Twixt Two Equal Armies (49 page)

As he listened to Ned McMahon baiting his horse nearer and nearer to him, he became aware that there was just the two of them now. Anyone who had the means and skill to keep up with them into the woods had now faded back, and he realised he was going to have to not only rely on Weimar’s superior pedigree to stay ahead, but also some sort of strategy.

Baugham could see the end of the wooded stretch and the fields that lay beyond it. With a crash, both of the riders broke out into the free ground and Baugham could feel as well as see Ned McMahon out of the corner of his eye. There was a fair bit to go yet and the closer they got to the river, the more people they could make out standing some way back or up on the slopes to catch the fine view of the leading horses of the race running neck to neck now.

Baugham threw a glance at his rival. McMahon noticed it and gave him a sideways grin.

“Beware of the grassy bit down there, m’laird!” he shouted good-naturedly. “A fine horse like yours could easily step awry on the tufts!”

Baugham made a fleeting gesture to his head in thanks. The slope down to the river was indeed uneven ground, with tufts of grass hiding soft spots, holes, and rocks. Baugham decided he could not risk it, reining his horse in just enough to let McMahon pass him before he picked up the pace again.

In the distance, on the riverbank, he could see a large red flag flying above the heads of spectators. Behind that, the river Kye flowed, quiet and clear, over a bed of pebbles, a few trees leaning over it. As soon as the end was in sight, the crowds began to move and a low hum reached them as the people geared into action and speech.

They were neck to neck. Some of the spectators retreated up to the banks behind the goal to make way for them, and soon they found themselves close enough to think about the necessity of stopping. Baugham was ahead now again. Slowing down to fling himself off, Weimar struggled briefly and threatened to run right through the crowds to the river. Baugham cursed and restrained him as best he could. Meanwhile Ned McMahon had reached them and was calming his own mount. Baugham could have flung himself off there and then, leaving Weimar to pace himself alone, but he stayed mounted. There were too many people around. Children were excitedly creeping closer to get a better look. The pebbles on the ground were slippery and the animal was edgy and nervous, giving a frustrated snort and shaking his head wildly, eyes bulging in excitement and fear. Then Weimar slipped and whinnied in alarm. Ned McMahon gave him a look as Baugham’s horse danced around wildly, finding his balance and recovering some of his dignity.
Will he keep?
the look asked.
I’ll keep him,
Baugham’s own quick glance answered back. Ned McMahon grabbed his pouch, slipped out of his saddle and landed in the cold water. He threw the pouch on a sharp pebble and stepped on it. Bright red blood flowed out, instantly colouring the river from a deep red to a light pink and a huge cheer went up into the air.

This did nothing to sooth Weimar’s sensibilities and Baugham was forced to guide him a little to the side, on the grassier patch, before he slid down himself and went up to the horse’s head to talk to him in a soothing voice. Weimar stepped around, a little calmed by the removal and the fact that his master was beside him on the ground.

His fumbling defeat was embarrassing, to be sure, but of course a very good and diplomatic outcome considering the sentiments of the local populace, who could not be bothered with the refinements. All they cared about was the victory of their dependable hero and the joy was great.

Baugham was simply relieved the whole thing was over and offered his congratulations to Ned McMahon, offering to buy the victor a pint at some more convenient moment. The placid man smiled and assured his lordship he had every respect for his abilities and that he had been lucky in his great fortune to be able to meet him in such a close race. They parted on the best of terms and Baugham lost no time leaving Ned McMahon to his admiring neighbours.

Holding on to the reins, Baugham dragged the stubborn horse — now apparently very comfortable with staying in the river and quenching his thirst — onto the bank. A few people gave him a look and some offered him mumbled words of congratulations on the best run in years and Baugham nodded quietly without offering answers. Suddenly he was aware someone was watching him. Miss Tournier stood a few feet away and he met her eyes, startled by two conflicting thoughts at the same moment. At the one hand, he willed her to come over and offer him company and protection in this awkward situation, but on the other hand his impulse was to turn around, throw himself on his ungrateful mount and take the shortest way back to Clyne again.

He had not time to decide which impulse he preferred because just as Miss Tournier was coming toward him a loud shot rang out and the crowd turned in the direction from which it came and grew silent. Sir Torquil was standing on a platform, holding the starting pistol in one hand and Ned McMahon’s arm triumphantly in the air with the other.

“Ladies and Gentleman, your Champion!”

Cheers and applause filled the air, as well as numerous caps, and McMahon grinned bashfully from the adoration of the good men and women of Clanough.

“And,” Sir Torquil continued when the din died down a little, “his prize!”

Primrose Tristam made her way up the steps in a slow and stately pace amid polite applause, a few catcalls and at least one, “Make it worth yer while, Ned.” coming anonymously from somewhere in the crowd. Baugham’s attention was called from the ceremony by a quiet voice beside him.

“My lord,” Miss Tournier nearly whispered. “That was a very fine race – in all respects. You needed no luck for doing what you did.”

Just as he was about to protest, he heard his name booming across the crowd.

“And we salute Lord Baugham, for his kind condescension in joining in with our traditions and finally giving Ned here some stiff competition and providing a good show for all the spectators.” He gestured toward Baugham, “My lord!” and the crowd erupted in cheers again. Baugham tried to diffuse the adulation by a bow and wave.

The ceremony of the crowning of the victor went on as it had every year since Ned McMahon had returned home from the war and Miss Tristam gave a good performance as always, if slightly more hurried than the previous years.

Baugham sighed a genuine sigh of relief that made Miss Tournier look at him curiously.

“Sometimes defeat has unexpected benefits”, he said smiling.

She bowed her head and gave a small smile, arranging her shawl around her shoulders against the growing cold and he reflected once more how her unexpected gracefulness and elegance pleased and surprised him. There was most decidedly something about these French women, he reflected, that did not blossom well under stern, frugal Scottish circumstances and with a family like hers, the home she had grown up in surely was more akin to the circles in Town than this part of the world, however much Edinburgh cast its metropolitan light not far away.

“Tell me, Miss Tournier,” he therefore asked, “I have been curious for long. What was it that made your family settle here after leaving Paris?”

She gave him a surprised look.

“Oh, we didn’t. First we were in England for many years. Or it seemed like many years — I was very small, only three, when we left Paris.”

“Do you remember much of that time?”

“No,” she shook her head, “Maman will not talk about it, but do I remember living in many different places. Sometimes it was only the three of us, but mostly we stayed with friends. I remember when we stayed at the Pembroke’s townhouse, it seemed so grand to me; I thought it was a palace. I used to sneak into the parlour and climb up on their enormous damask chairs and pretend to be a French princess.
La Princesse Royale Holly
!” She laughed. “Quite a secret little game of mine in those circumstances, I think you can understand.”

Baugham smiled and could somehow well picture a stubborn little girl’s refusal to give up her fascination for princesses, despite her family’s outspoken sentiment on the monarchy itself.

“They are the friends who provided us with Rosefarm Cottage, of course,” Holly continued but not as lightly as before. “They are very kind, and he never used to trouble us if we were late with . . . but now Mr Pembroke has given over his business interests to his son who is not quite so . . . ”

Silently cursing her stumbling tongue, Holly abruptly stopped herself and glanced over to his lordship to see if she had done so in time. He seemed to be preoccupied with stroking his horse’s muzzle and not to have heard what she almost said, so she turned back to the subject of her family.

“Papa still believed in the movement and continued to lecture, to write and to do what he could, though he had to be very careful and quiet about it, of course, but over time — as everything became so horrible over there — he lost all faith and hope and became ill. Our friends thought that living here, so far away from the turmoil and memories, would be beneficial . . . but he died anyway . . . ”

Lord Baugham did not look up, still keeping his attention on the horse, and Holly, too, found herself tentatively reaching out and touching the animal’s side. It was warm and soft, with the feel of surprising strength beneath. Something made her continue speaking where she normally would not.

“Maman, when she will speak of him, tells me he died of a broken heart,” she said, focusing on the silky feel beneath her fingers. “Is that not a surprisingly romantic notion for her to hold? But, I have often wondered . . . if he had only . . . ”

Here Holly did break off, turning to stare out at the lingering crowds before them for a moment in order to collect herself. When she looked at his lordship again, it was with a smile on her face.

“And that is the long and uninteresting story of how the Tournier women ended up in Scotland. Do you have a similar tale to tell of how the Earl of Cumbermere came to be here?”

For a moment there was no reaction from her companion. Then he looked over at her.

“Oh, are you referring to me? I am sorry, I do not heed well to that calling.” He gave a grin. “There is no story. I came hunting a few years back and fell in love. With Clyne. In actual fact I was staying north of Melrose in Roxburgh, but then I drifted south and west and here I am. And that is the full, uninspiring history.” He smiled. “I am, however, not in the least bit surprised to hear your mother harbours romantic sentiments. I could not doubt it for a moment, for I cannot help but think her heart is as big as her mind.”

Holly had fully collected herself by this time. “Well, I must say that is a singularly dull tale. You came hunting, saw it, liked it and bought it! I am disappointed. So you must humour my romantic disposition, passed down so successfully from my mother, and tell me a better story than that!”

“Miss Tournier, I can assure you that you would not enjoy any story I would attempt to share,” he laughingly said. “I have no patience for well-built up suspense, surely you are the master of tale telling in this particular company. I will confine myself to quick and shallow insults as I have pledged in your case.”

“Well, I must say you have been very idle on that front lately, too”, she said and sent him a sly look. “You’ve not grown tired of it, I hope. It would be a great disappointment to me, you know.”

She watched and waited uncertainly, unsure of why she would have said such a thing.

“Quite right,” he said dryly, not meeting her eyes but smiling. “You are quite right of course — nothing in the world would top my experiences today better than attacking you out in front of all these good villagers, thereby adding poor sportsmanship and boorish behaviour to my list of questionable achievements of the day. I do believe I am much better off to bow out gracefully, if such a thing is still possible, and return home. Still, I would appreciate it if you would allow me to salvage
some
pride and self-respect. You must allow me to thank you.”

“I certainly will allow it, sir. But might I ask your reasons for feeling it necessary to offer thanks to me?”

“For the happy conclusion to this day and for ensuring that it did not end up in the reds after all. It did look like this strange Run would have gone down in history as the most unfortunate excuse for the upholding of country traditions to my mind — and let me confess country traditions certainly were never favourites of mine to begin with. But, thankfully, as a result of these few moments, I find myself regarding this day with both fondness and pleasant surprise now. “

He smiled. She gave him a delighted smile in return.

“You are very welcome, sir. And may I return the same thanks to you?”

“Of course,” Lord Baugham tipped his hat. “If you return the courtesy and tell me why.”

Holly lowered her voice.

“I saw you,” she said with a more serious tone. “I saw what you did when your horse . . . And I think you — ”

She was interrupted by a familiar voice. “My lord! Oh, my lord, you must think I have not a decently grateful bone in my body . . . The prize ceremony . . . Mr McMahon . . . I was delayed . . . ”

Sir Torquil was wading through the crowd, his eldest daughter very ably keeping up with him as he struggled up the little slope.

Lord Baugham took a step away from Holly and, in light of what she had just been about to tell him, she felt oddly bereft.