Twixt Two Equal Armies (65 page)

Holly gasped and put down the quill.

“A woman like me? And what exactly does that mean, a woman like me?”

Baugham looked at her, puzzled. “Really, Miss Tournier. You work for a fee; what is that fee? Or does your mother keep you in the dark as to how much your efforts are worth when she settles things for you on your behalf?”

It was a reasonable question, if not put forth in the most reasonable manner, but Holly could not see it.

“Yes, yes she does. I am completely at her mercy in such matters,” she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I am just as much in the dark as you must be, as it appears your bankers are the only ones who know how much you pay your employees.”

Baugham made no attempt to disguise his surprise. He snatched the paper back from where it had been lying in front of her and picked up a new quill.

“Well, yes, I do have quite a number of them,” he snarled. “Besides you.”

He started scribbling on the paper. “What is your estimation then? Are you worth as much as a valet or a housekeeper? Perhaps you are nearer to a tailor or a butcher?”

Holly drew herself up to her full height. “You, sir, are insulting me,” she said in an ice-cold voice.

“And you, ma’am, are acting irrationally.”

“That may be so, but . . . ” she broke off, “but so are you if you trust an employee to set their own wage. I might just as well say I require fifty pounds! And if I did so, you would come back with what your idea of an appropriate fee is, the idea you most assuredly already have in your head.

She flopped back in her chair in a very unladylike manner, arms crossed defensively, “You might just as well say the figure at once and spare us both the discomfort.”

“I thought,” he said calmly once again, “I was just asking you to do that.”

“Well then,” she said, equally calmly, “I will say fifty pounds!”

“Very well,” he said, “that sounds fair as an annual wage for a librarian and secretary.”

“Very true,” she smirked, “but as I have no intention of continuing in your employ for any longer than necessary, perhaps you will be so kind as to suggest a fair wage for the duties of a
temporary
librarian.”

He got up in a hasty gesture that startled her and leaned down on the desk.

“So you really want me to do that? You want me to put a price on this? You want me to
appraise
you? And what then? What if I offer too much, too little? What will you do? Will it be a triumph for you either way, Miss Tournier?”

Holly pulled away from his cold, angry eyes, and stood up from the chair sputtering, “I . . . but you . . . you expect me to do the same . . . I cannot . . . ” She walked away, keeping her back to him and he could see her shoulders rise and fall with the deep breaths she took.

“I think now is not the time . . . ” She turned around a moment later with a lift her chin, “I think that I would like your secretary or banker to determine the proper amount.”

“I think he had better,” he answered, obviously concentrating hard on controlling himself, “because however much you ask me to, I
cannot
and I
will not
.”

“Neither can I,” Holly said, almost in a whisper.

Silence filled the room. Baugham searched desperately for something to say to take the edge of his last statement and Holly fought frantically to master her own feelings, not to make a fool of herself here in front of him again. Thankfully the creaking of the door soon shattered it and they each knew without looking that it was Hamish. Holly jolted into action and walked over to the boy.

“Well, Hamish? Have you eaten Mrs McLaughlin out of all her pastries already?”

“Aye, miss,” the boy smiled sheepishly, “Well, not quite. She sent these, miss. And some tea for ye, miss.” Hamish carefully put down the tray on the table among the piles of paper. “But I thought I might read a wee bit before I walk home. If that’s alright, that is.”

Baugham watched the boy come in and break the tension and he was relieved. Relieved and incredibly frustrated at the same time, funnily enough. He stayed in the room, unwilling that their last encounter should end in such a way, and once Hamish was firmly settled into his book, curled up in another corner of the room, he cleared his throat and tried again.

“You have earned some rest as well, Miss Tournier,” he said quietly. “As well as some tea and pastry. The transformation is already enormous and I am grateful.”

Her discomfort was evident but she answered him calmly.

“As I have said, there still is quite a bit of work left for me here, but I think I must also now concentrate on things closer to home. I still have my work with Dr McKenna . . . he is anxious to spend more time on it than we have been able to do so far.”

He was quiet for a moment and she looked up at him. His next words were slow and thoughtful.

“Yes, I imagine he is. Dr McKenna is a good man and an excellent scientist. His good opinion of you and your work is certain to lead to opportunities for you that are to your advantage.” He smiled wryly. “Science
and
flattery. A very tempting prospect, and, in the right hands, difficult to resist I imagine.”

“Opportunities?” she blurted out. “Opportunities!?” What a thing for him to say! She could read his meaning clearly enough! He meant to push her off on the doctor on his way out of town and then he could leave it all behind without a second thought or regret. Very well then, she would show him that she had no regrets either. “But you are right,” she said defiantly, “he is a good man. A very good man, and I look forward to becoming even better acquainted with him.”

There was a moment of silence when it seemed she was daring him to respond, but he told himself he did not wish to risk another spate of harsh words, so he quickly changed the subject.

“So . . . ” he said slowly. “This wedding in Hertfordshire . . . you must be looking forward to seeing Miss Bennet again, and the rest of your family, in this happy time. And, after all, it is a splendid romance as well as a splendid match, don’t you find? That is rare these days and worth celebrating.”

“Yes, quite,” Holly answered, her voice tight with frustration,

“And yet, the charms of Hertfordshire will not long keep either of us, I expect. I will be off on my neglected business soon after the wedding, and you will want to get back as well . . . to the doctor and his rocks.”

“Yes, quite,” she repeated and suddenly crossed the room and sat down by the table again. “And with that in mind, you really must excuse me.”

Baugham watched her as she turned her back on him and bowed over her work. However, she sat quite still with quill in hand and paper before her without giving it any attention, instead listening intently for him to walk away.

O
NCE HE CLOSED THE DOOR
behind him, Holly leaned back and sighed and briefly closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she spied the sugar bowl, crammed in with the rest of the serving paraphernalia on the table between stacks of books and loose papers and cards. It was silver, with two fine handles that curled down on the shiny sides like the top of a Corinthian pillar. The fine snowy white crystals twinkled in the light. Softly, the silver spoon had shaped small hills and dales from where someone before her had carelessly scooped an appropriate amount to sweeten and break the strength of the strong tea.

So he was leaving. Tomorrow. For London. To assist Mr Darcy. In preparation for the wedding. In Hertfordshire.

She did not quite know what she was doing or, more importantly, why she was doing it, but Holly slowly lifted her finger to her mouth while still contemplating the silver bowl. Then she resolutely stuck her finger into the sugar so that the fine crystals parted and pushed upwards on the sides with a small crunching noise. Not until the tip of her finger touched the bottom did she stop. Then she slowly withdrew it again, watching the sugar crumble back into the hole she had made.

She lifted her finger to her mouth and carefully closed her lips around it. Slowly — very slowly — she swirled her tongue around her finger and nail. She felt the sharp taste curl around her tongue and seep through every corner of her mouth. It was heavenly. She could feel the sweetness all around and as the crystals turned liquid and ran down her throat, she smiled and very carefully removed her finger. Carefully pushing whatever miniscule traces might be left in the corners of her mouth between her lips, she swallowed again.

The taste still lingered and Holly could not stop smiling to herself. An indescribable and surprising sense of triumph rushed through her. She licked her lips once more, then turned to her library cards and went back to cross-referencing.

Chapter 29

Events Move to the Great Metropolis while Life Goes on in the Village

As the carriage drew up before Sunderborn House in Berkeley Square four days later and very late at night, his lordship felt more exhausted from this journey than he had ever felt in his whole life. The journey down from Clyne at this time of year was draining in itself, but, in addition, his mind was in disarray. He had not adhered to his usual whims of departure and as a consequence, instead of feeling a relief and anticipation to be on his way, he had suffered exceedingly from the long miles of travel. He had furthermore been cursed with the most unimaginable winter weather in living memory and the fog that had rolled in over London was so thick that his coachman had lost his way twice between Tyburn turnpike and Berkeley Square. Indeed, his lordship wryly reflected, the peculiar air certainly reflected his growing impatience to see the end of this trip, the end of these wandering thoughts and his repeated failure to bring them into any order.

He was greeted by his butler, who with great ceremony and obvious concern, ushered him quickly into the house, lamenting about how this sort of weather brought out the worst kind of criminals and mischief in the streets, and how he and the whole household had been most anxious and Cook had wanted to send Will, the footman, out since yesterday to try to meet his lordship and assure his safety. It bore testament to Lord Baugham’s distraction of mind that he let these obvious expressions of affection and concern pass him by without countering them with either impatience or incredulity, but rather thanked his butler and bid him convey the news of his safe return to the rest of the staff.

“Should you like your bath now, sir?” Townsend asked as he folded away the heavy winter travelling coat and stowed away hats, gloves and personal effects.

A great wave of fatigue washed over him. His staff stood eager and ready to see to his every need . . . yet, what he most needed, they could not provide. Peace, both within himself and within the realm and world. A very simple request and yet a fancy not to be dwelt upon further. A bath would have to suffice.

“Yes, I should!” was his lordship’s adamant answer as he freed himself from his last pieces of outer clothing. “Yes, I can see you notice how I reek even from that distance. Dirty business travelling. A bath — that would be marvellous.

He then gave instructions for a roaring fire to instantly be lit in the principle rooms of the house, most particularly his library. He was met by his footman at the door as he proceeded up the staircase.

“Good to have you home again, my lord!” he shouted as he watched his master ascend. “You were very much missed!”

“I highly doubt it,” his Master muttered between his teeth, but continued his way. All the same, the simple sentiment touched him and made him feel grateful.
If servants are all the family one is to have,
he thought resignedly
, it is nice that they show a measure of affection toward one.

After his tea and attending to the most pressing business at hand that was his bath and the removal of strange smells and the dirt and grime of the road, his lordship took a stroll through his house with the intent of finishing in his library, where he could linger comfortably until dinner. Sunderborn was a small but comfortable house, perfectly fulfilling both the requirements of easy bachelorhood and Earldom. Where size had been bartered for the sake of convenience and expense, elegance and refinement had not been spared. It reflected his personality well, Lord Baugham thought, that outward luxury and taste would never stand in the way of functionality and expediency.

The sitting rooms and drawing rooms had benefited in style from the absence of family heirlooms, the most precious and ostentatious pieces having been sold off long ago by his late father to feed his gambling habits, the un-sellable ones being stowed away at Cumbermere Castle against the unlikely day such artefacts would tickle anyone’s fashion fancy once more. Contrary to what might have been expected of a gentleman, Lord Baugham favoured light colours and fabrics and easy seating arrangements, with no guns, trophies or battle scenes adorning any part of the establishment.

Baugham walked slowly into the library and felt himself ease into his house. Here there was none of the affection he felt for Clyne — for outside, and on occasion even inside these walls, society pressed upon him an adopted role and persona he used for pleasure, entertainment and diversion, but which was not his own — but as he sank into his familiar chair and measured this comfort against the previous days on the road and in the inns, he realised he was happy to have arrived and would even call this his home of sorts. From where he sat, he could look out of his window onto the square — or could if the shutters were not closed. The nearest one he could nudge with the tip of his boot, but the other he was obliged to move out of the chair to open. He parted the curtains and looked out, surprised by the stillness and the tranquillity of the foggy scene. It felt soothing and it calmed him down to the degree that he even entertained thoughts about how much beauty there was in the world and in the things before him. He turned around and, from having stood in the coolness reflecting from the windows, he now recognised a new smell: the smell of his home. Familiar, dusty, warm — he searched his mind for appropriate attributes.