Twixt Two Equal Armies (74 page)

Mrs Bennet shuffled her meat around on her plate and looked anxiously down her table. Something had gone wrong and she could feel one of her spells coming on. It was a disaster, but she had no idea what had happened. Of course, that strange scene when her niece had burst in and been most violent in her speech against one of her fine guests had been quite out of the ordinary and now her dinner — her dinner was ruined!

She glanced at Lord Baugham sitting beside her. Was he offended at the early hours of the dinner? Oh, she should have kept late Town hours, but Mr Bennet
would
insist on adhering to backward country customs. Was that why his lordship’s thin smile seemed to turn into a grimace only a few seconds after she addressed him and tried to engage him in conversation? It couldn’t be the fish — surely not! It was a fine piece of fish and yet he had hardly touched it. Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy had eaten well enough and Mr Bingley had even complimented her on it. No, it couldn’t be the fish.

It could very well be her peculiar sister, sitting opposite him, and in that case she could hardly blame him and could only curse her own stupidity for seating her in his lordship’s vicinity. They kept exchanging glances. Or rather, Mrs Tournier kept sending him glances and he kept avoiding them by offering very strange comments on really quite ordinary things: the silver, the light, the weather, and the wine. But not the fish.

As a consequence, the conversation she was desperately trying to hold up at her end of the table slipped downwards and rested firmly between her daughter Elizabeth and Mr Bingley, with occasional interjections from Mr Darcy and support from Jane. They seemed happy enough, although Elizabeth in turn kept throwing comments and questions at her niece, Holly, who was next to Mr Bennet and her younger cousins at the far end of the table. She seldom answered more elaborately than in monosyllables. By the time the stew arrived Mr Bennet, had for some reason, decided to enter the fray. This particular circumstance, Mrs Bennet decided, was a most grave and suspicious thing indeed.

“Climbed up to the tree house did you, eh, Holly? And none of these gallant, protective gentlemen tried to stop you, my dear?”

The gallant gentleman at the farthest end of the table staunchly looked down at his plate and, chewing the same piece of meat that he had been chewing for the past five minutes, tried to ignore the conversation and what it did to his feelings. But Mr Bingley confessed Miss Holly had looked so competent that he would not have dared interfere. Mr Darcy muttered that she did come down soon enough, so there had been no real worry.

“I think, sir, you will want to profess more surprise at the fact that I did not join her,” Elizabeth said. “A decision I regret already.”

“I cannot agree with you there,” Mr Darcy smiled.

“Oh, I suppose you think only trees at Pemberley are good and safe enough for me to climb henceforth,” Elizabeth laughed. “And I do suppose you are right. I am quite certain in your devotion to your property you have already made them so.”

“Pemberley does have some excellent trees . . . ” Mr Bingley offered.

“I simply meant that I personally could not have assured the safety of two tree-bound young women and, since your cousin first claimed my attention and protection by her speed and determination, I was already committed to her safety and would not have been pleased to weigh my responsibilities between my betrothed and her beloved cousin.”

“Oh Darcy!” Bingley said, laughingly. “As if neither of us remaining gentlemen could have assisted you.”

Miss Tournier seemed to make a loud snorting noise, but instantly lifted her handkerchief to hide a cough.

“That is very gallant of you, Mr Bingley,” Elizabeth smiled. “I am having a grand time now picturing the two of us wantonly falling from trees, only to be caught by chivalrous gentlemen! When you come to Pemberley, Holly, we must make a habit of it.”

Mr Bennet laughed with his daughter, but was acutely aware of his niece sitting beside him being more than quiet, and although he was not exactly well acquainted with her, the way Elizabeth was sending her cousin anxious glances and trying to draw her in made him curious. The few glances Holly did direct anywhere else than at her plate, lap and the walls were directed to the other end of the table, and so Mr Bennet turned his attentions to a study of his sister. He was well enough acquainted with her to be able to tell
her
dull face and quiet habits masked a raging temper. Having missed the earlier spectacle, he wondered what had set her off. The immediate and obvious answer, when considering the demeanour of his niece, was a mother-daughter quarrel, but Arabella was no quarreller. She was a debater. Not only that, she rarely succumbed to anger in the process, so the way her mouth was pressed into a thin line and her conversation was severely curtailed was indeed unusual and not indicative of any family dispute. The distressed undertones of his wife’s conversation turned his attention across the table to another guest who was being uncharacteristically taciturn: Lord Baugham. Hm . . .

“Now, Holly, my dear,” he said, turning back to his niece, “I suppose you must be very pleased with Elizabeth’s feat of capturing a man who will transport her nearly one hundred and fifty miles closer to you.”

Holly pushed her potatoes around in the gravy. “I could say so, but then my pleasure would be at your expense, Uncle. I know how much you will miss her.”

“Well, well. I confess, life has ill prepared me for loss of any kind, most certainly in areas I care so much about, but I don’t mind admitting your gain and my defeat to you. As long as you properly appreciate it.”

Holly smiled faintly. “Of course.”

Mr Bennet watched her for a moment. “You know my dear,” he said, “I think you and I should form a plan. I think one or the other of us — or, come to think of it, both of us — should rush up to Pemberley as soon as an invitation can be contrived and then we must establish ourselves in a pair of its smaller, but still fine, rooms, refuse to budge and thus shut ourselves out from the world around us. No one would ever find us. Would that not make a grand plan? If we need intelligent society that will not show us up in its superiority, but rather lend silent distinction to our frivolity, we shall send for Mr Darcy, and when we need lively company that will make us seem wise and contemplative in our silence, we will send for Mrs Darcy.”

Despite herself, Holly smiled.

“That is a grand plan, Uncle. Except I do not know that I want to shut myself out of the world.”

“Don’t you?” her uncle said shrewdly. “You certainly give a fair impression of it this evening. And you mustn’t blush or protest, my child, for I find myself liking you very much for it.”

Mrs Tournier saw her brother engaging his niece in conversation and even noticed him being able to draw a smile over Holly’s sour face. She found herself thankful to her brother for the effort. Words she wanted to utter to the guest opposite her burned in her throat and had not Mr Darcy on her side been solicitous enough to offer the occasional comment or question for deliberation, she was rather sure she would have succumbed to the temptation.

When dinner was over and the ladies excused themselves, she found some relief in speaking to her oldest niece while Holly was coaxed into a game of some sort with Elizabeth — who was still behaving as if Holly needed her for a crutch to lean on through the evening — and with Mary and Kitty. Slowly, she noticed colour returning to Holly’s cheeks in the heat of the game and she even gave a small triumphant laugh when laying down a winning hand.

“You let me win that, Elizabeth,” she said. “Shame on you!”

“I did not! But if you are so certain about it I will claim the same from you, with interest, in the next round.”

As expected, her brother had not been able to keep two young lovers away from the parlour for long, even with the aid of his best wine. Mr Bennet and Lord Baugham sauntered idly behind the more energetic gentlemen, deep in conversation and obviously in no great hurry themselves to return to the ladies. For some reason, this circumstance incensed Mrs Tournier beyond reason and she was once again out of sorts.

“Music!” cried Mrs Bennet. “Shall we not have some music?” But as much as she tried to steer Kitty towards the pianoforte, the rest of the room paid her no heed and since Kitty was not prepared to claim any attention by performing, Mrs Bennet was forced to give up. She was comforted by the fact that Jane and Mr Bingley took pity upon her and she could happily entertain herself for the next hour by describing Jane’s wedding clothes and assuring Mr Bingley he would not be disappointed in his wife’s choices. In this she had a very sympathetic and faithful audience and so she was happy.

Mary Bennet liked to sit by her aunt. She did not like to talk to her; regardless of her local reputation as an intelligent and informed woman, Mary hardly ever understood a word of what her Aunt Arabella said to her. But she sat beside her and tried to emulate her frown, which Mary thought quite intimidating and therefore probably a useful thing to learn. She also approved wholeheartedly of her aunt’s penchant for sending Lord Baugham sharp looks, and was pleased to see her aunt shared her opinion on flighty young men who brought no worthy arguments to any discussion and rather seemed to thrive on frivolity. She could perfectly well see how her aunt tensed when his lordship moved closer to her cousin, Holly, again, although this time he stayed at a respectable distance and seemed only to utter a few words to her, to which she replied with equal economy.

Mrs Tournier could just make out three words that were repeated between the two. “I am sorry.” She scoffed. Indeed. It was a sorry affair, indeed, and there was nothing she could do about it. On very few occasions since her husband’s passing had Mrs Tournier felt helpless, and never on her own behalf. It was not in her nature to admit to such a possibility, but, just as she had for her husband when he lost his hope and will to live and ideals to believe in, she now felt powerless on behalf of their daughter.

Holly was strong, yes, but in order to stay strong one must sometimes give in to weakness, and surrender to desperate feelings, and the truth. Time would heal wounds caused by that surrender and she was certain Holly would continue being strong exactly because she so bravely lived in those feelings and acknowledged them, but to witness it was sad and hard. Nevertheless, the hopeless feeling persisted, because there was another who refused to do the same. As
his
friend, she hoped fervently he would give due consideration to her words and would act accordingly. As
her
mother she wished him nothing but ill. It was not an easy place to be herself, she reflected, and come nightfall she hoped she could find some peace in a make believe conversation with her husband once again.

B
AUGHAM SAT IN HIS CHAIR
in front of the fire in his bedroom, having absentmindedly undressed and prepared for sleep that he knew would not come easy tonight. What another singular day it had been! For some time now he felt he had been placed in the middle of a stage play: things were happening to him instead of him directing what he wished to touch his life. Today was a prime example. Such a day would have been unthinkable a short time ago.

And would to God that could still be the case!
he thought violently and stretched his arms above his head before he slumped back again. Here he sat, in a strange bedroom, embarrassed like a schoolboy for misbehaving, confused by irrelevant quotes from imperial plays and long drawn out analogies about the weather, and frustrated because he had failed so spectacularly in his mission. She really was a most exasperating woman!

But that was an empty show of defiance which he did not believe in himself anymore. As he reached for a familiar, battered volume, in the quiet, the words of Miss Tournier once again came back to him:

My credit now stands on such slippery ground, that one of two ways you must conceit me — either a coward or a flatterer.

He had to own it, that was a sharp and daring question for her to pose. And more to the point, it was a question that he knew he had to answer, if only to himself:
Which are you, my lord? Coward? Or flatterer?

A coward, he thought.

He sighed and stretched his legs towards the fire and reached for his glass, lifting Tam O’Shanter up from his knee. Turning a few pages he followed the lines with his eyes:

While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An’ getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles.
That lie between us and our hame . . .

But a mention of Scots mosses, waters, slaps and tiles was all he needed before his mind predictably began to wander in exactly the direction not endorsed by Mr Burns.

Her world was in suspension, she had said, and she had no protection against whatever may befall her. Something jabbed at his heart when he thought about that. She would not admit to him to have an attachment, but she would berate him for posing the question. Was he a complete fool to see that as a sign of hope? Was he deluded to think that her anger and indignation was all the proof he needed? If she had set out on another path — a path away from him — she would not have abused him so terribly, would she? She would not have dared him to reveal himself . . .