Twixt Two Equal Armies (67 page)

“Oh. I have no doubt about that. It is rather your consistency I worry about.”

“Consistency?”

“Yes. You are a good man, Baugham, I know you are. I know it because you act upon it often enough and I have seen it first hand. But I doubt whether you know it yourself. Really.”

Baugham looked at his friend. His first impulse was to dismiss his comment as nonsense. His second to laugh at him. But somehow he was capable of neither.

“I am the same man as I was when I left Scotland,” he muttered. “I have not changed. Everything is the same.”

“And will it change do you think?”

Baugham looked at Darcy. There was really nothing arrogant about him, he thought. No censure in his voice or disapproval in his attitude. It was rather curiosity and concern. It was one of those rare moments in their friendship where only the men — not the names or titles or fortunes — sat in the room talking. Last time this had happened was when Darcy’s father had died. Such a very long time ago now, but Baugham remembered the way they had talked then in this very room. “My world will never be the same,” Darcy had said and whereas the death of his own father had actually come as a relief and as a release into freedom for him, he knew that Darcy felt exactly the opposite. “You will always be the same to me,” his lordship had said and had meant it sincerely. That was still true.

“I may be the same man as when I left Scotland,” he therefore said quietly, “but I am not the same man I was upon leaving London. What kind of man I am now, I am not certain of, but I hope . . . I want him to be the man you say you recognise in me. The one, I hope, who was always there in spite of everything.”

Darcy gave a smile. “That makes me happy to hear. I like that man.”

“Thank you. I can only hope others may as well.”

H
OLLY LAY IN HER ROOM
under a thick layer of blankets, with only the light of the moon to illuminate the darkness. They had spent the day in preparation and the evening in packing, so both Rosefarm women were ready to leave for Hertfordshire first thing in the morning. Once her eyes adjusted to the low light, she absentmindedly stared up at the drawings on her ceiling, too keyed up to sleep. Two things made her smile — just before they made her frown. She was excited at the thought of seeing Elizabeth again, but, at the same time, she knew that this would be a good-bye as well. Elizabeth was about to become Mrs Darcy and things would never be —
could
never be — the same between them again. And, as silly and vain as she knew it to be, she was excited about the re-worked gown that was placed with great care at the top of her trunk. She had modelled it for her mother before packing it away and both ladies were pleased with the result. No one would ever be able to tell that the dress was several years old. It was silly, useless, she knew, but when she saw her reflection in the window glass as she twirled around in it, she could not help but wonder what Lord Baugham might think of it.

A deep sigh filled the small, dark room. Lord Baugham. He would be at the wedding, of course, and however much she tried to convince herself otherwise, she knew she
wanted
him to be there. She wanted to see him. No matter that he would probably scarcely notice her now that he had returned to his exciting life in London
. It will be good, really,
she told herself
, in such fine company as will be there, he will have no reason to notice me, and I need to see that. And then, once this wedding is over, there is no reason for us to ever cross paths again. I will go home, forget him once and for all and move on with my life.

Move on
. . . just how am I to move on?,
she wondered.

She knew that Dr McKenna had some interest in her and that a very little encouragement would secure his attentions — she grimaced as she recalled how Lord Baugham had pressed her in that very direction just before he left. She was already well aware of the doctor’s sentiments and she was being very careful not to give a wrong impression while she tried to sort our her confused feelings, but it was so very galling to have the man she loved, even if he was ignorant of that fact, attempt to push her into an alliance with someone else.

That was when she had realised, truly realised, that all her hopes were impossible and that she was better to look ahead and stop wasting her time on unattainable dreams. Thunderbolts out of the blue did not happen to former schoolmistresses in Scottish villages.

Part of her said that there was no need to hurry any decision, but the other part reminded her that even in this remote little corner of the world time did not stand still. The future for herself and her mother was by no means secure; their income being derived from commissions they managed to procure with no promise of more in the future. Mr Pembroke would never grow any kinder or more generous and they would constantly be seeking to keep the wolf from the door. She had told Elizabeth that she was giving up her dreams and lofty goals and would dedicate her life to taking care of her mother — and there was only one way for her to do so with security.

She could not marry Mr Grant — as respectable as he was, every feeling within her revolted at the idea. Dr McKenna was a good man. Nice, handsome, comfortable and easy to talk to, gentle like the rain . . . and he was here and interested now. Not off in London doing who knows what before . . .
Stop it, Holly!
she reprimanded herself and returned her thoughts back to the subject of the doctor. It would be wrong of her to mislead him or keep him dangling in the hopes that . . . well, in a vain hope for the thunderbolt. She knew she must either give up hope or give in to it — though she really could not bear the thought of either one.

I will give myself until after the wedding,
she determined
, once we return home, I will give Dr McKenna all the encouragement he needs and I will move on with my life. Once and for all.

L
ORD
B
AUGHAM HEARD THE DOOR
close behind him as he entered his house. In the hall, he was relieved of his outer clothes and he lingered a while, aimlessly shuffling through what certainly would seem a respectable number of cards and invitations on the table. There was one thing to be said for hanging about that tired old maze of chambers and antechambers they call Whitehall, conducting business and greeting colleagues: he had missed three separate acquaintances who had tried to call that morning. Beside the cards, there were the usual invitations and billets. He turned one over and could not disguise his surprisingly strong reaction to the inscription on the back. Lady Merriwether apparently was entertaining again and he had been restored to her guest list. He looked at the directions without reading them. Memories and random words, accusations, and looks assaulted him suddenly:

You trifle and charm and flirt and play your way through the lives of people you hardly know and think you can go back to your London circles and everything will be as it has always been here . . .

And those words had been followed by more harsh words, and then he had stared, and taken a step and reached out to pull her to him and . . . he shook his head violently. Why? Where had that come from?

You think you can go back to your London circles and everything will be as it has always been here. Well, it will not!

As it always has been there . . . But, she was right. No matter how much he had wished and hoped that his leaving Scotland behind would solve this unsettled feeling within him, no matter how he desired to be able think of them as quiet and unchanging and going on peacefully with their lives, he knew that was conceit on his part. He had acted unpardonably and caused her pain; he could not turn back the clock and he had no inkling of how to make up for it, and as a consequence, he had done exactly what she accused him of doing.

Do you imagine that we disappear into our little holes as soon as we are not needed for your entertainment anymore? Well, we do not! We are left with exactly what you leave us with in terms of irresponsible behaviour and hopes and interpretations . . .

They would not disappear, even from his thoughts. Life for them would move on, only without him; time would pass, the rent would come due, roses would bud and bloom, and her work with Dr McKenna — a good man, a good friend, but more to the point, a man who knew the treasure he had found there in the remote village of Clanough — would continue.

He wondered if she would marry him, and concluded that she very likely would. It would be a good match, he acknowledged. She and her mother would be well cared for, and the doctor would treat Miss Tournier with kindness and respect as his wife. His wife. Baugham realised he was crunching Lady Merriwether’s invitation in a tight grip. Away, he must throw this silliness away, and stop allowing senseless regrets and recriminations to preoccupy his mind. Quickly he took all the remaining letters, cards and notes and bolted for his study, where in one violent gesture he flung the morning’s correspondence into the fire. Despite the early hour, he poured himself a generous helping of brandy and watched the papers turn into curling sheets of ash and smoke.

You make it your business to charm and endear yourself to every female you happen upon . . . I am sorry if it disappoints you that I do not wish to be among that number . . .

No, of course it doesn’t,
he thought,
but . . .

The fire crackled as a log collapsed on top of another one and sent a myriad of tiny sparks upwards. Then it was quiet.

Baugham took a deep drink. What if he didn’t stop at that ‘but’? What if he, for once, could let down that infernal guard he always held so tightly over his thoughts and permit them to wander in the direction they would? And so, after another fortifying swallow, he let them.

The first thing that wandering brought to mind made him smile. Her flashing eyes and quick tongue and all the ways she had reprimanded and infuriated him. Why should that make him smile? She had shown him grace and very pretty behaviour, too, but oh, that pride of hers! Oh, that stubbornness that had the exact opposite affect on him than she no doubt intended! But when she smiled and when she sat in concentration at her work and when she looked at her mother, there was a calmness to her, a sense of purpose and beauty that was irresistible.

Irresistible . . . he sighed and suddenly he knew. He had, from the very beginning, been resisting her and what she made him think, and feel, and want. And when it came to Miss Holly Tournier, in every encounter — disastrous or unexpectedly pleasing — he wanted more than he could have. He wanted to go further than he told himself he could or should go. He wanted more of
her
. The truth, the most curious truth of all, now stared him boldly in the face; he wondered how he had never come to see it before. Standing in his London study, staring into the fire and thinking over his many failures, his heart burst and revealed itself to him — too late.

“So what am I to do?” he sighed aloud. “I must love her. I can do nothing else. I
must
.” Hearing the words hang in the air made them real, and as if to punish himself he repeated them. “I do love her, and I have wronged and degraded her, and then practically handed her over to another man — a man who is
not
a damn fool! But, it is nothing more than I deserve. And after all, what indication is there that I would not have added injury to insult if I had done anything else than finally left her alone . . . just as she wanted.” He slid down in his chair in front of the hearth, clutching the bottle in his hand and thanking whichever providential power that had not forsaken him, that it was nearly full.

M
C
K
ENNA STOOD LOOKING OUT THE
window of his room at the bustling scene below. He resisted the urge to go downstairs as he had already said goodbye to the ladies the night before. There was no reason; he was in no such standing with them to warrant another leave taking at the moment of departure.

He clenched his fists open and closed, watching the scattered leaves blowing down the lane in the cold wind and Miss Tournier bracing herself against it as their effects were stowed and secured. He could not tear his eyes from her — the girl that had bewitched him so quickly and so innocently from the first moment of their acquaintance. A chuckle escaped him as he remembered that party at Rosefarm — Sir John’s pyrotechnics in the kitchen, the jig she and her cousin had danced so unaffectedly and joyously, the lovesick suitor she kept trying to avoid.
What was it about her?
Was it the way she was so . . . well, sensual was the only word he could use to describe her. The way she would always turn her face toward the warmth of the sun or the movement of the wind. How she would stop everything right away when she got hungry, and then, when he would work her too long, how she would stretch like a cat and declare she must stop and get some rest. How — with her French father, English mother and Scottish upbringing — she had this unusual way of pronouncing certain words that was quite endearing. This girl . . .

This girl that probably had feelings for another man.