Twixt Two Equal Armies (46 page)

The smell of dust and old paper unleashed upon opening the door was startling in the quiet dark. Baugham lighted a work candle on his desk and shuffled the heaps of volumes around to see what exactly his collection of
Classics
–
Greek
entailed. Depressingly little, it turned out, and all of it in disturbing condition. He sighed and let them go.

His eye was caught by a white piece of fabric lying on top of another pile of books. As he lifted it and made out the smudges on the material, he smiled. She had left his handkerchief on a pile of books after using it. He hesitated. Did that mean she intended to use it again?

That thought made him break out into a wide grin. How many times had he given his handkerchief to a woman, whether in real need or play? And how many times had it simply been abandoned after having been used? Very seldom, Baugham conceded. A woman of the
ton
would never simply abandon a gentleman’s extended handkerchief, regardless of the original purpose. She would use it for more than that. She would take it and somehow draw attention to its change of ownership later — publicly or privately. She would give it back, invariably with some elaborate gesture. She would plot and ponder just who should know she held onto it, or she would hide it as a token. But she would never just abandon it where she had used it; strip it of any coquettish or playful meaning and treat it as a mere . . . handkerchief.

Baugham looked down at the bit of fabric, lightly sliding it between his fingers. He found that he was very content regarding that white piece of cloth as a simple tool of necessity and not as a prop in a game. He suddenly felt ashamed of what he could, and on occasion had, used such an innocent piece of material for. Intricate games, flirtations and clandestine messages.

This handkerchief — used and abandoned — was neatly folded so that the smudges were left on the inside. It looked innocent and precise, its use nobody’s affair or concern. Was it possible to go back to the time when a handkerchief was just that — a handkerchief? Here at Clyne it was. Suddenly he longed for it to be possible elsewhere, too.

Baugham put the handkerchief back where he had found it. It was just a handkerchief. If Miss Tournier had further need of it, he had better leave it. If not, Mrs McLaughlin would collect it and see to it. It was as simple as that. He sat a while, surprisingly enough feeling quite content in his present situation. Then he got up, took a last look around in his topsy-turvy library, smilingly fingering the note with
Juvenile Literature
written on it before he picked up Mr Defoe’s greatest adventure and headed up to his bedroom.

“
T
HE RIPPET,
R
OSIE!
T
HE MESS,
those old, filthy, tattered books all athort the place! All athort the chairs, tables, sofa! The floor, Rosie! The floor is covered with the things! And not all of them are books either. If I’d hae known it would be coming to this, I would hae thrown those disgusting, smelly things away a long time ago. Laird knows, I nearly fell off the ledder with the chore of dusting them on many occasions!”

Mrs Higgins, usually more quiet and subservient to her elder cousin’s obvious expertise and housewifely experience, felt Mrs McLaughlin was really being very ignorant.

“Well, she’s cleaning them up now, is she not?” she tried while neatly stitching through the worn heel of a thick stocking.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Mrs McLaughlin said with disgust. “I don’t know what they’re thinking could be done to it. I’ll wager she’ll suggest they’ll throw out most of it after she’s had a look through. That is if she has any sense.”

For some reason her cousin’s quick glance at her made her add, “And I know she has sense, Rosie.”

“Aye, well, some of these people have an odd attachment to any book. Dear things, ye know, and some of them they treat like treasure.”

“No treasure there, I can assure ye,” Mrs McLaughlin said and bit off her thread. “It’s all what the old Earl left and that’s a paltry lot. Everything he could get any money out of he sold off. Nothing left but
novels
, I shouldnae wonder.”

The way she spoke the word made her cousin look up.

“Novels?”

“Aye. Although I’m nae saying his lairdship hasnae done his best to get something a bit less vulgar. He reads much poetry. And he likes the travel books. Well, some of the things those savages get up to are no better than reading novels, I know.”

“Och well . . . ” Mrs Higgins began, not quite certain how she could tell her cousin what Mrs Tournier had explained to her: that novels could be both useful and educational if chosen with care. But Mrs McLaughlin interrupted her.

“All I’m saying is I hope they dinnae think they can turn the whole household tapsalteerie, just on account of some dirty books. And I know his lairdship feels the same way. I’m sure he doesnae like his peace or ways disturbed and ruined like this.”

“Well, if he doesnae, why did he ask her to do it?”

Apparently that was a question Mrs McLaughlin did not want to answer.

“I need the thread, Rosie. And the thicker needle. If ye please.”

T
HE NEXT DAY,
H
AMISH WAS
standing on the soft carpet of the library in a pair of hand-me-down boots Mrs McLaughlin had thrust into his hands the moment he entered the kitchen. It was very quiet and very empty. His lordship was apparently out and Miss Tournier had not yet arrived. Of course, he had left all his chores at Nethery in a hotchpotch as soon as he could, not to be late. His mother had scolded him, but fortunately his father and Duncan were out in the field and had not borne witness to his eagerness to rub shoulders with the Quality up at Clyne.

His father had had a few choice comments about the summons from his lordship out of the blue three days ago, but his mother had acidly remarked that it was not as if his efforts on the farm provided them with as much opportunity of buying new boots before the winter, and he should just let the boy be.

So Hamish had run practically all the way today as well and arrived breathless in Mrs McLaughlin’s kitchen. She had looked him over and inspected his hands and nails and given a grunt, which, he supposed meant she approved, given him an apple to munch on while he waited and then sent him out to go and announce himself at the library.

“Ye work here now,” she said, “and I have no time fer announcing anyone in the middle of me own work.”

Slowly Hamish slipped the new boots on his feet and wriggled his toes. It felt strange after the summer of bare feet and the memory of his old boots that had grown too small already by May. He took a few steps to try them and smiled to himself. Slowly he made his way to where he had last left his explorations and picked up
The Life and Adventure of the Famous Captain Singleton.
Perhaps if he just had a little time before anyone joined him, he could have a look at the illustrations of Captain Wilmot’s famous pirates . . .

U
NLIKE
H
AMISH,
H
OLLY DID NOT
run all the way to Clyne Cottage, but she did walk at a brisk pace. Wrapped up in her heavy shawl and bonnet, she was quite warm and enjoying the clear, crisp late autumn morning. The trees and shrubbery along the road had long ago dropped their foliage and, when no one was around to see, Holly scuffed and kicked through the fallen brown leaves along her way.

After arriving on Lord Baugham’s grounds, she entered through the kitchen and greeted Mrs McLaughlin before making her way to the library where she saw Hamish enthralled in his book. Unwilling to interrupt the boy’s raptures, Holly merely watched him, smiling as she remembered how she, as a little girl and truthfully even now, loved to lose herself in a good story.

Hamish had just immersed himself in the great battlefield scene off the coast of Angola and was unconsciously biting his lip as the savages were resorting to throwing lances at the gallant crew of the ship when he was aware of not being alone. He looked up quite startled and saw Miss Tournier watching him with an amused smile. He jumped up from his seat and slammed the book shut.

“I beg yer pardon, Miss, I didnae hear ye come in. It’s . . . it’s most exciting, miss. That’s why I didnae . . . I mean, I was jist waiting for ye . . . ”

“Oh, but I know! It is exciting isn’t it? What part are you on now? The battle? When I read the battle for the first time, I’m sure I missed both my dinner and my tea!”

She moved into the room to begin another work day and the boy relaxed as he realised he would not be reprimanded and he even ventured a smile.

Aside from his lordship popping his head through the door a time or two to inquire after their progress and whether they required anything, Holly and her assistant passed the day busily and quietly in work. They stopped only when they noticed the shadows begin to creep into the corners of the room.

“Well, Hamish,” Holly said with finality, “I think we have done yeoman’s service today and so, tomorrow — ”

“Oh, miss! Tomorrow is Martinmas!” Hamish interrupted in a rush, but then dropped his eyes. “That is . . . I could acourse come if ye in particular wish me to . . . ”

Holly laughed.

“Oh, I had not forgotten about that! How could I? Of course neither one of us will work tomorrow. I’m quite certain his lordship would not even have suggested it. You be sure to enjoy your day off. Now run along Hamish and come again on Monday.”

Bowing hurriedly to her, Hamish ran out, very much prepared to fight off any savages daring to cross his path through the woods home, but at the same time equally eager for tomorrow to come as soon as possible.

As Holly walked home in the growing darkness, the first snow of the season fell over Clanough and its environs and as usual, the event divided the world into two camps. There were those, who by occupation or situation stood or sat inside by a window and admired the slow descent of white soft flakes all the way from the grey skies to the brown earth. Then there were those out of doors, who felt the weather on their face and back and could neither see the beauty nor the necessity of it. Both knew, however, that this time the phenomenon would be short lived. There was no lasting winter frost in the air yet and the ground around the lanes and houses swallowed up the white flakes almost as soon as they touched. It was a moment, nonetheless, that made everyone realise the passage of time. The year would soon be out and a hard season would begin. They would either grow tired of the snow, or used to it, before spring would come and present them with new annual wonders. But for now, a white world caused them all to stop for a while and think about things a little bigger than household chores, the demands of editors, letters to stewards or the classification of works on economic history.

I
N THE GRAND CITY OF
E
DINBURGH, HOWEVER,
D
R
P
HILIP
M
C
K
ENNA
stepped out of his classroom, down the corridors of the quad and out into the chill evening air thinking of distinctly more mundane things. Pulling his gown about him against the cold wind, he walked to his rooms, wondering if a letter would be waiting for him when he arrived.

Normally his father’s forgetfulness and habit of allowing too much time to lapse between the receipt of a letter and the writing of its response did not distress him. Rather, it was one of Mr McKenna’s eccentricities that everyone around him accepted and readily excused as the by-product of a kind and generous, if somewhat scatterbrained, nature. After nearly a week of anxious waiting, however, his son was feeling distinctly
out
of patience with his father’s usual habits and he was seriously considering sending a second letter by express, and instructing the courier to wait for an immediate reply.

It was an unusual request he knew, and that was probably why he had received no answer as of yet. His quarterly allowance was generous and he had never before felt the need to ask for an advance. And to be truthful, this had not been an appeal for an advance on his own funds as much as it was a request for a loan from his father’s, and he could imagine the old man’s confusion and applications to his wife to please clarify this unusual turn of events. Why should their son unexpectedly be possessed of such an urgency to complete his often put off treatise; a treatise that had been in the planning stages for a number of years, subject to numerous revisions and delays and that he had been used to consider as a far-off possibility at best? Why, my dear, should Philip have the sudden need to hire an illustrator?

McKenna smiled, but the smile faded when he opened his door and saw, once again, that there was no letter in the tray. He tossed his gown over the back of the sofa, rekindled the fire and moved the kettle over it, in between repeated glances at the empty mail tray. He briefly considered inquiring of the landlord if perhaps something had been overlooked, but he knew it would be futile, as well as insulting to the conscientious man. Instead he unwrapped the bread and cheese on the table in the corner and cut himself a few slices of each for supper. Taking his plate to the cluttered desk, he cleared a spot and wrote a quick note: