Twixt Two Equal Armies (86 page)

Rosefarm Cottage
Clanough
Selkirk

It is dark, but I sit here burning a candle so that I can read your last letter once again and try, somehow, to find some peace amid all my doubts and fears. But what strikes me at this moment are not your professions of love or the examples of your wit or gift of language. Instead I read your first paragraph over and over and wonder that you can so blithely exclaim over the loss of your good sense in matters involving me – and I wonder what it will mean, for you and for me, when that good sense returns, as it must. Too, I wonder if your mention of it indicates that you are beginning to see that things cannot be what you want simply because you want them, and I wonder if you are now asking yourself some of the same questions that are plaguing me.

I need to say something, but first I must tell you that my feelings for you are unchanged, nor will they ever change. I love you. I have loved you since that first kiss and before — every time you came to my rescue, every time you made me angry, every time we quarrelled and every time we enjoyed each other’s company — my love was growing, though I did not know. When you kissed me, I knew. I still know. But that is beside the point . . . maybe it isn’t even enough.

I wonder if marriage between two people such as you and me can ever be. Maybe we are too different, maybe I am not what you think I am, or maybe I am exactly what you think I am, but not at all what you need.

So now I am beginning to think that you should stay in Cumbermere for a longer time. While there, you will have time to think, to decide, perhaps to seek counsel before you are bound to me forever to your regret. If it was a momentary impulse that made you offer marriage to me, a matter of being swept up in some whim or fancy, then I will release you from your promise without reproach or condition. The thought of us marrying, as wonderful as it might seem, was probably too fantastic to be real anyway.

This I offer to you. What I ask in return is a timely answer to what your decision will be.

H.

M
R
R
IEMANN WAS LYING ON
his bed, his midday meal satisfactorily shared with the rest of the staff below stairs and with one biscuit transported for his personal enjoyment in his hand. He lay back, happily taking advantage of the peace surrounding his Master’s impending meal and that same gentleman’s habit of either taking a small nap in his library or — as was more usual these days — closeting himself into his study with his steward or some other member of his staff for a long afternoon of actual work.

After thoughtfully savouring the biscuit to the last crumb, very carefully lest he should end up with evidence of his indulgence either on the bed or on his person, he crossed his legs and then his arms behind his head and felt himself drift off into well-deserved relaxation while doing a mental inventory of what was still needed to supplement his Master’s wardrobe for the upcoming nuptials. His thoughts had just slipped over into that unregulated state between rational thought and untamed dreaming when he heard rapid footsteps approaching his chamber through his lordship’s dressing room.

Before he had time to fully get off the bed, the door flew open and Lord Baugham pushed his head through.

“Riemann,” he said in a queer voice, “we are leaving.”

Neither the order itself nor the manner of it came as a surprise to the valet.

“Very well, sir,” he said calmly and discreetly buttoned his waistcoat. “And where to, my lord?”

Strangely enough, his lordship paused for a moment. “Clyne,” he then said forcefully and left the valet’s room.

When Riemann caught up with him a few minutes later in his lordship’s own bedroom, Lord Baugham was rummaging through a pile of books on the table.

“Put these into my trunk,” he said. “And I have some more downstairs that belong at Clyne. And then I need the papers. Let’s leave in an hour.”

“My lord,” he said, “I think you mean
you
will leave in an hour.”

He was answered with a waving hand and receding steps towards the door. “Certainly!”

Mr Riemann watched his Master walk out the door leaving him to his chores and he started preparing his lordship’s riding satchel, mentally calculating weather conditions, the distance and necessary stops at inns along the way while trying to recall what — if anything — he had left at Clyne in the way of adequate clothing. He was despondently thinking he would have to reconcile himself to the fact that before he could reach Clyne with the rest of his lordship’s effects, his Master would already be roaming around his Scottish hideaway, making his social visits and doing his courting in his less than his best clothes. That was when he discovered a letter that had been left under the pile of books and he carefully removed it. It was a lady’s hand — long, neat and dutifully crossed. Without reading any further, Riemann noticed it had been scrunched by a strong hand and he instinctively smoothed out the page, re-folded it in the same neat fashion and, smiling a little to himself, decided to deposit it in his Master’s already cramped luggage.

H
OLLY’S HANDS WERE COLD.
S
HE
held them in front of her mouth and blew on them to keep them warm. Her nose was cold, too. She touched it with her sleeve and rubbed it gently to warm it up, but as soon as her hand left her face she could feel the tip of it go numb again. She could, of course, have moved away from the cold window and stopped staring out of it at the even colder view outside, where a few people passed their house swiftly to be out of the freezing weather as soon as possible, but she found she could not. If she did, if she abandoned her vigil, she would have had to find something else to do and she was paralyzed and unable to concentrate on anything other than her rambling thoughts.

Hot tears stung her eyes and she leaned her forehead against the window glass. Her mother had no idea she was so miserably idle. She thought she was in her room attending either to her sewing, or her letter writing, or even her lists for Lord Baugham’s library. She had no idea her daughter stood staring out of the window, listlessly wondering in how many ways good intentions led one straight to a personal hell.

No letter today! Still! Mrs Robertson had told her with a barely concealed smirk. Those words, and the smug sentiment behind them, rang over and over again in her head. So perhaps he was doing what she had asked of him. Perhaps he was taking some time to deliberate. She was surprised at how his obedience and consideration felt so . . . hurtful. Like she had been pushed into a prison cell of her own making and the very door she had asked to be shut had slammed her in the face. Would she never hear from him again? Should she really have sent that letter at all? Perhaps it could have waited, but then . . . No. She shook her head and shifted her feet, pressing her other sleeve against her cold face. That would not have been right. It would not have been right towards him and if she had not told him the truth and given him a choice he would surely have ended up despising her if . . .

Eyes drawn to a commotion in the distance, in a moment Holly realised that the rider tearing down the lane with no regard of life or limb, either for his beast or the surrounding people, was destined for her own door, she felt a swift stab of terror run through her. He had come! But why? The possible answers to that question only served to terrify her. Unable to move an inch, as if in a dream, she watched that familiar, tall figure hurl himself off his horse and just throw the reins over the gatepost without one look behind him. She heard his steps — steps of determination. Bad or good determination? Doom or salvation? She swallowed when she realised she must go down and meet him. Instinctively she knew mere propriety and a flight of stairs would not keep him from barging into her chamber if she did not cut him short. So she flung herself out of the room and to the stairs, only to find him already waiting for her at the foot of them, hatless, gloveless, red-faced and breathing heavily, looking up at her with a raging ice-storm in his blue eyes.

Neither of them said a word and Holly felt her heart beating in her throat and her hands were now hot and clammy. Just as she was about to offer some stammering statement on his surprising presence, her mother emerged from her parlour. For a moment, time stood still until Mrs Tournier swept past her daughter up the stairs.

“I will search for my Thesaurus in my room,” she said. “Thoroughly.”

It broke his spell on her and she moved awkwardly, still holding on to the banister. When she could look at him again, his eyes had shifted to a duller colour and a look of desperation had overtaken them.

“Holly . . . ” he said.

Her first overwhelming urge was to run down to him and throw herself in his arms, but she was only two steps down when she remembered her doubts. She stopped herself and gripped the banister tightly.

“You didn’t write.”

“I am here,” he said in a voice strangely hoarse.

“I know,” she murmured, her voice sounding distant and oddly calm. “You must be cold.”

He turned his hand in a dismissive gesture, but let it fall half way. Then the silence enveloped them again and Baugham fought the urge to take the very few steps that were needed to close the gap between them. Instead he recalled his purpose and asked the question that had been plaguing him for nearly three days now.

“What happened?”

All those hours in the saddle, all those thoughts spinning around in his head making him lose track of time and distance, all those dark evenings at inns waiting to be off again, the fears, the doubts, the anger, the frustration all came out in that one question. He had no idea what type of reception he was expecting upon his arrival, he had thought only of getting there, but this cold and distant welcome was not it. But this was what he had needed to know — something had happened.

Holly looked at him squarely, but failed to answer. How could she answer without damning herself?

“That was a nice letter you sent,” he then went on crisply, offended at her aloofness. More than offended, he was terrified, and it caused him to retreat from her, from the feelings that threatened to make him lose control and throw himself at her feet. And that — the fear, the vulnerability — made him angry. “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate having my word and my character and my future happiness thrown into doubt so ably and succinctly. You have quite the gift.”

“It is your future happiness that concerns me the most. And mine.” She gripped the railing so hard that her hand began to ache.

“And so you have decided . . . when? . . . suddenly? . . . after much deliberation? . . . that I don’t know my own mind? That I cannot be happy with you, or you with me?”

It was supposed to come out in a dry and matter-of-fact way, but he felt the desperation well up from within him. Was it all in vain? Had he been wrong?

Struggling hard to keep her voice steady, she said, “I begin to wonder if that might be so, at least in your case. And if you are not happy, I could not be so.”

His voice rose in pitch, “I see I must thank you for taking it upon yourself to determine how I am to be happy, in opposition of everything I have sworn to you of my feelings. You are indeed too wise, too kind for me . . . ”

But suddenly he had no more strength for anger or sarcasm. His whole body ached, his bones, his head, his eyes and, feeling his legs go weak from exhaustion, he had to steady himself at the banister and look down at his feet — dirty and throbbing within their boots — willing them not to fail him.

“Can we sit . . . somewhere? Please?”

She was down the rest of the steps in the matter of a moment, and his arms were around her and she could feel him leaning on her for support as he rested his head against hers and whispered in her ear over and over.

“What happened, Holly? Why? Why would you say . . . ? Why would you
think
. . . ?”

She felt him wavering again so she led him to the parlour sofa.

“Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

His head shot up, his eyes suddenly clear again.

“Wait? No, Holly, waiting is what I have been doing for three torturous days. Now I am here; you must explain this to me.”

“I will, just allow me to fetch you some wine.” She even managed a smile at this strange turn of events, as she mirrored the service he performed for her at the Tristam’s
soiree-musicale
. She did not wait for his protests, but slipped out and returned again quickly with a generous glass. Handing it to him, she sat down stiffly on the edge the chair opposite him. She looked down at the dark, red liquid in the glass he held.

“People talk;” she said almost soundlessly, “sometimes what they say is true.”

He drank greedily, but stopped once he heard her words.

“Who is talking? Have they told you something? Something about me?”

“No, nothing about you,” she said, pre-occupied and needing to continue while she still had the nerve. “Not about you . . . about me.”

“I don’t understand.” It was true. He was at a complete loss. What did that have to do with her altered feelings for him? “What did they say?”