennet push back Lord Baugham’s attempts at snaring her with her own words. Holly felt immensely cheered by the walk and the friendly atmosphere and was perfectly content just sitting within close range of the cream and sugar and her teacup near enough to her face to take in the heavenly smell when she was not actually drinking it.

During a lull in the conversation there was a sudden gust of wind through the trees outside, enough to make the windowpanes rattle. All four turned their eyes to the window to catch the branches of the closest trees swaying and rustling ominously.

“Rain,” sighed Elizabeth. “You know, I used to blame Mr Darcy’s solitary disposition in company as the reason he always showed such preference for gazing at prospects out of windows, but I have come to realise my error. Weather is an integral part of conversation in polite society and ignorance of it is an unpardonable sin. I know I have often been guilty of it when my optimism has got the better of my intelligence as to the conditions outside. Does it always rain here?”

“Yes,” said Holly vigorously at the same time as his lordship emphatically said “No.”

“Well, I blame my southernmost ancestry for my poor capacity to come to terms with Scottish weather sometimes,” Holly smiled. “I don’t suffer the worst of it very well, I’m afraid.”

“Which would be most of the time in November,” Elizabeth sighed.

“I think you must take care, Miss Bennet,” Baugham said, “criticism always offends the newest convert the most and when it comes to the comforts of staying in Scotland that would be Mr Darcy. His resentment is a terrible thing, you know.”

Mr Darcy gave a broad and calm smile towards Miss Bennet after directing a less openly interpretable look toward his host.

“I know Miss Bennet well enough to know she never means to offend. Only to challenge and laugh,” he went on.

Elizabeth laughed. “There you are then! Or to chase away my fears by ridicule. This kind of weather makes me think of ghost stories. My cousin tells excellent ghost stories! The one of the Piper’s Cave never fails!”

Holly shook her head gently. “You always want to hear it and then you always end up lighting far too many candles and singing merry tunes all night to chase your fright away.”

“Well, with such a prospect I think we must insist upon hearing about the Piper’s Cave, Miss Tournier!” Baugham leaned forward.

“You will be sorry if you do,” Elizabeth answered before Holly could protest herself, “for then I will be forced to claim your carriage for the journey home instead of taking my cousin’s narrow and dark shortcuts through the woods.”

Darcy sent her an indulgent smile but reserved his words for Holly. “Miss Tournier,” he said, “we really must insist. A story that has such an effect on Miss Bennet must be entertainment for us all — intentional and unintentional, I am sure.”

Holly settled back. She would tell them a ghost story then. She smiled to her audience, a subtle change in her demeanour commanding their interest. If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was tell a story. Her mother’s friends knew it and the girls at Hockdown knew it. She also enjoyed it herself, both because and despite the audience.

She dropped her voice to a melodic hum — warm but still full with the promise of unexpected twists — and held the rapt attention of her audience perfectly between glances at Elizabeth’s face, which predictably paled as she proceeded through the story.

“Marquis Alexandré had an only daughter, the beautiful Isabeau,” Holly began, “whom he would never let out of his sight. Men from all across the land would be pleased to seek her hand but the marquis, ever jealous of anyone who would take his daughter’s love from him, had vowed that he would never allow her to marry. He proclaimed a terrible death awaited any man who dared to woo his daughter.

“One night, Isabeau was awakened by the most beautiful, haunting music she had ever heard. Unable to help herself, she was drawn to it — it was hypnotic. She followed the sounds outside and there she saw a handsome young piper, a young man from the village. He stopped playing and smiled at her — the loveliest smile she had ever seen — and then he spoke to her: tender words of love and longing. All night long they were together; Isabeau dancing while the piper played, they traded words of love and promise and when the sun came up he left, vowing that someday soon he would return for her and take her as his wife.”

She could not help glancing at Mr Darcy then, but he sat motionless in his chair, listening and watching her tell her tale.

“But, the marquis had spies everywhere on his estate and they told him about this young piper. He flew into a rage and had the boy arrested and brought to him. Even under the cruellest torture, he would not renounce his love for Isabeau or his intention to marry her, as poor as he was. The marquis was pitiless in his anger and fear and he threw the boy into a cave by the sea, chaining him to the rock face and threatening to bring Isabeau down to him to witness his degradation. The piper pleaded that he would do no such thing — ‘Please!’ he cried, ‘Do not let her see me this way.’ But the marquis would not relent.”

“Oh!” her cousin said in an involuntary little gasp. Holly smiled but went on.

“That night was a fierce storm, the worst that had been seen for untold years. Isabeau’s poor lover was battered and beaten against the rocks as the angry sea surged into the cave. When Isabeau was brought to him the next morning, his body, still chained to the wall, was broken and he was nearly-drowned. She reached him just as he drew his last breath. ‘Isabeau, my love,’ he whispered, ‘Dance for me, and I will forever play for you.’ He died in her arms.

“Isabeau screamed and cried and shook him as if she could awaken him from that eternal sleep, but it was not to be. She reached into his pocket and took his pipe, holding it up to the marquis. ‘He will play, and I will dance, Father, I will dance!’ she cried.”