Twixt Two Equal Armies (75 page)

But pleasures are like poppies spread;
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed.
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white–then melts forever.

All his adult life he had sought pleasure, believing that ‘moment white’ was enough. To seek after more was to risk exposing something within him that he had spent his entire life protecting. The very thoughts now spinning through his mind frightened him but . . . it was time to let go and believe in something new, something more. He would finally believe in his mother’s words when she told him she wanted him to be happy, and that happiness was not attained through protection against the heart, but only through exposure and risk.

Now, however, he did see the solution clearly. He had all the indication of her feelings and situation he had the right to expect. The rest was up to him and he must show as much daring as she. It was only fair, after all, and he knew he owed it to her. He needed to atone for his trespasses and mistakes against her by being as honest as he could be. In no other way could he truly make up for what he had done to her (and himself, he added sadly) in the garden at Rosefarm that cold and windy day. He felt exhilarated; she deserved to know the truth, now that he recognised it, about why he kissed her. She deserved to know he had wanted to kiss her, not to insult her, and if the truth be told — and it must — he still wanted to, and then to offer himself to her to abuse and berate and jab and finally kiss some more. That was all he wanted of her — everything. Somehow, he would find a time and a place to tell her how he felt and explain himself.

Suddenly her feelings hardly mattered; she might despise him, and rightfully so, but he would declare himself all the same. He hoped she would not be uncomfortable, but he also hoped he could be clear and leave no doubt as to his feelings. Considering those feelings were still somewhat newly formed and acknowledged, he foresaw some difficulties. The way he had used her, he owed her the chance to throw it back in his face, and he could in no way be certain that she would not do exactly that. But, giving her that chance, putting himself at her mercy; that was the only way he could ever truly be forgiven. She had certainly abused him, and rightfully so, but she had also been brave, braver than he could hope to be. She had challenged him to be honest with her, he recognised that now, and he had been a coward not to accept it. He had to put his faith in her, knowing her as well as he did. She had every right to punish him, but she possessed a generous heart and he knew that if there was no hope for him, she would not have been so bold.

Despite the revolution that was now spreading from his heart to his mind and the resolutions he was so bravely forming in spite of his hesitations, Baugham had to smile to himself. He could trust Miss Tournier. He knew her well enough. Yes, he truly did know her better than he thought he did, and besides tender feelings, like fragile buds only just daring to raise their heads from the dark soil of his neglected heart, there was trust and admiration. Despite whatever he had been guilty of, there had always been that, and she deserved to know that too, and so much more besides.

He would choose his moment and, until then, let hope live within him for once and not quell it under veiled inquiries, reason and pretexts.
If there could be the remotest chance of her ever letting him kiss her again, some risk taking would certainly be worth it. If she could not return his feelings — and he could very well understand how that could be for a variety of reasons — if she did reject him, he could and must live with that, because she would know the truth and the truth was what he owed to her above all. But maybe . . . just maybe . . . she might feel the same.

O
F COURSE,
H
OLLY WAS NOT
sleeping, but it was late and she had no wish to speak to anyone and so she lay absolutely still in her bed, determined to ignore the scratching on her door. It was Elizabeth, of course, and so the scratching would not stop simply because there was no answer. Holly sighed. Just as she prepared to call out a greeting, Elizabeth popped her head around the door.

“Holly,” she whispered, “don’t tell me you’re asleep.”

“Very well, I won’t,” Holly answered dryly.

“Good,” her cousin said and crept in to sneak up on her bed.

“You shouldn’t be here, Elizabeth,” Holly said gently, “you have a busy day tomorrow.”

Elizabeth scoffed. “Nonsense! What I really should not do is let my dearest friend go to bed alone and obviously miserable.”

“That is very kind of you, but you should also not think of me at this time. If I am miserable it’s only because I have failed you and my family by behaving very badly and for that I ask your forgiveness.”

“No apologies please Holly! But an explanation would be nice.”

Holly tried to smile but she could not quite manage it. Instead she sat up against her pillows.

“I’m sorry, Eliza, I don’t think I can do that tonight. I really am quite tired.”

Elizabeth crept closer and took her cousin’s hand. “Holly, I know it’s terribly selfish of me, but I do want my wedding day to be perfect. And if you are not happy, it cannot be perfect.”

“Well, as sorry as it makes me to have to say it, I’m afraid your wedding day cannot be perfect then, Elizabeth,” Holly said and fought to hold back her tears.

“But why?” Elizabeth asked and put her hand to her cousin’s cheek to soothe her. “Why, Holly? What is the matter?”

Holly stared at her idle hands in her lap. She did want to tell everything but should she? Could she?

“Don’t you want to tell me?” Elizabeth asked quietly.

“Yes,” Holly said abruptly. “Oh yes! But it is difficult. So very hard . . . to say it.”

“Well,” Elizabeth said and crept closer, “try . . . ”

Holly swallowed hard a few times. “Yes. I’ll try. It’s . . . I feel like such a fool. It’s just . . . he . . . ”

She broke off, uncertain of how to say the words to her friend, to
his
friend’s future wife.

“He?” Elizabeth prompted. “Holly? Which he?”

“What do you mean by that, Eliza?”

“I have eyes, Holly, and I do not think that doctor you were telling me about is the one causing you so much present unhappiness.”

No,” she shook her head. “It’s nothing. I need to . . . see . . . that it’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

Elizabeth sat up in alarm. “Of course it matters, Holly! How can you even contemplate marrying another man when you — ”

“When I what, Elizabeth?” Holly sat up and snapped back. “When I could instead live the rest of my years in genteel poverty and spinsterhood? That is a fine thing for you to suggest to me two days before your own most advantageous wedding!”

Refusing to be goaded into a distracting argument, Elizabeth said calmly, “You are right. I am indeed getting married in two days, and I will become the mistress of a great estate. And that, Holly, presents you with another choice, a better choice. I will hear no protests and no proud rebuttals. I love you, you are my dearest cousin and you deserve to be happy and secure for the rest of your life. I will be in a position to care for you, Holly, to include you in my new home as a sister if you are ever, ever, ever in need of it.”

“And why should I live as a dependent in your home if I can have a home of my own? Why should I consent to having you care for me when I can instead care for my mother?”

“Holly,” Elizabeth spoke plainly, “I am very well aware that a marriage founded on mutual esteem and respect rather than love can be successful. I do however believe that you cannot hope to find peace or contentment in a marriage if you are in love with another man. Not you! And just think — ”

A strong rap on the door pre-empted Holly’s reaction and both girls jumped.

“Lie-lie?” Arabella Tournier’s strong voice rang out. “I need to speak to you.”

Holly swiftly dried her eyes with the back of her hand and Elizabeth shuffled to the edge of the bed.

“Shall I let her in?”

“No, I will,” Holly jumped up and ran to open the door, intensely thankful for the intrusion.

“Oh, I see,” Mrs Tournier said, when she saw her niece, but Elizabeth shook her head faintly and could not reassure her. Mrs Tournier’s face fell again and with a sigh she strode into the room. Elizabeth wished them both a good night and started out the door.

“Sleep well, Eliza,” Holly said and tried to sound cheerful. “Busy day tomorrow.”

“Yes,” her cousin said. “Will you be there with me? I need you.”

“Of course.” This time Holly’s smile was genuine.

“Good. Thank you.”

Mrs Tournier waited until Elizabeth left the room before she sat down on the edge of her daughter’s bed.

“Quite popular tonight, aren’t you, dear?” she said and looked at her.

“Oh, I think not,” Holly said and looked down into her lap again, refusing to meet her mother’s eye. “Quite the opposite, really. I spent most of the evening apologising.”

“And did anyone apologise to you?”

Holly nodded. Then she sighed and looked at her mother with sadness, but also with hard determination in her eyes. “I do not wish to discuss it,” she said firmly but quietly.

Mrs Tournier ran her hand over her daughter’s cheek and then her hair. Holly had hastily plaited it into one thick, careless braid and half of the front had already come undone as if she had tossed and turned all night instead of just for the past hour.

“Did you do your one hundred?”

Mrs Tournier was referring to the one hundred brush strokes she had taught her daughter to subject her hair to every evening before bed. It had been a pleasant ritual in Holly’s childhood, but now as an adult she was less than diligent about it.

“No Maman,” she therefore smiled, “there was no point to it. I will have to wash my hair tomorrow anyway.”

“All the more reason, Lie-lie!” her mother said. “Come here; let me do it for you.”

Holly still smiled as her mother picked up her brush from the small armoire in the corner and she shuffled closer to her. Mrs Tournier gently untied her hair and gathered it over her back to set to work. The first brush strokes were hampered by tangles and Holly’s head was snapped backwards several times. But the long strokes soon did their work and the rhythmic sounds were very soothing and soon Holly felt herself relax under her mother’s care.

“Maman, you mustn’t think . . . ”

“Hush, Lie-lie,” her mother interrupted her, “no talking during the counting. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen . . . ”

So Holly stayed silent and her mother slowly went through the ritual and soon her scalp was tender from the bristles of the brush and her hair was shiny and flighty from the treatment.

“One hundred,” Mrs Tournier said and put down the brush. “There.”

“Thank you, Maman.”

“It is certainly a while since I have done that. My hand will be aching in the morning.”

Holly felt her hair and wound a few tresses between her fingers. “I won’t bother to braid it again before bed, I think,” she smiled.

“Good idea,” her mother said. “Was there something you wanted to say to me?”

“No. Not really. But perhaps I could just . . . For a little while you could simply . . . ”

“Of course, my precious child,” Mrs Tournier said and closed her daughter in her arms.

“
M
Y LORD!”

Baugham shifted his gaze with a start to rest on his valet instead of the wall. Riemann looked at him strangely. It was true, he often looked at him quite exasperated and even sad when his lordship showed blatant disregard for the finer points of his work, but this time he looked positively . . . angry.

“My dear fellow, what’s the matter?” Baugham said, puzzled.

“My lord,” Riemann said and visibly tried to gather himself before he spoke. “I would beg you to get out of your clothes and pay attention. I have coats to brush, shoes to polish, neckties to attend to for tomorrow and since it appears you are not going visiting, I would beg to attend to that coat as well in the process. It is your best. I need to get on with it. Tomorrow is a big day and it warrants the proper preparations.”

Baugham was stunned, but he obeyed his valet and struggled out of his coat. That was the longest speech he had ever heard him utter. It appeared this was to be one of those days when he seemed separated from the rest of the world by some sort of strange language barrier. Suddenly people spoke the most appalling nonsense at him and he seemed, completely unawares, to have switched his own speech to some incomprehensible foreign language his fellow Englishmen had trouble understanding.

It had begun at breakfast. After a night of heavy sleep, he had cheerfully gone down to catch Darcy and Bingley and to take part of their plans to visit Longbourn that day. But once he got there, his friends were eating a leisurely breakfast in silence while Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst were chattering away on what a lovely day it was turning out to be, completely ignoring the fact that a heavy, icy mist was hanging over the landscape and reducing the view from the windows to a few feet.

“Still here?” Baugham had cheerfully greeted the two men. “So at what time are we going to Longbourn today?”