Twixt Two Equal Armies (5 page)

The slight smile on her daughter’s face induced Mrs Tournier to take her hand and clutch it.

“So then, what is this shame and disgrace you talk of? You are by no means the first capable and intelligent young woman to be dismissed for unfathomable reasons. Surely no one who knows you can doubt your character and your diligence?”

“I had thought not, Maman, but it seems that old prejudices are more highly regarded, and less easily replaced, than poor young teachers. Maman, Mr Hockdown implied that my dealings in town involved . . . less than respectable actions as well. I don’t know how he could say such things; how could anyone say such things about me?”

Mrs Tournier was not a timid woman by any measure. She had also seen enough of the world and man’s folly, greed and cruelty not to be easily impressed by renewed evidence of it. Furthermore, having been quite a beauty in her day and blessed with a sweet countenance, she did not portray dismay or rage very convincingly — which perhaps had always been the saviour of her sometimes more than trying manners and bluntness. Now, however, she definitely could have inspired the most sanguine of her fellow men to recoil. She looked at her daughter, her calm vanished, eyes flashing and her brows laid in deep wrinkles.

“Infamous! So that is how the land is laid, is it? That horrid man! That sad, desperate excuse for a human being!”

She clasped the locket around her neck with her late husband’s portrait as she always did when agitated and, rubbing it for a few seconds, managed to compose herself.

“Nothing surprising, nothing extraordinary, but I am incensed all the same. ‘Less than respectable’, indeed! Oh, I do believe I am too put out to make any sense! But rest assured, I shall spend a sleepless night articulating my chagrin and tomorrow after breakfast I shall be glad to spell out my injured sense of justice and propriety in carefully worded phrases to Mr Hockdown! We may be without recourse, but we are most certainly not without voice! You may be certain of that.”

Strangely enough, this show of agitation had a calming effect upon Holly. This was what she was accustomed to; her mother had always been her most vocal champion, and now that she had shared her burden she was sure that somehow, between the two of them, things would be put right.

She pulled her mother to sit down beside her, laid her head upon her shoulder and rested a moment in the comfort she found there. Then after pouring two cups of tea and mixing them properly, she handed one of them over.

“When does Elizabeth arrive?”

Mrs Tournier pursed her lips and patted her daughter’s hand.

“As if you have not been counting the days for the past month. But I will allow your unnecessary question as a very welcome change of subject. Elizabeth will be here in two days’ time, and, as I have been able to procure a copy of Mrs Burney’s latest play, you and she must fight over the part of the romantic heroine I think. I’m convinced that it will rally your spirits. I think we must arrange a little soirée around it, don’t you? I know Elizabeth with be highly disappointed if we do not and will insist on reading it out loud herself and commenting on the wit of it all, whether we have an audience or not. If only we can contrive some way of keeping any undeserving young men we find ourselves obliged to invite from insisting on the part of the hero, we shall be well entertained.”

Holly smiled and concentrated on her tea. She watched her mother unload three lumps of sugar into her cup, stir it reverently in silence and sip it with her eyes closed. As she opened them again, she looked at her daughter.

“And Lie-lie my dear,” she said firmly, “Mr Robertson will not have a place for you at his inn. Ever.”

“Maman, this is no time to be proud. I will do what is needed.”

“Of course you will,” her mother said and leaned back with a blissful look on her face. “You just will not work for Mr Robertson that is all.”

“Maman? What is going on?” Holly asked beneath lowered eyebrows. “Why do you have that smug expression on your face?”

Mrs Tournier opened her eyes and they sparkled. “It’s the sugar,” she said and laughed. “Oh how I do like my sugar!” She patted her daughter’s hand and put away her tea cup. “And tomorrow my dear, we will pray for a fine day so that you can potter about in your garden and I can sit at my desk watching you as I write my letters. I have quite a few I must attend to.”

Seeing that further questioning would be futile, Holly put her cup away as well and simply sat quietly next to her mother. She was home, Maman was not worried, and even if they must live without sugar, somehow all would be well.

L
ORD
B
AUGHAM COULD NEVER ABIDE
being anything but happy at Clyne. His plans, therefore, simply consisted of staying there for as long as he remained so, and leaving just as soon as it was no longer the case. The very first morning of his stay, he made plans to venture out with poles and tackle and the avowed intention of catching his own dinner, to Mrs McLaughlin’s surprise, but was interrupted in his mission by a majestically proportioned thunderstorm. Needless to say, that most gothic of weathers frightened away the fish more effectively than his oaths or the wet spectacle of himself did, though he did manage to bring down two unsuspecting birds on his way back. His man, Riemann’s, fussing and Mrs McLaughlin’s potions failed to bring him any benefits or enjoyment, but when he was comfortably tucked in front of a warm fire, reflections upon man’s insignificance against natural forces and his folly at thinking himself able to disregard the signs sent to warn him, led him to poetry.

The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

The lines from his favourite poem made him smile. But circumstances were not favourable to philosophical thought and poetic ramblings. Instead, he found himself planning the small excursion northwards Mr McLaughlin had seen fit to recommend for tomorrow, probably covering a few days, to inspect the salmon passages before winter set in. This was all he needed and he sank further into his chair. Weeks of the same activities, the same landscape, the same pursuits stretched before him and he smiled. He was home.

H
OLLY HAD GONE TO BED
with a vague sense of guilt for the relief she felt when contemplating that she really, truly would never have to return to Hockdown School ever again. It was true that she also possessed a fully developed sense of outrage at the injustice of her dismissal, but she could not look around her small, comfortable, room, warmed and illuminated solely by the frugal fire, without a smile.

In the morning, she sat up with a start upon first seeing the sun streaming through the window, fearing she had overslept, but it only took remembering where she was, and why, to decide to snuggle back down under the warm blankets and let herself slide back into a decadent, second slumber. By the time she woke again, the sun was much higher and her stomach was grumbling about a missed breakfast.

A doting Mrs Higgins had saved a plate for her and, while she ate, Mrs Tournier kept her company with a cup of coffee. Afterwards her mother, with that same smug expression she had sported the night before, pleaded letter writing duties and excused herself, leaving Holly to choose how she would spend her first morning home. It was no surprise to any of them that she went directly to her garden.

She had meant to simply walk around and check out the state of things, pulling off the odd dead blossom or dried leaf as she noticed them, but once alone in the chill October air, she could not stop the train of thought and worry. As she played the humiliating inquisition in front of the Directors over in her mind, as she recalled the vile insinuations, as she worried about how they would manage to make ends meet now that she was no longer earning a wage, she found that she was growing more and more agitated.

She had not cried. Throughout all the humiliating ordeal of being summoned from her classroom in the middle of the day, being subjected to impertinent questioning, being accused of “masculine” behaviours simply because she believed the girls had intellects that ought to be nurtured, she had not cried. Worse was the lecturing; each pompous gentleman on the Board of Directors in turn, chastising her at length for trying to expand her pupils minds and give them something to think on besides fashions, dances and men. Worst of all was Mr Hockdown, the Chairman, who came last.

“Miss Tournier,” his stentorian voice rang out, “is it true that you have been stealing out to the sordid quarters of the city in the night, alone, in a seditious attempt to educate the filthy rabble, to stir them up to pretensions of equality and worth?”

Lifting her chin defiantly, she had answered grimly, her mouth tight and her eyes flashing, “They are not filthy rabble, sir . . . ”

In need of activity, Holly took a knife and snips from the greenhouse and what started out as a tour of inspection soon turned into a full blown cleansing ritual. Anything brown or overgrown, in need of trimming or cutting back before the frost, received her attention. She cut, pruned, trimmed, raked and piled as she thought about what had been, what was, and what might come. The physical labour provided an outlet for the restless wanderings of her mind. Yes, she was prepared to do anything that might be necessary in order to assure their continued support — but at the same time, the thought of becoming a cook or a serving girl depressed her spirits. She had always dreamed of being so much more. The legacy of her parents, and her idealisation of their struggles and sorrows, was a very powerful influence on her aspirations. She wanted to
do
something, to
be
someone — to make a difference.

“And more seriously,” Mr Hockdown had continued, “I cannot but question your assertions that charitable motivations and misguided views on education are your sole incentive for these secret forays into the city to meet with men clandestinely. Miss Tournier, these activities cast a shadow over your moral character and respectability . . . ”

Holly had thought she had found a way to make her situation bearable and to live up to her parent’s republican ideals, but it had been taken from her and turned into something ugly and sordid. While she had detested being a teacher of deportment, drawing, music and French, at least it was a respectable profession and could be seen as having
some
sort of impact on the lives around her, but to think she might be reduced to wiping tables and filling mugs simply to put food on the table . . . As much as she hated to admit it, her pride rebelled at the thought of facing Elizabeth and telling her she was to become a serving maid at the local public house.

Holly then grew disgusted with herself for succumbing to such snobbery, pulling a few innocent plants out by the roots in the process. Since she was old enough to obtain a position she had always worked, her mother worked, and she had been raised to believe that the labourer possessed as much, nay, more, nobility than the so-called upper crust of society — she would
not
be ashamed!

By this time her thoughts had grown as dark and ominous as the storm clouds gathering overhead, her pile of refuse in the corner had grown almost as tall as she was. She put a flame to it, watching as all the dross and litter caught fire, sending shimmering waves of heat and feathery bits of floating ash up to the skies. She listened to the crackling of the flames and wondered if there was any symbolism to this act of hers. Would she be a phoenix rising from the ashes? Or was she merely watching her hopes and dreams go up in smoke?

M
RS
T
OURNIER WAS PREOCCUPIED WITH
her letters, but she suddenly smelled something burning. Looking up, she saw smoke oozing from a pile of leaves and garden debris and her daughter standing with her arms crossed beside it watching intently. The rain was beginning to fall, extinguishing the flames, but Holly was still focusing on it as if expecting something to happen.

“A bonfire, eh?” Mrs Tournier thought ruefully and put down her quill for a moment. “All that smoke can surely not be welcome to someone bent on symbolic significance.”

Suddenly, however, a gust of wind shook the hedges and a swirl of a dozen or so yellow and withered leaves rushed past the bonfire, got caught in the warm air rising with the smoke and lifted the round, golden leaves first high up and then scattered them like gold coins over the nearest patch of earth.

Mrs Tournier smiled. “Making money,” she thought. “Well, let us see, Lie-lie, if my method isn’t more reliable after all.”

She carefully put a few more finishing phrases to her letter and in a strong, sure hand signed it, sprinkled blotting sand all over her spindly writing, folded it up and addressed it to the Board of Directors at Hockdown School for Fine Young Ladies, Edinburgh. She had deliberately striven for brevity at the expense of a full articulation of her sentiments to restrict herself to one, uncrossed and plain sheet of paper and, even if she had muttered additional comments to herself vigorously during the process, she was pleased with her effort.

Putting it aside, she drew out a new page, hastily ran over what she intended to write in her mind and set to work.

Rosefarm Cottage
Clanough
Selkirk

My Dear Sir John Ledwich,