Twixt Two Equal Armies (41 page)

“But, of course that makes this time of year excellent for the kind of work you have offered me. Did I already tell you how thankful I am?” She smiled and a slight blush spread across her face. “Oh, I am certain I did, didn’t I?”

Baugham gave a dismissive gesture and swung his cane through the wilted grass, still saying nothing.

“And I will work very hard and it will be a pleasure at the same time. And even if that commission of Dr McKenna or any other is offered to me, I promise you will still have my absolute diligence and commitment. There is, I know, a lot of work to be done and your library is sorely lacking in attention and dedication. I am sorry to say it, but I think you must agree. Still, I am certain I can make something out of it that you can be proud of and enjoy all at the same time. That is what libraries should give, don’t you think? Both pleasure and knowledge — a whole world in a little space — so many friends and even authorities for your personal joy! It is like a little university in your own home, don’t you think?”

Baugham shook his head slightly while he smiled at the ground.

“What? Oh, I do go on, don’t I?” Holly laughed and ripped the leaf apart sprinkling the ground with the dry remnants as they walked on. “But this means so much to me,” she said more quietly. “To us. My mother and me.”

“So it seems,” he said. “And your promise of industry is impressive. Though it does leave me slightly breathless.”

“Oh!” She averted her eyes and bit her lip. “Well, when I get excited I do . . . well, I do lose some of my composure I suppose, and buzz about.”

He looked at her and smilingly said:

“The bee goes out, and honey home doth bring,
And some who seek that honey find a sting.
Now would’st thou have the honey, and be free
From stinging, in the first place kill the bee.”

Baugham had been thinking of the lines for a long time. They would perhaps be seen as impertinent, but they seemed to fit this exhuberant moment and surely she could not know about the scrap of paper serving as a bookmark now.

H
OLLY LOOKED AT
L
ORD
B
AUGHAM
for a moment, reminded her of her poor unscientific bumble bees that could not assure themselves of even insincere flattery.

“Really, my lord, that is terribly unfair to the poor bee — to destroy it because you will not take the time to learn how best to get the honey. I presume that is a dilemma many of us face — there is no other insect that can provide the honey, yet we shy away from the bee because we are afraid of its sting. We need it, but it frightens us.”

She walked along a few more steps, and then, feeling silly, turned to him, “Well, you need not fear me in any case. I promise that
I
will not sting unless it is absolutely necessary. Instead, I will be a model employee, docile and unthreatening in every way.”

“You know, Miss Tournier,” he said, “you do me great wrong. I have absolutely nothing against industrious bees. I am excessively fond of them for their own sake — not just the honey. And after all, if the bee did not sting, it would not be a bee, but some simple fly. And I find simple, docile, unthreatening flies to be quite boring. Especially when compared to those amazing bees whose thorax and wings are so deliciously challenging its whole capacity to fly.”

Holly gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “Well, I cannot continue that metaphor in any way, my lord, that will not make me seem impertinent and possibly ungrateful. You are safe this time.”

“I’m sorry your trip was unsuccessful,” Baugham said quietly after a while. “I would have wished the initial inconveniences would have ensured its success.”

Holly nodded and took a few steps to the side of the path to ostensibly inspect some sort of wilted plant, but in reality she did not want to discuss that particular topic or even think about it in his company. Mr Pembroke was gone and she would think of him no more. It was enough to know that the threat he had hung before her and the imminent notice on the rental conditions could be met with something more than ineffectual despair and outrage.

Baugham noticed his kindly meant comment was not to Miss Tournier’s liking and he pursed his lips and stayed silent again. Their pace picked up, there was no talk now and the light was fading. But his remark still hung in the air. He realised he had broken an unspoken rule by alluding to Miss Tournier’s difficulties. It was, in such a relationship of employer and employee as theirs had become, presumptuous and possibly threatening to a woman as proud and as desperate for work as she was.

He took a deep breath. Well, here was just one more time he would bend his carefully laid out rules for this family.

“Miss Tournier, my father, the late Earl of Cumbermere, left me with precious little of worth. He squandered most of his fortune and sold off countless valuables to pay his debts and obligations. So, among other things, I inherited quite a ramshackle library that once had been lovingly assembled by my grandfather and my uncle. My father sold off most of the valuable pieces, apart from the ones that his secretary and my mother could save.”

She looked at him, surprised, but said nothing and continued to walk on the grass beside the actual path.

“This rather embarrassing remnant of the Cumbermere pride and joy I have brought with me to Clyne,” he continued. “It certainly is no library for a discerning gentleman, a fact Mr Darcy loses no opportunity to remind me of, and so far I have found solace in the knowledge that Joseph, my father’s secretary, is taking very good care of my own collection in London. But I cannot bring him here to do the same and, the more I stay at Clyne, the more I feel the old Cumbermere library and whatever I have purchased since, does me no credit and brings me no joy. That is why I need your help in bringing it to order. I have no idea what is in it, what treasures, if any, are still in my possession, or what needs to be compensated.”

To his relief she had once again joined him on the path, but kept her head bowed down and her hands behind her back, eyes averted.

“On my own, I would hardly know where to begin,” he then said softly.

They passed out of the woods and made their way along the little stretch of Kye River that ran up to Clanough. The bridge creaked as they both walked over it and they exchanged a brief smile. Holly took a step to the rail and threw in the rest of her crumbled leaf and stem. They stood for a while in silence, looking out over the water and tracing the twirling water bubbling just a few feet underneath them. Holly considered Lord Baugham’s revelation about his family affairs and pondered all the information he had shared with her. Though she was sure he felt himself to be matter-of-fact in his statements, she could tell that there was much emotion beneath the surface as he spoke of his father. She was not curious about the father — it was the same story told many times over across the kingdom — but she wondered about his mother, and about him . . . Here he was, a young man, trying to hold together and rebuild the remnants of his legacy. Did he have a guide? or was he trying to find his way on his own? It was no wonder to Holly that he had become so attached to her mother — if ever there was an unchanging anchor in the world, it was Arabella Tournier.

“I see,” she finally said. “Thank you. I will, as I said, do my best.”

“I have no doubt you will,” he smiled, leaning against the railing. “I will, of course, allow for a helper and you must continue to see to your other obligations. I dare say the chaos will keep for a while yet without complete ruin. I must say, though, that I am afraid you may think twice about agreeing to this commitment when you see what a mess I find myself in. It won’t do to pretend it is anything else than on the brink of hopelessness.”

“Lord Baugham, I hope I am not the kind of person who will go back on my word simply because there is labour involved in keeping it!”

He smiled at the faint, familiar note of irritation and could not hide his amusement.

“Oh, I am positive you are not! But I am equally certain that neither are you a person wholly convinced it is impossible to force twenty-five hours of work into a twenty-four hour day if you feel it is required to meet your standards, and then where would I be with your mother?” He laughed. “Oh yes, I believe a bee is a most appropriate description of you, there are no two ways about that!”

He stopped and looked at her with a curious expression, but not without considerable warmth and spark in his brilliant blue eyes. I wonder, he found himself unexpectedly and silently musing, I wonder what is it about her . . .
Only when her expression became confused and curious did he realize he had been staring and he pulled his eyes and thoughts away.

Again they turned and watched the swirling water until the silence became uncomfortable.

“My mother will be very grateful,” she replied quietly, showing the turn that her own thoughts had taken, “as I think you must know.”

“It is no secret that she is happier when you are home,” he said, “and if I can be of some service to her in that way . . . ” he tapered off before blurting out: “You must forgive me, Miss Tournier, I know you call Clanough your home and say you would be content to never again leave it, but after what I have come to know of local society, and of your landlord, I wonder that the two of you choose to stay. That is, your time in Edinburgh must have shown you that there is something beyond provincial attitudes and prejudices. There surely must be other places you can go. Places without the memories and circumstances that must burden you here.”

“My lord,” she said quickly, stiffening, “if you are regretting your offer, please retract it at once, before — ”

“Not at all,” he assured her. “You have my word.”

“Thank you,” she smiled with obvious relief, then still leaning on the rail, she turned to him, her brow wrinkled in thought. “But I must tell you that the memories here are no burden to either of us, my lord, they are a blessing.” Her hand came up absently to tug on her earlobe as her face changed and her expression grew distant. “I think they are exactly what keeps us happy here, and the people and their mind-set; most of them are very nice, the rest . . . they just don’t matter. It is the place. When we first arrived, Papa would make me walk with him all over the village — to learn all about our new home, he said. He was well-liked here, you know, despite his . . . well, Frenchness. Perhaps there is still something left of that Auld Alliance that made the people here very generous when a Frenchman sought refuge in his obvious distress, even in this day and age. Maybe that’s why I love it so much; every inch of it reminds me of him. The paths, the lanes, even this bridge. Especially this bridge.”

Curious, for reasons of his own, to hear how memories of one’s childhood and one’s father could be seen in such a different light from his own, Baugham could not help but ask, “Why this bridge?”

“It was our spot,” she said with a look of tenderness. “Wherever we would walk, we always tried to end up here; we’d stand here like this for what seemed like hours and watch the water, or have some sort of silly contest . . . ”

He looked at her in astonishment. “Perhaps I am reverting back to my own shameful boyhood memories of what sorts of contests are held while looking out over bridges, but, don’t tell me Monsieur Tournier and his very refined daughter engaged in a . . . spitting contest?”

She looked up at him, and despite the slight blush that coloured her cheeks, raised her chin and smiled.

“Perhaps.”

The laugh that came from that admission and the mental picture it conjured up was instant and spontaneous. Miss Tournier joined in.

“But I was sworn to secrecy and so must you be, my lord. Do not breathe a word of this to my mother.”

“Upon my honour,” he gasped. “Your secret is safe with this co-offender.” Then, catching his breath, he realized that though it was probably time to continue on their way, he did not quite want to yet. He looked down at his feet, then leaned over to pluck two pebbles lodged between the planks of the bridge that were no doubt left by some village boys from a throwing contest. He laughed when he weighed them in his hands.

“Tell me,” he said, handing one over to her, “did your father teach you to throw as well?”

“Of course he did.” She smiled mischievously, challenging him to make the first throw. “But, you should know,” she cautioned, “he taught me well. I am a very good shot, my lord. You had best beware.”

He fixed his gaze on her once more, his blue eyes twinkling and a wry smile hovering on his lips.

“Oh, Miss Tournier, I think it is a little too late for that!”

She stepped back from the railing and quickly averted her eyes, nervously smoothing her skirts and tugging at her ear while her eyes darted everywhere but to meet his. Lord Baugham suddenly realised they had skated from apologies and awkward confessions, through teasing bantering and thoughtful conversation and on into full-fledged flirting without him even having noticed it. That thought gave him a jolt and he stood straight.

“I’m afraid, Miss Tournier,” he said a little more stiffly than he intended, “that however pleasant this moment is, we really should be getting on. Please . . . ?”

Very slowly they turned and, as if careful not to tread and shatter a delicate thing that lingered around them, they made their way in silence towards Rosefarm Cottage and the comfortable ritual of its tea tray.