Twixt Two Equal Armies (87 page)

She concentrated on her hands clasped on her lap and told him everything that she had overheard from Mr Grant and Dr McKenna, from Mrs Robertson, Miss Tristam and her sister.

“And,” she continued, “the way they look at me as I walk down the street, the things they say . . . it makes it seem like you would never have loved me if I had not set my heart on capturing you, by design, or deceit, or by entrapment. And then I remember the inn, and your letter came and I began to wonder if it was true after all and maybe I am not what
you
think I am . . . maybe I am what
they
think I am, because . . . Perhaps we should . . . wait.”

He leaned back with a sigh and closed his eyes for just a moment. The words came flooding out of her and hit his tired brain and exhausted body like a punch in the stomach. Gossip. Small minded people in places where everyone thinks they know everyone else and their business. Everywhere they were all the same. Whether in Clanough or in London. All the same. Lord he was tired.

“They have no idea what you are,” he said and opened his eyes. “But I do. They have no idea why I love you. They have no idea how you made me love you. But I do.”

He reached out his hand to her and she slowly slipped hers onto his big, warm palm. “They know nothing about you and me,” he whispered. “The way we fought so hard, so uselessly and how much it hurts to hear you say that the sweet surrender, after all that fruitless fighting, was a mistake or a whim. It wasn’t. It
isn’t
. Don’t ever tell me it is. Don’t tell me
anyone
knows that better than you or I.”

He could see her swallow and fight the tears, but they rolled silently down her cheeks anyway. “I need you, Holly,” he said and carefully touched one of the tears with his thumb. “Don’t shut me out just when I have found you. If you need me to convince you of my love I will do it a thousand times over, but please don’t reject me like this. I don’t want to be outside of your love anymore.”

She took her other hand and enclosed his, pulling it on to her lap, but would not meet his eyes.

“And,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper, “what if it is true?”

His stomach sank and his heart lurched.

“What if what is true?”

“What they have been saying about me. What if Primmie is right? What if I really did try to force you into a compromising position where you had no choice? I hadn’t thought of it before, but I never told Maman about that kiss while you were here. You know when I told her? It was when we were on our way to Hertfordshire — just like Primmie said — I waited until you were among your own people and society. What if I really did that to you, to try to trap you?”

“Trap me?” Baugham sat up straight again and removed his hands. “This is madness!
Trap
me? As if I have not spent a lifetime avoiding traps and attachments that I could not break out of at a moment’s notice! If I did not want to be
trapped
, I would not be here. I would not have ridden like a madman for days, half terrified I was going to be cast aside on a whim and half furious that you could doubt my honest feelings just when I am so absolutely convinced of them myself for the very first time! What do you think I am? What does Miss Tristam think I am? A sheep? A cuckold? An idiot?”

“No! But I . . . ”

He sprang out of his seat. “Miss Tristam thinks you went hunting for me among ‘my own people’? Snaring me against my own intentions? Forcing me into a compromising position? I have never heard such nonsense in my life! What about me? What about my behaviour? Does Miss
Tristam
think it is commonplace courtship for a man to abuse his intended at every turn? Accuse her of trespassing and ignorance? Use harsh words against her and her judgement in front of her friends and family and on public roads?! Or does Miss
Tristam
think that is all part of your very special and successful brand of entrapment, planned and induced by you against my will?!”

He pressed his fingertips against his temples and rubbed them slowly while he felt his purpose and grip on the situation slowly fade away with his renewed anger.

“No . . . this is not about Miss Tristam. I will not have her in this conversation. This is about us.”

“But, it is
not
just about us. It is about perceptions, and what maybe others can see in us that we do not see ourselves. And I cannot honestly say that if I had known of a way to secure your love, I would not have attempted it. What does that then make me?”

“Holly, I refuse to hold other people’s perceptions of my conduct as the mirror in which I view myself. I will answer for my actions with my word and reputation as a gentleman and on the Day of Judgement. Other than that I will not have gossips besting my own conscience on what is right and wrong. And neither should you. Why do you even listen to that rubbish — your conscience and your feelings are clear! Enough of Miss Tristam and gossip and slighted lovers and jealousy! I did not come here for them. I came here for you!”

“My feelings are very clear!” Holly cried in agitation. “I
know
what I feel for you. But my conscience is not. If you came here for me, you have the right to know what I am. There is more, something else I need to tell you. Mr Grant . . . he was right about one thing. When I came back to Clanough from Elizabeth’s wedding, I had every intention of . . . taking another path. But then I found something better — you — just as he said.” She buried her face in her hands, “You came along just in time and I was so happy I never gave a thought to anyone else but myself. Now, what does
that
make me?”

Baugham stared at her.

“But please do not think . . . Nothing was ever spoken, or assumed, or implied. It is just that you would not see, and then you left and I thought you were happy to get away from me . . . and I was so very upset and wondered if I should just be practical and . . . ”

She tried unsuccessfully to blink back her tears while still avoiding his eyes.

“But it was not what I wanted. Everything I have ever wished and hoped and prayed for came true for me in that willow grove. I just never believed it could, and I was sad and afraid. But all along I wanted you . . . and so I did exactly what Mr Grant accused me of doing.”

He felt panic rise in his throat. Did she think she did not
deserve
him? Was she going to throw him aside because she had wanted him, but had been prepared to settle for someone else? What about the promise they had made and the promise of happiness he had so clearly seen growing between them? Was she going to doubt that for the sake of a principle? Suddenly he felt exhausted. He had no fight left in him. He had thought he would not have to fight anymore — fight himself, fight her, fight the world.

He slowly sank down beside her feet and gently took her hand, holding it to his cheek after kissing it.

“Holly,” he said quietly, fearfully, “you are frightening me. What are you going to do?”

It was automatic, instinctive; she pulled his head down into her lap and stroked his hair, even as she spoke the words that would release him from his promise to her. “I just — ” her breath caught in her throat and she had to begin again, speaking as steadily as she could, “I just needed you to know the truth. What I will do is up to you.”

There was a deep sigh somewhere in the folds of her dress and a barely audible murmur.

“The truth . . . ”

She looked down at his head in her lap, and it was so comfortable for him to be there like that, so natural for her to run her fingers through his hair. He looked tired; his eyes were closed but she could see the pain in his face.

“The truth then,” she took a deep breath and from somewhere deep within found the courage to bare herself to him, “The truth is — I love you. I want very much to be your wife.” He raised his head and looked at her as she continued, “But I only want to be your wife if you love me as well. If you still want me. If you are sure of me, of who and what I am. If you do not, if you regret or question your offer, I want you to release me, as I will release you.”

“Do you really think I do? Do you think that is why I rode over here like this? Why I now lie here and never want to get up? Why, despite everything you said and I said just now, I’m somehow smiling because you told me the truth — that you love me?”

He turned his face and without even attempting to restrain himself drew a deep breath, feeling her warmth, her smell and the soft fabric of her dress against his cheek.

“You are such a foolish little bee,” he muttered, “and I will never let you go. From now on, whatever comes, it must be the two of us. It can be no other way without tragedy for our poor, doubtful souls. And in view of that, please let me rest here like this just a little while before I must get up. Smack my foolish, impertinent head if you will, but let me stay.”

The cold fist of fear and confusion, of guilt and pain slowly released its grip on her heart. She bent down and instead of giving his head a smack, she gave it a kiss and whispered, “Stay.”

She could feel the warmth of his breath touch her skin through her skirts as he spoke, eyes closed again, “And what else?”

“I will marry you. I love you.”

“Love. My final plea before I surrender. I cannot wait any longer. Marry me soon. Very soon. No talk of waiting.”

She brushed a stubborn wisp of his hair away from his temple and looked on as she felt his jaw clench once more.

“I will,” she whispered.

She felt his body relax; he murmured, “Thank God” just before he dozed off still resting on her lap, his arms still clutching her knees.

The room gradually grew dim in the late winter afternoon, but Holly was unwilling disturb his rest, so she sat perfectly still, playing with his hair until he stirred and opened his eyes. Reluctantly he pulled away from her and sat back on his heels with an embarrassed smile.

“Forgive me. I don’t know why I . . . I’m sorry, Holly.”

“Don’t be. You were tired.”

He rubbed his hands over his face and tugged at his waistcoat, his face suddenly brightening.

“And now I’m restored. I hope,” he said, moving to the sofa opposite her once more, “that you have put all these silly doubts and worries behind you, because I have something for you.”

She pulled just a little away, sat straighter and, like all women, could not disguise the alighted interest in her eyes.

“For me? Now? You brought me something even after my letter?”

“Call it a foolish, or even a desperate, optimism, but yes, I carried them with me in hopes — ”

“Them?”

“Yes,” he said teasingly. “There are two things. One is old, one is new.”

He grinned as her eyes flashed and her expression changed into a slight pout.

“Oh heavens, are you going to punish me by making me do riddles?”

He kissed her and reached into his waistcoat pocket. “Here is the first.” Withdrawing his hand, he opened it up to reveal a thin gold ring. She gasped and stared at it.

“Remember you promised I could give you another?” he said. “This one is a little more durable, which in view of what we have just gone through I should say is most appropriate, and I hope it proves to you my love isn’t a fancy or a feeling. ‘
Nor will it change, though all be changed beside’
.”

“Quoting poetry to aid your wooing, my lord?” she asked with a smile. “And such a fanciful poet like Mr Coleridge.”

“Oh, I have done much better than that,” he said with a self-satisfied air as he handed her the ring. “Take a look.”

She held it up to look at the engraving — a delicate filigree design on the outside and, on the inside, these words:
‘To adore thee is my duty — Goddess o’ this soul o’ mine
!’.

“Oh,” she sighed in delight. “Burns.”

“Who else?”

“Oh, my . . . love, it is perfect! I could not want for a better . . . ” she stammered at a loss for words, so she reached out her left hand. The battered willow ring was still there, dangling precariously and looking as if it might fall off any moment.

“You do it, love,” she said. “It’s only proper.”

His eyes warmed and he took the golden ring and slipped it on above the willow one. She gave a little laugh and drew herself up to the crook of his arm again and lifted up her hand to admire it. He took it and caressed her hand with his fingers.

“Yes, it is perfect, isn’t it? But there is still something else.”

Her eyes lit up and she looked at him eagerly.

“As if this wasn’t enough,” she said and smiled.

“Well,” he said as he dug further in his waist pocket, “when it comes to trinkets I do not think there can be such a thing to a woman’s mind as enough. And in your case I wholeheartedly agree.”

He finally withdrew his hand and handed her a faded, battered box. In it lay a small reddish-gold locket on a delicate golden chain.

“Try it,” he said.