Twixt Two Equal Armies (60 page)

Here she cast an inquiring glance at her mother, who shuffled some documents that were lying on the table.

“Oh go on, Doctor,” she said, “you can tell her and act the hero in this play.”

Apparently Dr McKenna had no objections to that, but assumed a happy expression and cleared his throat.

“Well,” he began, “I, of course, am here to begin work. I am finally in a position to start compiling my findings and research into printable form and as your mother’s express assured me that you were available immediately — ”

“Immediately? Is that so?” she turned to her mother with a raised eyebrow. “By express, Maman?”

“Yes,” was the short reply, “by express.”

Momentarily taken aback by the almost terse exchange between mother and daughter, Dr McKenna continued with a nervous smile, “Sir John has been most warm in his praise of your talents and, having seen your work myself, I heartily concur and he further says it is my good fortune to be able to secure you. For my illustrations,” he added hastily. “Of rocks and minerals.”

“
Rocks
, Holly,” Mrs Tournier said with a raised eyebrow.

Holly gave her mother an impatient look before the doctor went on.

“Of course,” he hastened to add, “Mrs Tournier has now informed me of your current obligations, and I will understand if you do not feel that you can take this on immediately after all.

“However,” he went on with a hopeful look, “I confess that I am very selfishly counting on your talents and, as I will be in Clanough for some time, I am prepared to wait for as long as it takes until you can begin.”

“Oh,” Holly said, somewhat flustered, “I don’t know that you need to wait very long . . . I mean, I
do
have my other work, but it doesn’t take all of my time and . . . ” she paused and gathered her thoughts, continuing in a stronger voice, “I welcome the opportunity, Dr McKenna, as I am thankful for the offer. Perhaps you can come by tomorrow?”

The doctor’s smile was wide and immediate.

“Tomorrow would be perfect, Miss Tournier. Yes, I am very happy to come by tomorrow! Of course, I would not take you away from your current commitments, as it is I have plenty to do on my own, which is one of the reasons I have taken a room — to work in peace and tranquillity.”

A short time later the doctor took leave of a pleased, yet confused, young woman and a self-satisfied older one, claiming that he did not wish to intrude any further on their evening together. He returned to the Thistle in time for dinner, quite pleased with his progress this day.

A
NOTHER DAY, ANOTHER MYSTERIOUS NOISE
to investigate, thought his lordship. There was light streaming out of his library and a loud thumping sound emanating from behind the door. Baugham arrested his progress down the hall and took a peek. Hamish was standing on a ladder just by the door, holding a book in one hand and fingering the growing row on the shelf.

“A,b,c,d,e,f,g,i,j,h . . . ” he muttered. “No, a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h . . . There!”

Baugham smiled and admired the boy’s concentration for a moment before clearing his throat.

“My laird!” Hamish said surprised. “Miss Tournier is nae here today,” he added and tried to scramble down.

“Yes, I see that,” Baugham said and leaned against the doorpost. “So what are you doing here, Hamish?”

The boy reached the floor and looked at his employer sideways under the long fringe of his hair.

“I . . . ” he began. “Would ye rather I left, sir?” he said.

Baugham looked around him. The library was still dominated by stacks of books and miscellaneous heaps of what looked like rubbish to him, but apparently had not earned that official label yet since so far they had not been thrown out. One chair, the one in front of his desk, was cleared and he fit his long frame into it and looked at Hamish again.

“Of course not,” he said softly. “I told you that you were welcome to stay. I am just curious as to why you should want to, when you are all alone here.”

Hamish’s eyes grew big. “Alone?” he said. “Well, I daresay I am, but I really dinnae mind, sir. Truly I dinnae.”

“Ah . . . ” Baugham smiled, “Captain Bob is still keeping you company, is he?”

Hamish returned his smile. “Yes. But I did promise Miss Tournier I’d put the novels up on the shelf alphabetically if I had the time.”

Baugham looked up at the new order Hamish had been busy with at his interruption. “Novels, eh? And on the highest shelf? Do you suppose I have works that my librarian does not approve of? Or is the whole genre offensive to her?”

Hamish shook his head. “No, sir. They are fine books, Miss Tournier said, but they’re in a terrible state. But she said she jist didnae have the heart to throw them out even if she was going to get new editions and have some of them mended.”

Baugham gave a little laugh at that. “So she showed pity to the poor tattered, despised novels! Well, I suppose I should have expected it. I wonder if she shows as much charity to the other sad parts of the library.”

“Well . . . some of them are too dirty to even burn.”

His lordship laughed even more at that candid statement and confessed to Hamish that he suspected his housekeeper agreed. Hamish grinned and climbed up on the ladder again with a few more volumes. Baugham followed his progress for a while, but then his gaze wandered down to his desk. In front of him were two large boxes filled with cards edgeways and with different slips of paper sticking up. He ran his hand over them. Half a dozen quills and two different coloured inks, together with blotting paper and sand, were carefully organised at the head of the desk. Picking up the quills, he tested their sharpness with the tip of his finger. Two heaps of paper sheets lay beside his elbow. One of them seemed to be pages from old books, the other was full of scribbles and notes: “
Seneca, Oxford 1788, not 1792!
” said one. “
History of the Saxon People. Ask Mr Griggott. Also: MacCauley, Benson and Taylor
,” said another. Long lists and notes on what she had discussed with Mr Griggott, the small bookseller in Clanough, were followed by addresses to publishers in Edinburgh. There were a bunch of first pages ripped out of books with “discarded” written in bold letters on them. And then there was a hasty sketch, in the corner of a page with listed prices, of a boy sitting on the floor with his head in his hand and a book opened on his knee. “
Hamish. 29th Nov, lunch break
,” it said.

Baugham looked down at it and smiled. It was a good enough likeness, but more than the features, the artist had managed to capture the way the opened book and the story within it had caused the boy’s surrender. He was interrupted when the subject of that drawing cleared his throat high above him.

“My laird,” he said anxiously, “I would beg of ye not to touch anything. Miss Tournier wouldnae like it and . . . she is most pernicketie, sir.”

Carefully Baugham put the drawing back where he had found it. Contrary to his usual habits and inclination, he straightened the sheets and made certain everything was exactly as he had found it.

“Yes, she is, isn’t she?” he said and left Hamish to his chores and Captain Bob.

T
HERE WAS A NASTY WIND
reaching into his collar and up his sleeves past his gloves as he walked through the fields towards Clanough. In this kind of weather it was no surprise Hamish had preferred to plead working engagements indoors, which included a chance at literary adventures on the High Seas, and had made the journey to attend to his dilapidated novels in his deserted library. Actually, Baugham reflected, there was a reason why he had made his way there that morning as well and it could not all be blamed on the weather.

His library was his favourite place. It was comfortable despite the obstacles and the dust, it was welcoming despite the chaos, and it was interesting even if he was there all alone — not that he ever was alone in his library these days. Although, of course, things had changed lately. She seemed preoccupied when she worked now and, as much as he really could not blame her, he was saddened by it. Perhaps it was always going to be awkward and painful, but he missed her spirit which seemed to have been replaced, through his imprudence, with withdrawal and cautiousness. It was only natural of course, and it was his fault, but once again his thoughts rambled on in the same track they always did when he got thus far. He had kissed her — insulted her — and as much as he still was unable to reconcile his reasons for doing so, he was forced to admit that, amid his regrets there was a feeling of fond reminiscence too. And one thing that made his memory so pleasant was her response. Or should that be her lack of the expected response? Or perhaps the surprise of a response at all?

He had pulled away, aghast at what he had done, realising too late that he was committing a serious offence against a lady, but her realisation of having been used so shamefully had hit her rather late it seemed. Or was she simply stunned? No, stunned was not the word for her reaction. He might be an expert at moulding his world according to what suited him for the moment, but not even he could fool himself into thinking that she had been simply stunned or shocked.

But what he had felt her to be was really of no consequence; her expressed wishes and words were his guide, and there she had been adamant. “And so,” he said aloud, “I promised . . . ”

He hit some innocent shrubbery viciously with his cane a few times and felt ridiculous, but slightly relieved all the same. What did this invitation for tea mean if not forgiveness and progress? If Mrs Tournier knew about his trespasses, it seemed she was not about to put too much importance to them. The more likely explanation was, of course, that Miss Tournier had not told her mother and simply wished to return to things as they were before.

As they were before . . .

He should stop hitting bushes and slap himself instead, he thought as he turned onto the lane leading up to the village. He walked briskly over the bridge. It had begun to rain. A tiny drizzle that hit him in the face as the wind turned it sideways with surprising sharpness. Damned inhuman weather. Exactly the sort of conditions when a sane man would count his blessings in front of a roaring fire and turn his back on prospects of the outdoors.

He quickened his pace, as much to leave his thoughts behind him as because of the weather. In the end, he successfully managed both as he was shown into the parlour by Mrs Higgins, where, to his great astonishment, he discovered that tea was already in progress and a guest was already being entertained. A man sat conversing with Miss Tournier in hushed tones by her drawing table, which was over-run with what looked like a manuscript and rough sketches. Miss Tournier sat with pencil in hand, sometimes chewing on it, turning the sketches around as if to understand their right angle. She looked up and the frown on her studious face disappeared for an instant, but was back again with doubled intensity before he could react, but whatever her daughter’s reaction, Mrs Tournier looked pleased when his lordship descended on her straight away and in teasing accents inquired after the state and spirits of the invalid.

“Well,” she said gracefully, “I suffer a vast deal, of course. There is really nothing else to be claimed. But I shan’t bore you with the details for however much you confess you want to hear them, you really do not, and even less do I want to tell. You may fetch yourself some tea and then introduce a topic for our mutual amusement.”

Baugham confessed he knew he had been summoned all the way from Clyne to perform this duty so he had not come unprepared. He fished out the London Gazette and its lists of appointments to the Court, saying she no doubt would find the governmental appointees of interest.

“And tea comes with scientific company this time, my lord. Dr McKenna, Sir John Ledwich’s good friend and another hapless victim of his concern for us, is here to ascertain whether my daughter’s skill as an illustrator encompasses the challenge of drawing rocks to his satisfaction. Rocks!”

By that time Holly had risen and was at the tea tray, pouring a cup for their newest guest. The two gentlemen exchanged greetings and Holly could not help but secretly study his lordship’s face for some reaction. She did not know . . . she did not admit what she might have been hoping to discover from it, but as she saw nothing but polite interest directed toward the doctor, she only let a small sigh escape her before handing him his cup. Lord Baugham thanked her with friendly politeness, while she met his eye as indifferently as she could — and though his face was open, she thought she could detect a slightly guarded expression in his eyes as he looked at her, a guardedness which had not been there when he spoke to her mother.

So, that is that,
she thought, realising that at some level, she had been anticipating some difference when encountering him here at Rosefarm.
There is nothing. He does not care . . .

Baugham prepared his tea thoughtfully as Miss Tournier returned to her seat next to the doctor, and even then it took him a moment to notice. The pitcher contained rich cream — no honey or treacle to be seen, the sugar bowl was filled to capacity with no frowning Mrs Higgins hovering about standing sentinel, and the aroma rising from his cup . . . pure black tea. His eye wandered back to the visitor with greater curiosity, but McKenna had already resumed his conversation with Miss Tournier and they were both once again bent over the pages on the table.