Twixt Two Equal Armies (62 page)

Suddenly Miss Tournier spotted the crate.

“Maman? What is this?” she asked, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Where did it come from?”

“Oh!” the doctor unexpectedly exclaimed from his quiet corner. “It has arrived?”

The rest of the party remained silent as McKenna rose and quickly crossed the room. He knelt down before the crate and pried the front panel open.

“Come and look.”

They watched her step up and pulled the packing material away. Her hand flew up to her mouth and she gasped in surprise and disbelief. It was a bright oil lamp and a cask of oil. Another smaller parcel within contained pencils, crayons, papers . . . more materials than she had ever seen outside of a supply house.

Mrs Tournier followed her and picked up the objects one by one and examined them closely.

For a few moments she was speechless — her eyes were wide with wonder and confusion — but soon she was able to spit out a few syllables,

“But . . . why? . . . what is? . . . why?”

Dr McKenna could not help but smile at her excitement.

“I hope I did not overstep my bounds, but I thought you might like a better . . . a brighter light. Now you and your mother can both work in the evenings if you wish.”

There was a loud snort from Mrs Tournier and a murmur of, “hm . . . India rubber . . . ”

“Shall we get it set up?”

H
OLLY SAT AT HER TABLE
and arranged and sorted the various stacks of paper, the boxes of pencils, pastels and charcoals. She looked up and blessed the bright light suspended on its stand overhead that made her squint in its intensity — no longer would she be drawing in her own shadow.

“Let’s see if it works, Doctor, shall we?”

But she could see McKenna already looking critically at one of her illustrations. She shook her head, smiled and leaned in closely to see what he had noticed.

“Yes, Doctor? What is it now?” she asked in a voice of good-natured weariness.

He leaned over to point out an area of her sketch.

“The angle of this outcropping is still not quite right.”

She leaned in more.

“What? I am sure I drew precisely what you told me to draw.”

“I am quite sure you did, Miss Tournier,” he said with a laugh, “but it is obvious that what I told you was wrong!”

She laughed also, sat down, and in a tone that suggested the opposite, retorted, “My, my . . . what a surprise that would be.”

They sat, heads together and hands nearly touching as the doctor pointed out just how some particular detail should look and she worked with her pencil to make it come to life.

After a moment of working together comfortably and well, Holly suddenly gave a jolt and looked at her mother and his lordship, silently watching the scene.

“Oh but . . . ” she said.

Dr McKenna hastily got up from his seat. “But of course,” he said. “That can wait. You must excuse me,” he smiled to his hostess and moved over to her, “I know it is ridiculous but the phenomenon of watching one’s ideas and theories emerge on paper is too fascinating for me.”

Mrs Tournier said she understood completely, but as Dr McKenna chatted easily with her, Holly gave his lordship a look and, before he turned away and busied himself with the remains of his tea, she was startled to find his ice-cold gaze on her in what she could only interpret to be disdain. It almost shocked her and she wished she had not been so eager to display her easy manners with the doctor. Then she stopped herself. No, she had done nothing wrong, and if he felt she had been rude, she had plenty of reproaches she could hurl back at him. How he looked so coolly at her as if nothing had happened, how he crept into her thoughts when she didn’t want him to, how he had made her uneasy when she should be the happiest she had ever been, how solitude these days was both a relief and a burden . . .

A short time later both the doctor and his lordship warily and carefully inched towards commonly taking their leave and wishing the ladies a pleasant evening. There was no invitation to dine, which, perhaps, had been the innermost wish of each of them, but Mrs Tournier refused to extend an invitation that would prolong the evening when the conversation had grown increasingly forced and halting, to the extent that she felt herself losing patience with guests and daughter alike. So in her selfishness and fully aware of Holly’s questioning look, she allowed the gentlemen their right to profess they had stayed too long and would now leave.

T
HE TWO MEN WALKED DOWN
the lane in silence for a short while until they reached the crossroads in front of the Thistle.

“My lord,” McKenna ventured, “would you care to join me for some ‘liquid reinforcement’ before attempting the long journey back to Clyne?”

Baugham smiled. “Splendid idea! Tea is all very fine, but it does make one awfully thirsty. Shall we?”

The warmth of the indoor air in the Thistle’s taproom surrounded the two men as they settled down. Hats and gloves were quickly divested of, jackets slung over the backs of chairs, neck cloths loosened, pints ordered — with an advisement to the server to have a sharp eye and quick action to prevent the occurrence of any empty mugs
.

After taking a long draught of his drink and stretching his legs out under the table, Dr McKenna leaned back in his chair and emitted a noise halfway between a sigh and a groan. He nodded in greeting to a fellow patron, then gave his companion a careful look.

“Do you know Mr Grant?”

Baugham turned and looked at the man. “We have been introduced, but scarcely more than that,” he replied, giving the gentleman a nod of his own. “At a gathering of Lady Tristam’s.”

The doctor appeared to hardly be listening as he continued his thoughts on the subject. “I met him this morning. It seems he has been out of town visiting family . . . ” he hesitated and Baugham wondered, with a small, inexplicable knot developing in his stomach, at this turn of conversation.

After a brief pause, McKenna added, “It’s just that . . . when I first arrived here and in some conversation or other with Robertson, I let on about my business here . . . Robertson commented that Miss Tournier would not be in need of continually finding work if she would just get on with marrying Grant. He spoke as if they were formally engaged, but — and I admit I have not know the lady long, nor the gentleman at all — but, having met him, I just cannot see it.”

In the face of his lordship’s stony expression and silence, he was forced to come to the point bluntly.

“My lord . . . you are a close friend of the family . . .
is
there any agreement between Miss Tournier and Mr Grant or . . . perhaps expectations regarding him or any other gentleman?”

Baugham swallowed his ale and put down his tankard slowly, first avoiding the doctor’s inquisitive eyes but then leaning back and meeting his gaze.

“I would suppose,” he slowly said, “that is a question for Miss Tournier to answer.”

He paused slightly weighing his words and forcing himself to go on with his reply. His voice was level and distant, but his eyes hardened slightly as he tried to search the doctor’s purpose in the dim light.

“But to my knowledge there is no understanding with Mr Grant. With anyone,” he felt compelled to add. Why this should have been so difficult he did not understand. It was, after all the truth. “Why?”

McKenna leaned forward on his elbows, toying with his mug.

“I hope you don’t find me . . . impertinent. It is just that I thought I should ask before . . . Yes, that I
should
ask. Perhaps it is just that I can not believe my luck. I’m sure you with your experience of society in much more sophisticated place would have to agree. To find such a woman, hidden away in this small village and to find that no man has had the wit to see and appreciate her? Well, except apparently, this Mr Grant . . . ”

He made a depreciative face but it was not returned. Baugham quickly looked up from his tankard, but kept his quiet.

There was a pause in the conversation as each man appeared to be lost in his own thoughts. Empty mugs were expeditiously refilled by the attentive bar maid, who walked off disappointed at the inattention of her patrons. The silence threatened to grow awkward, but soon the direction of at least one of the gentlemen’s reflections was diverted when Baugham looked up again and abruptly changed the subject.

“So are you a sporting man, then?” Baugham asked. McKenna at first seemed to have difficulty comprehending his lordship’s line of questioning, but then confessed he was and for a while the men were pleasantly, if formally, engaged on the neutral territory of shooting, boxing and horse riding.

Halfway through his second ale on a stomach bereft of dinner, McKenna opted for candour about his curiosity regarding the previously severed topic. His green eyes fixed upon his companion’s blue ones.

“My lord, you will forgive me if I spoke plainly just before. But I must admit I still cannot quite understand the fate of my new illustrator. You know her, I suppose. It just seems to me . . . well . . . I suppose I simply cannot imagine how Miss Tournier is not already spoken for — yet she sometimes gives off the air that her heart is . . . I had thought that maybe there was someone . . . ”

He took a breath and plunged ahead, “But perhaps she is surrounded by fools who look no further than her lack of fortune, which could be no matter to someone who can appreciate her real value, don’t you agree? At least one can say that in Grant’s favour. He can see what is right in front of him. What does fortune matter to a man of means? True, I am a second son, but I am well enough provided for and have no inclination to let such matters hinder me — not when the possibilities hold so much promise.”

He looked at Baugham pointedly, “So I may take it that you — personally — do not know of any impediments in the matter? I should like to be confident of that before I follow my own inclinations or seem presumptuous. I am a man of honour, sir.”

Baugham could not help but sigh and push his tankard around. There was something uncharacteristically hard around his mouth that could almost be described as sinister but he kept his voice light all the same. “‘Impediments’? What a curious word, Doctor. As I said, I am not aware of any understanding between Miss Tournier and anyone. I do not think I can be plainer than that or more forthcoming without being presumptuous myself.”

Baugham quickly emptied his tankard and suddenly felt hazarding the prospect of an icy ride home would be more preferable than pursuing this subject with Dr McKenna any further.

“I must beg your pardon. I fear the ale and long day has robbed me of my manners. And with that in view, I think I must return to Clyne.”

He smiled and got up, gathering his personal effects. He held out his hand to Dr McKenna to shake and wished him a good night. The solitude and peace at Clyne now seemed his salvation.

T
HE SKY WAS DARK WITH
ominous clouds when he awoke the following morning, the frozen wind blew relentlessly from the north and each minute that the snow held off only increased the anticipation of what was inevitably to come. As the hours passed, Baugham grew restless and agitated; he paced, he stared out the windows at the lane leading from the village, he sighed and paced some more. It was very cold, certainly too cold for Miss Tournier to be walking all the way from the village, and despite her infernal stubbornness and insistence on refusing his assistance, he had half a mind to order his carriage anyway and compel her to accept the ride. Thrice he strode to the door with that very intention, but thrice he turned back with a sigh. Such a move on his part could very well provoke another angry confrontation, the consequences of which could either shatter the fragile equilibrium they had developed, or . . . he forced his mind away from the contemplation of any other possibilities. As the gloomy morning turned to dreary afternoon, his worry and irritation turned to something akin to disappointment. The weather had obviously been enough to keep Miss Tournier home.

He, on the other hand, as he told himself, knew the Scottish climate too well to put any restrictions on his own movements simply because of the weather. He pulled on his gloves and secured the collar of his riding cloak tightly about his neck. What was a little cold compared to hours of listlessness in a library — although it must be admitted that a very fine and well-organised library it was beginning to be these days. But one could not sit around admiring an unfinished work when it reminded him of the need to take leave of its architect.

Riemann gave him an anxious look — or possibly it was directed more at his boots and attire — but Baugham paid him no heed. He gave him a smile and lifted his riding crop as a goodbye as he strode out the door. Yes, the wind was of the infuriating, ice-cold kind, and the threatened snow began to fall in icy sleet that somehow forced itself through any protective clothing and made the horse giddy. Well, no matter. He would be off and there would be tea and company at the other end, which was all he needed.

The ride down to the village was tolerable once he worked his horse up to a brisk pace. The snow was growing heavier and he already felt it gathering inside his collar. His breeches were damp all the way up his thigh but his boots and his cloak kept him tolerably warm and dry after all. His face was wet as well, which he thought was a blessing, for he did not want to work up a sweat, however much he was keen to be on the inside of Rosefarm Cottage.