Twixt Two Equal Armies (20 page)

“Perhaps, but if he professes to know me any better than a perfect stranger, he will be very well aware of the fact that when it comes to walking in impossible weather, I am quite my own irrational mistress. Holly, are you sure you are dressed warmly enough? It is certain to rain again.”

“Quite sure! I thought I’d go see whether there is anything left of the winter chanterelles over by Georgie’s Patch. There might not be, but it’s usually a place of abundance and with the rain and all . . . but it’s a fair way to walk, I will be fine.”

Elizabeth obviously did not believe her, but she fingered her letter and held out Holly’s basket to her and bid her to be careful and take care or else she would come looking for her.

The weather was still grey, but the drizzle had stopped and the woods smelled fresh and pungent. The birds were equally grateful for the break in the rain and there was rustling in every bush, and twittering, and the curious flapping of wings everywhere. Holly kept up a brisk pace. Partly to keep warm, for it was chilly — her breath whirled around her in a misty smoke as she bustled up the hills and through the undergrowth, taking advantage of a few shortcuts — but partly because it really was a fair way to walk up to her little secret cornucopia of winter chanterelles. The shortest way would have been to cut across the Clyne estate, but she was determined to avoid that. She walked around with pleasure, after all, she had not been out of the house in four days and her nerves needed the exercise as well as her body.

She smirked a little when she thought about her hidden cache. Yet another thing to prove that you could pay as much money as you wished and put up fences and display fancy deeds with seals and lofty language, but you had to work, walk, explore and spend your time to understand and bond with the place you called home. You had to let the secrets come and reveal themselves to you through time and patience and curiosity. Then, slowly, you would find the best spot for watching Kingfishers dive into the river for their prey; know where the foxes bred under which fallen tree and where the juiciest brambles, the richest mushrooms and the shortest paths were.

The rain started to pick up again, although hidden under the trees as she was, she hardly noticed it. She was excited too, for she had been right, the mossy knoll under the spruce was cluttered with light brown caps peeking up from beneath the rich green cover, promising even more if one gently pushed aside the wet and soft ground. Holly spent what felt like hours carefully excavating the tender brown and yellow stalks, gently laying them in her basket and very cautiously treading from one spot to another not to trample the precious bounty under her feet.

She did not stop until her basket was nearly full. It was only then she became aware of the cold drops of rain rolling down the brim of her bonnet and that her back was soaked through. Straightening, she finally realised the rain had come back with increased force and intensity. She felt happy nonetheless and vowed she would drag her cousin here next time all the same. After all, even if the frost came, the winter chanterelles would still be here.

On her way back, however, her mood soured despite her proud bounty. The rain turned icy, the wind picked up and the walk across the open spaces back was tapping her strength. To cap it all off, she stepped into a boggy patch, soaking her boots and stockings and her toes were rapidly feeling the freeze of the cold water and going numb.

Holly stood panting, her light cloak, now heavy and wet, snuggled around her, dragging at her legs and feet, and looked down the slope. She was tired to the bone but she must not stop and rest. If she did, she would only grow colder and wetter and that might be dangerous. To reach home as soon as she ought, she would have to cut across the Clyne estate. She winced at her proud resolution to stay away from the easiest path to prove her point, but she realised it would be foolish now to persist. Gnashing her teeth, she turned and set off across the fields as close to the house as she dared.

She was so tired. Her feet felt like lead. She was cold and her arms and shoulders ached. Her head throbbed and she slipped and slid through the mud on the small path. The rain came down in streams and the brim of her bonnet sagged before her eyes. She felt close to crying and she certainly whimpered when her skirt was caught once more in twigs and branches on the ground and sticking out in front of her as she stumbled on. And so when she glimpsed the house through the trees she had no strength left to fight.
A quarter of an hour in the kitchen
, she thought feebly, giving in to her misery.
He will never know
.

She snuck successfully around the house to what she presumed was the kitchen entrance. All was quiet except for the rain that came almost horizontally and Holly shielded her face as she knocked on the door. The light and warmth and figure of a large woman that emerged almost made her sob.

“Mrs McLaughlin?” she managed. “I’m so sorry but I was out gathering the last of the winter chanterelles and I was caught in the rain. I’m . . . I’m . . . I was hoping — ”

A strong, warm hand reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her into the kitchen and firmly closing the door behind her.

“Well, for heaven’s sake child, dinnae stand out there in that fool weather! Come in and sit down. Ye’re in a frightsome state. You need to dry off this minute or you’ll catch yer death o’ cold.”

Holly almost collapsed with relief. “Thank you,” she said and made it to the nearest chair by the wall. “Perhaps only for a few minutes,” but her hostess had turned her back to her and was busy setting water to boil and bringing out butter and bread and cold cuts from the larder. Holly watched her, feeling drained and almost detached. She slowly removed her cloak and bonnet and draped them over the chair.

“Take off yer hose and boots.” Mrs McLaughlin did not even turn around, but her tone of voice was such that Holly realised this was an order and not a request.

It felt strange, and not a little daring, to peel off her garments in a stranger’s kitchen, but as soon as the drenched and heavy leather and the soaking, cold wool was off her feet she felt better.

“Oh,” she said involuntarily and slumped back.

“Come, come!” Mrs McLaughlin urged. “Dinnae sit there in the draft. Up here by the ingle! Come on then!”

Holly was numb and mute in the face of such efficiency and she allowed herself to be pushed to a chair in front of the burning stove and could only watch, with her protests dying on her lips, as Mrs McLaughlin hung her stockings over the fire and put her muddy boots on a rag nearby.

“Well then?” the woman said and eyed her with a stern look. “Kelter out of that petticoat young leddy or ye’ll never be dry enough to go home again. I’ll not have ye leave this place with cold, slitterie linens on ye. Git it off now!”

She blushed deeply. Mrs McLaughlin was right, of course; she needed warm, dry clothes next to her skin on her last leg home. Fortunately, the petticoat was not as bad as the stockings, although the hem was nearly destroyed. Holly, who was no friend to needlework, sighed as she realised she would have to cut it up and stitch it back together once she got home.

“Och.” Her hostess, picking up her cloak and bonnet and catching sight of her basket brimming with winter chanterelles interrupted Holly’s thoughts. “I thought it was past time fer these. Where did ye find them? Or is it a secret?”

“It is no secret. By Georgie’s Cave. I suppose with the rain and the mild weather we’ve been having lately . . . ”

“Och aye. I didnae know about that place. I for ordinar go down beyond Cold Fell, plenty of penny buns in the wood there still I hear. Imagine that, born and bred on Ross’ paddock down in the glen and never heard of the chanterelles of Georgie’s Cave! Just goes to show, ye learn something every day.”

Holly remembered her uncharitable thoughts about buying one’s way into a home and kept quiet.

“And to think, it was the Frenchie’s lass taught me that, too!” Mrs McLaughlin laughed. “Begging your pardon,” she added, though she did not look at all remorseful.

“Not at all,” mumbled Holly and got up to hang up her petticoat by her stockings.

“Now sit ye down and I’ll poor the tea. Ye have some bread and cheese and just sit there.” Mrs McLaughlin cast another eye at Holly’s basket. “Half of that for a muir fowl?” she said thoughtfully. “A big one an all, since ye have visitors.”

Holly stared at her. “It is no secret place and you’re welcome to whatever you can find. I left plenty.”

“Ye want to bargain, do ye? Aye then, a muir fowl and one un-skinned rabbit just in.”

Holly snapped her mouth shut. “Done,” she said, surprised. Mrs McLaughlin looked pleased. “I think I’ll have some of this tea myself,” she said, carrying the tea tray over.

H
OLLY WATCHED HER PLACE THE
sugar bowl on the table — fine, white sugar — and she very carefully, almost afraid lest some of the grains did not make it all the way to her cup, heaped two spoons of the shimmering crystals into her cup and watched them sink to the bottom. After a generous helping of cream — but not so much as to drown out the taste — she stirred carefully, feeling the strong, rich, acid smell of black tea find its way to her nose and she sighed. She must still wait a little, she would not want to scald her tongue and spoil the experience. She could wait . . . just a little more. They drank slowly and Mrs McLaughlin did not seem to have much to keep her busy.

“Aye well, I would have if the gentlemen got some shooting done instead of just sitting around here, or going on walks and visits. As it is, there’s nae much to put away for the winter and we’ll have to buy the beef. And speaking of lounging round about the house . . . ” Mrs McLaughlin cocked her head to the kitchen door. Too late, Holly noticed the heavy footsteps of a man drawing near, and all she could do was look down, clutching her teacup more closely to her chest for reassurance and hoping he would walk right past.

A blond head popped through the door. “Mrs McLaughlin,” it said in terse notes, “if this infernal rain does not stop and Mr Darcy does not cease his constant shifting between smug contentment and nervous frowns, I will go myself to Brachan Falls tomorrow even if it pours and — ”

He stopped short and Holly lifted her head to find his startlingly clear blue eyes staring at her in amazement. “Miss Tournier!” he said and stepped inside the door.

Holly firmly pressed her feet together in what she hoped was the middle of her sagging skirts, far enough from the hem not to be seen even a glimpse of.

“Lord Baugham,” she said in as dignified a voice as she could manage. Her hair had become slightly unpinned when she had pulled off her soaked bonnet and she was aware she must present a picture resembling someone cast ashore from a shipwreck in her wet and sorry state.

He eyed her curiously, but at least not with hostility.

“Have you taken refuge from the weather in my kitchen?”

“As you see, sir,” she said. “I was out by Georgie’s Cave to pick the last of the mushrooms there — keeping away from your property I assure you — and I was . . . surprised.”

Instead of nodding and excusing himself, Lord Baugham walked in and surveyed the offerings on the table before him. Holly winced as Mrs McLaughlin calmly got up and put one more teacup on the table.

“You show an admirable optimism if you venture so far out after the weather we’ve been having,” his lordship said and sat down, wasting no time in attacking the loaf of bread before him. “Or was it either that or complete insanity at being cooped up indoors too long?””

“Possibly a little bit of both, my lord,” she attempted a confident smile. “I think I
was
a little mad to get out of the house — and from what I heard just now, I think you can understand my feelings perfectly.”

Lord Baugham leaned back in his seat, pushing his chair away from the table and stretching his legs.

“Ah, well, I am better now. But I think you have a kindred spirit in Mr Darcy. He left just a few moments ago. It seems you have traded places!”

The slightest sigh escaped her. “I expected as much. It appears that neither of us have enough sense to stay in out of the rain. Though his incentive holds quite a bit more charm than my own.”

“Miss Tournier! Are you slighting the comfort of my kitchen or Mrs McLaughlin’s hospitality?”

Holly could not tell by his tone if he was teasing, questioning, or taking offence, and she suddenly became acutely aware that her damp skirts were clinging to her legs underneath the table and that her undergarments were hanging on the hearth in plain view. It made her feel vulnerable, which in turn made her straighten her shoulders and answer him with spirit.

“Not at all. But you forget that your kitchen was not my first object, and I do hope you will agree with me that my cousin holds far greater charms than that basket of mushrooms over there.”

“I most certainly will agree with you on that point. Although . . . ” Baugham cast a saucy look at Mrs McLaughlin, whose eyes were a mixture of scorn and softness. “If Mrs McLaughlin can get hold of some of those mushrooms and I could manage to bring her something akin to a roe buck to dress and roast and garnish, I fear Miss Bennet, for all her charm and grace, will not be half as tempting. For myself, I mean. I cannot — and would not! — speak for Mr Darcy on this point.”

“I cannot say that I wouldn’t be tempted to trade her myself for a haunch of roast venison,” Holly smiled, unconsciously pressing her fingertip into a few spilled grains of sugar on the tabletop and bringing it to her mouth.