Twixt Two Equal Armies (47 page)

Dear Mother,

I fear my latest letter has thrown poor Father into confusion, and I do apologise for it. Please let me assure you (and through you, him) that all is well with me. I simply have been presented with an opportunity that I wish to take advantage of.

I do not write to ask you to petition in my behalf, I simply ask that you take pity on your poor son who sits on tenterhooks and urge Father to send his decision — whatever it should be — soon.

Love, as always, to you, Father, Peter and Emilia.

P.

With a sigh he then pulled out an overstuffed file and began paging through its contents. If he was going to hire an illustrator for his book, he supposed he ought to bring his notes and ideas together into some semblance of order.

Chapter 21

Local Customs Prove Impossible to Resist for Practically Every One of Clanough’s Inhabitants and Lord Baugham takes Delight in Simple Country Traditions

By the time Lord Baugham finally found another living soul in his house the next morning, he was convinced there had been some sort of emergency, perhaps even a French invasion.

“Where the devil is everyone?” he confronted his valet without ceremony. “Have I been deserted? Have my vile habits finally broken the backs of Mr and Mrs McLaughlin?”

Riemann turned around just in time to catch his lordship’s coat from falling off the chair he had thrown it on.

“My lord,” he said, “Mrs McLaughlin is at church regarding the effigy and Mr McLaughlin is engaged with the ale.”

Baugham stared at his valet.

“What?”

“I believe the occasion is the Martinmas Ramsey Run, sir.”

“The Martinmas Ramsey Run,” Baugham mouthed. “What in God’s name is that?”

Mr Riemann gave his employer a faint smile. On the anniversary of one Sir Ramsey’s death, he explained — which happened to fall on Martinmas — the village of Clanough celebrated the good knight’s courage and gruesome fate by arranging a horse race along the exact route that the knight had taken in his attempt to flee from his barbarous English persecutors. It was a good two miles, starting from the church where the old manse had once stood, the pursuit ending with him being captured when attempting to cross the Kye. He had been thrown off his horse and brutally killed — some say by breaking his neck in the fall — but the villagers rather supported the theory that he had challenged at least four of his oppressors and shown a gallant hand at fighting with his broad sword before being cut down by a particularly vicious and cruel enemy.

So every year, the race from the church to the supposed site of the slaying by the river was organised in the village. Young men were encouraged to take part and each was supplied with a small pouch of pig’s blood that the winner of the race was privileged to empty into the river Kye in commemoration of Sir Ramsey’s bloody end.

One would have thought that this spectacle of legend, horseracing, young men and pig’s blood would have been quite enough for the villagers’ entertainment, but over the centuries other important additions were made. One was the polishing of Sir Ramsey’s effigy in the church. Only married mothers who had lost a child, preferably in battle, could participate in this annual mourning ritual honouring Clanough’s greatest patron. Another was a free tankard of the season’s ale that the elders provided. Happily everyone, regardless of family circumstances, was entitled to participate there. Also, since the wait for the winner at the banks of the Kye was tedious and often cold and wet, a market for entertainment and refreshment had slowly sprung up. And since people did come from nearby villages to view this spectacle, a small but welcoming and entertaining fair was set up around the starting point of the race, complete with more refreshments, impromptu judging of farm animals and items for sale that could remind them of this extraordinary event.

“Well, if that isn’t the stupidest thing,” Baugham snorted. “And Mrs McLaughlin is now . . . polishing his effigy in church? Well, well.”

Another person who was rather less impressed with the local traditions surrounding Sir Ramsey and his race was Mrs Tournier. Her daughter had walked out early to where Sir Torquil had marked out the traditional route for the race. In fact, Holly had tried to coax her mother to indulge her childish curiosity and come with her, but Mrs Tournier had no wish to accidentally run into the master planner himself walking along the route, calculating distances and curves, placing out warnings in the form of poles and commissioning simple wooden bars to be erected at the most dangerous spots. There had, in the past, been plenty of accidents when young hotheads, having not been able to procure the necessary horse, had run along with the riders anyway. Sir Torquil believed the possibility of injuries in such situations demanded planning and preparation and took his task very seriously.

“I will wait for you to tell me all about it when you return,” she said to Holly. “If I go out now, I might be obliged to have a polite opinion and, surprisingly enough for me, I suppose, I really have no wish to form an opinion on an obstacle course.”

T
HE SNOW FROM THE PREVIOUS
afternoon was, of course, long gone by the morning of the Martinmas Ramsey Run and the sun peeked through woods and hung low in the sky instead. This was an unusual occurrence at this time of year and enough for Lord Baugham’s curiosity and sense of fate to make him determined to take his customary ride by the village today.

The grounds on the field behind the church were already packed with people despite the early hour. To a more metropolitan eye, it was hardly more impressive than an ordinary street scene, but for the local populace it was the most exciting event of the season and the mill of fellow villagers, as well as kin and friends from farther away, was heady.

The number of displays, amusements, refreshments and sights — not to mention the inevitable fights and the drunks and the fools — gave the participants the knowledge and assurance the day would provide them with ample cause for discussion and gossip for a long time to come, regardless of how the actual Ramsey Run itself turned out.

Lord Baugham steered his horse away from the main throng of people and leaned forward in his saddle taking in the sight. He was interrupted in his study by a man, followed by three young women and several more young men, hurrying towards him, shouting breathless greetings. Baugham sat up again as he recognised the gregarious Tristam family. The two men behind them were carrying poles and a bag of tools so he supposed he had the privilege of catching Sir Torquil making last minute corrections to the course before the race began.

“My lord!”

Sir Torquil apparently was not too busy to stop and engage an onlooker in conversation. Baugham doffed his hat and jumped off his horse.

“Sir Torquil. Glorious day! You must be very busy.”

“Oh yes, yes!” the man stuttered. “Of course. But everything is as it should be now. Or will be very soon. Adam, John — you go on and fix that pole right where I told you. I shall be with you shortly.”

Baugham gave an inward sigh. The assembled Miss Tristams had by then joined their father and were standing just behind, blushing and flushed from the exertion of keeping up with him.

“Miss Tristam, Miss Prudence, Miss Patience,” Baugham said and executed a bow. “Here to admire your father’s handiwork, as I am?”

The two youngest girls tittered, but Miss Primrose Tristam was more aware of herself than that.

“Oh no, not at all, my lord! I’m the prize, you see. And my sisters were simply too curious about the competitors to wait at home until it all begins.”

“Prize?” Baugham said and glanced at Sir Torquil.

The father blushed. “Well, my lord, perhaps it is slightly provincial and unsophisticated but . . . well, it is such an ancient tradition. The winner is granted a kiss from the village’s most prominent, unmarried young lady. All in good fun and properly done, I assure you.”

“Well, how very
urbane
,” Lord Baugham said gracefully and smiled at Miss Tristam. “I know quite a few fine ladies in Town who have bestowed the same sort of graceful gratitude for a race well won.”
And not always stopped with a kiss,
he thought.

Miss Primrose looked extremely pleased and her father somewhat relieved. The younger girls tittered.

“Oh!” Miss Tristam suddenly exclaimed. “But I hope you are entering the race, my lord!”

The two sisters joined her in a little gasp and a squeak. Sir Torquil lighted up.

“Oh yes, my lord! It would be such an honour.”

“Oh say you will, my lord! It would be so exciting!”

Baugham looked at the eager faces in front of him and cringed. “Ah . . . well. Thank you but I could not. I am simply here to watch the fun. And admire the course. I am quite certain you have done a marvellous job of it, Sir Torquil, and I am most eager to see it in action. “

Just then a voice sounded behind him.

“But surely the course can best be admired and the action best judged by one taking part in the race itself?”

Baugham recognised the voice and instantly met her eyes as he turned around.

“Miss Tournier,” he said with both delight and wryness.

“My lord,” she answered.

Gone was the matter-of-fact, modestly dressed librarian and scientific sketcher of bees and physiological experiments, and before him stood a gentlewoman of simple but decided elegance. That hat she was wearing framed her face and dark eyes in a very flattering manner and she had tilted it charmingly, just so. Her shawl was draped gracefully over one shoulder and allowed to linger over her other arm displaying her figure very well and, if not exactly of exclusive quality, its colour and style had obviously been chosen with assured knowledge of what became the wearer.
Very unequivocally French,
his lordship reflected amusedly and greeted her with an appreciative smile and bow. He offered her his exclusive notice without so much as thinking about the rest of the party, for he felt an irresistible urge for selfishness and curiosity today.

“Miss Tournier,” he said again, a boyish smile playing on his lips. “You look absolutely charming! I cannot tell you how annoyed I am that you have decided a librarian must not betray her exquisite sense of style in her employer’s dusty library. I feel quite cheated!”

Holly flushed at his forthright praise and obvious appreciation and she was not quite sure how to respond. Was he having fun at her expense? Primmie — Miss Tristam that was — seemed to think so. She sent Holly a smug and not overly kind look while her father busied himself with taking a few steps closer to them to hear what was being said and to be able to step back into the conversation as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Of course, some sort of reply was required so after stammering her thanks she countered, “You do not think it would be somewhat ridiculous if I came to work in your dusty library in my finest clothes? How could I ever get anything accomplished?”

He smiled mischievously as he took in her obvious indignation and narrowed eyes.

“Why, I cannot believe you are telling me efficiency and intelligence can only be achieved at the expense of loveliness and charm, Miss Tournier? On the contrary, you might find yourself with an extra pair of hands to order around and do your bidding if you did. And no dust would surely dare cover an inch of such a lovely lady.”

He inspected her left temple in mock earnest, perfectly repeating his previous performance.

“No,” he murmured, “thought as much.”

She tried as hard as she could to maintain her serious expression, but Holly saw the good-humoured twinkle in his eyes and could not refrain from smiling herself.

“Ah, so now I see the way it works. The real secret to efficiency is not to do my own work, but to find a way to compel others to do it for me. Quite enlightening . . . but sir, are you so easily swayed by fashion that you will allow yourself to be ordered about like a schoolboy merely due to a change of gown?”

Baugham leaned towards her in a conspiratory fashion. “I have been known to, yes.” He smiled and continued, “But a gown is never just a gown, as I am certain you know from the way you wear yours today. It is so much more and I must say if you claim anything else, I will swear you spent an exasperating amount of time before the mirror to get that sleeve ruffled just right. And I must say it was worth every second of it.”

“Well, this is distressing, Miss Tristam, is it not?” Holly, suddenly uncomfortable with such exclusive and close attention, asked Primrose before turning back to his lordship. “Tell me, my lord, are all gentlemen so well aware of the efforts we girls go to make ourselves look effortlessly beautiful? Please tell me you are a singular case because, I confess, you are perfectly correct, though I shall deny that I ever admitted to such a thing.”

He smiled at her, “You must never admit anything of the sort. You are quite perfect.”

This last exchange did not please Miss Tristam. After all,
she
was the prize, the most prominent young lady in the town. How that Holly Tournier dared to think she could compete with her for the attentions of an Earl in that old, turned out dress, she did not know. She swished her new blue silk daintily as she stood and turned to Holly.