by Gail McEwen
THE OTHERWISE QUIET AND UNOBTRUSIVE Mr McLaughlin apparently had amazing powers of persuasion when it came to drainage issues, for Holly found herself alone at breakfast the next morning after her husband airily told her he just needed to sort a few things out before he joined her. Holly decided that, as going down for meals appeared to be the new way of things; she would gladly take advantage of this new order and give her cousin some long overdue attention.
Pemberley
Derbyshire
My dearest, dearest cousin
I know. You must be inundated with appeals to accept congratulations, smug referrals to your past indiscretions and misjudgements, not to mention reminders of the many very, very good friends you have though you can scarce remember their names, because I certainly am. So, I must send you a different kind of letter because I am getting quite enamoured with being so exceptional and pandered to in my new most respected state.
I trust you are as happy as can be imagined because that will surely help my case. And yes, dear Holly, I most certainly have a case! First of all I must assure you that it is quite serious. Then, when I have made you snap out of your blissful dreamy-eyed state and accustomed smile at “that silly Eliza and her insistence upon such dramatics in her letters” I will relent and tell you that I am well, Mr Darcy is purring like a cat in his wellness and is both kind and attentive to me, Pemberley is beautiful and that everything is as well as can be expected. Yes, expected. You see, it turns out a great deal is expected here and that has given me some cause for alarm.
I have always known my education was scanty and lacks-a-daisy at best, but I struggled by quite well and been very happy in my state of semi-literacy, yet now I must admit that too much knowledge is not always a bad thing. How could my mother have failed to prepare me for what is needed to be a great Mistress of a great House in such a shameful manner? In fact, when I think about it (and Mrs Reynolds, our formidable housekeeper, unwittingly shows me every day), I have not been prepared for anything like the running of a great estate! It is shameful, Holly, and I am barely struggling by with all that is expected of me in the face of amazing patience and guidance from both the wonderful Mrs Reynolds and my marvellous husband. He tells me he did not marry me for my housekeeping skills and that he does not care that I have so much to yet learn, but the truth of the matter is, my dearest Holly, I cannot bear to fail him in this because of his justified pride in his estate, his house, his family and his duties. He does care, you see, and it makes me quite ashamed to see him put that aside because he cares a little more for me.
And it is not only my shameful performance in the manner of estate business and bookkeeping that has me in such a state—Holly, did you ever hear about a Candlemas Presentation? Well, of course you have, but that has no doubt been thanks to a most diligent Sunday School teacher and a good memory, but did you ever hear about such a thing for the Mistress of Pemberley?! Well, I should think not but now you have and it is absolutely true. Just like the baby Jesus on his proud mother’s arm, I am to be presented to ‘my’ congregation here on the proud arm of my beloved husband. It is quite the tradition, I am told. It is as it has always been and will always be. At Candlemas, any new Mistress of Pemberely is inaugurated and there is no getting away from it. At this point I am abandoning all pretence of pride and flattery at the attention because I am informed a simple thanks is not enough. No, the good people of the estate—and beyond!—expect a full winter revel and public day of it afterwards! The estate of Pemberley at its most glorious, hospitable and splendid! And all this on the 31st of this month! Oh, had I only insisted on a summer wedding! It makes me quite angry to think of my adamant refusal of Mr Darcy last Easter! Think of all the time I could have used in preparation had I just been wiser than my usual self!
There. Can you see how I can be so happy and so miserable at the same time and all for the same cause? I want to make him proud and I want to be the best that I can be for him and for Pemberley, which I already love as much as I could ever love bricks and stones in any form, but with so much to learn, and then be expected to host such a great event and in mere weeks! I shudder. I tremble. I lay awake at night and walk restlessly in the woods. I long for my dear Holly. You would know what to do, wouldn’t you? Or at least where to begin?
Holly stopped in her reading when her cousin, with frantic cheerfulness, moved on to describe other, more reassuring aspects of her life, and stared down at the end of the letter.
Yours, quite desperately,
Eliza
WHILE HOLLY READ, MRS MCLAUGHLIN brought in platter after platter of breakfast foods. Torn between hunger and the feeling that she ought to at least wait a little for his lordship to return before starting, Holly stirred more sugar into her cup and turned again to Elizabeth’s letter. The poor thing sounded overwhelmed and she thanked Providence that there was no such tradition in the Cumbermere household. She abandoned the letter on the table and waited impatiently, drumming her fingers on the laden table and eyeing the steaming platters of meats and breads. Thankfully it was not long before familiar steps were heard outside the door and her husband made his appearance, his face breaking out in a wide smile when he saw her.
“Finally!” she said, springing out of the chair to meet him. “I am starved.”
He took her in his arms and kissed her before she had time to utter another word. “Me too,” he muttered as he placed kisses all along her neck and ear. “Mm . . . most definitely good enough to eat . . . ”
She snorted a little and pushed him at arms length.
“Well, I am famished and you have kept me waiting, so I am not impressed by flattery or pretty behaviour, only rolls, cheese, ham and preserves. Oh, and coffee. I must have more coffee! What about you?”
He held on to her hands and pulled her with him down onto the chair she had vacated.
“Now, Lady Baugham,” he said teasingly, “who’s to say that you cannot have it all: flattery, pretty words, food and coffee on such a perfect morning? And who’s to say that if that all doesn’t satisfy you, you might not have dessert after all of that?”
“Mmm . . . ” she said, nuzzling in his ear, “I do love dessert.”
She slipped off his lap, took the chair next to him, and began to fill her plate. “But first I must eat.”
He stretched his legs under the table and leaned back in his chair, smiling as he watched her finish her share of Mrs McLaughlin’s excellent breakfast. Despite his initial reluctance, the promise of fresh air and outdoor activity in the guise of a small agricultural crisis had done him good. Now all he needed was to fill his stomach to feel refreshed, awake, and bright after so many days of admittedly very pleasant indolence and idleness.
“So what are you going to attend to now when the stables and ditches are all done?” she asked, looking up as she popped the last morsel of bread into her mouth.
He had by no means finished his own meal, but he reached out, took her hand and pulled her back to her former place on his lap. “Funny you should ask, since I’ve been pondering that very question.” The grin on his face broadened and he quickly slipped his arms around her waist.
“Somehow,” she smiled, “that does not surprise me.”
“This might,” he took the coffee cup from her hand and put it on the table. “I thought, perhaps it might be a nice idea, in honour of your new position, for you to go for a walk and survey your extensive new grounds while I labour nearby to do it justice.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Now? You mean I should accompany you?” She could feel him smiling against her neck without interrupting his pursuits. “Is it . . . Do you expect me to?”
“No-o . . . ” he said slowly. “Not if you had rather wait for me indoors. It’s just a little problem behind the stables that I thought I need to take a look at but if you had rather not . . . ”
Just then the door opened and Mrs McLaughlin entered. Holly gasped, sprang up in embarrassment at being caught in such an undignified posture and s
tood beside her husband’s chair, reclaiming her coffee cup and taking a deep sip. Her husband gave the housekeeper a frown, which she returned with equal measure as she gathered the empty dishes from the table and proceeded to briskly remove the tablecloth and covers.
“What’s this?” he said, holding up her discarded letter.
“Oh.” Holly took another reassuring sip from an already practically empty cup and then moved to top it up before Mrs McLaughlin had time to sweep the coffee pot away, too. “A letter from Elizabeth.”
She moved around him to pour the remains of the pot in his cup. He dangled the loose sheets in front of her with a wry smile and when Mrs McLaughlin’s back was conveniently turned, she scooped down very quickly to claim it and kiss his mouth. He grasped at her but she was too quick and under his pouting countenance she scooted behind him.
“Och, ‘afore I forget,” Mrs McLaughlin paused and dug into her apron pocket, bringing out an envelope, “this here was delivered by courier this morning.”
Holly saw her husband’s face darken and the corners of his mouth turn down as he took the letter and read the direction.
“My steward at Cumbermere,” he sighed. “I left so abruptly . . . let us just say that he is not pleased that I have missed Quarter Day yet again . . . ” He looked up at her with a face so wretched and miserable, she was reminded of a little boy who had just been scolded. “I should . . . we really ought to go . . . ”
“Yes, we probably should, but it’s too late to go anywhere today regardless.” She moved back to him and slipped her hand over his shoulder, “Are you going down to the stables now?”
He looked out the window and sighed deeply. “It’s cold and windy out there,” he muttered. “How about some chess instead? In bed.”
AWAKENED BY THE SOUNDS OF muffled voices nearby, Holly lay beneath the warm blankets, listening absently. She recognised the voice of her husband as one of those speaking at almost the same moment that she realised she was lying beneath those warm blankets alone. Well, except for an abandoned chess piece chafing against her leg. She kicked it away and turned around. Curious, but still drowsy and content, she sat up. He must be in the dressing room with his valet for some reason. Not unexpectedly, the door to the bedroom opened soon afterwards to admit her fully dressed husband.
He was met with the sight of his wife sitting up in the bed, her shoulders bare but for the magnificent long chestnut hair around her like a veil. She was hugging her knees, wrapped in the sheets for warmth. Her look was lazy but inviting in its intensity and she wore the most mischievous little grin, just bordering on impertinence.
“Going somewhere, my lord?”
“I am, and it is all your fault,” he grumbled as he came near. “Because of you and your insistence on distracting me from my purpose and enticing me back from my good intentions with both food and comforts, it turns out I am in no way freed from my obligations but am compelled to trek out to the stables, in the cold wind, ankle deep in freezing water, pretending to care about clogged drainage ditches while you lie here all warm and cosy. It is completely unfair.”
“Mmm,” she smiled, sliding down a little deeper beneath the bedclothes. “Drainage ditches can be very inconvenient. Hurry back, then. I’ll keep it warm for you.”
“No, ma’am,” he said, with a smile and a look in his eyes that belied his stern words, “in penance for your obstinacy, I insist that, in an hour’s time, you appear in that same dining room we left in such a hurry to join me for luncheon.”
“Oh you insist, do you?” she asked, burrowing herself deeper in the pillows. “Very well, my lord and master, in that case I shall obey. That is,” she pulled the sheets up over her head, “if I don’t fall back asleep first.”
“Oh no you don’t,” he cried, pouncing on the bed beside her and sweeping the covers away.
“No! Give those back! It’s cold! You are cold,” she shrieked as the chill air of the room hit her and he let his cold hands travel over her body.
“I know I’m cold,” he laughed, “and it’s only fair that you should be too.” The laughter stopped and he buried his lips deep into her neck and bare, chilly shoulder. “But I am not as cold as I once was. Before you. I was so very cold for so long, but from now on I shall be only warm, hot and boiling thanks to you, love.”
She let her own hand languidly brush through his hair, her laugh was low and sensuous. “You need have no fear on that score. I shall certainly make sure you will suffer under all such afflictions, as long as you remember to share all that warmth and heat with me.”
That laugh, that tone of voice egged him on and he kissed her ear, her temple, her throat, her breast. Her breathing slowed down, deepened and sounds of pleasure and surrender escaped those inviting lips once more. She shivered from his touch—not from the cold anymore, but from the heat—and he gasped as she boldly let her own fingers explore his body, touching, stroking him outside his clothing.
“Oh, love,” she whispered, sending a shiver of desire down his back, “stay with me, just a while longer. Surely the ditches can wait a little, can’t they?”
“Yes,” he whispered back as she began to tug at his clothing. He drew back to give her more room to work when a very quiet scratch came from the middle door. “Damn!” he said, dropping his head onto her chest in disappointment. “Riemann!”
“He’ll wait,” Holly asked pleadingly, “won’t he?”
“Yes, but . . . ” Baugham sighed, “Mr McLaughlin will be downstairs even now. He has been wanting to consult with me for days about those ditches . . . ” He gave one last regretful look at the warm, inviting woman lying beside him, lips parted and eyes dark with desire. “Damn!” he repeated before dragging himself away. “One hour? And then I promise, no more business for the rest of the day. For the rest of our stay.”
Holly nodded, though her mouth twisted in disappointment. He smiled ruefully and walked back through the door. “Damn!” she heard him mutter once more.
Knowing she would be unable to fall back to sleep, Holly slid out of bed with a sigh and got dressed. If this was a day for attending to business at the expense of selfish pleasure, she would not only take the time to pen an answer to Elizabeth but also to address Dr McKenna’s note
“Something to keep me busy while I wait,” she told herself determinedly and took them with her on the way out.
Once again retreating to the library, she sat at the desk and drew the letters out in what she thought was a very impressive and businesslike manner. She arranged herself, read through Elizabeth’s letter once again, then put it aside, turning to the letter to her husband from Dr McKenna. She glanced around quickly, then opened the single, folded sheet.
Caledonian Thistle Inn
23 December, 1812
Lord Baugham,
Forgive my imposing upon you at such a time, but as it has been some while since we spoke and I have heard no word from either you or Lady Baugham, I feel I have no other recourse but to demand a moment of your time. In absence of any word from you to the contrary, I can only assume that Lady Baugham does indeed have no interest in continuing with our project.
My terms with Mr Robertson at the inn extend only to the end of this month; at that time I will return to Edinburgh. If you will be so kind as to give me some direction, I should like to render payment for the work that has been done to date—although I believe it would be best to return her ladyship’s drawings and sketches and start anew when I engage another illustrator.
I await your response.
P. McKenna
Holly sighed, staring at the page thoughtfully while the frown on her face deepened and she pulled ever more viciously at her ear lobe. The end of this month? She quickly counted on her fingers, shocked at how the days had flown by. Today must be at least the 28th of December . . . how had they missed Christmas? A glow rose to her cheeks—she knew exactly how and why Christmas had passed them by without notice. Nevertheless, Dr McKenna was under the assumption that she was
abandoning their work . . . and if he was going to leave in three days . . .
Without wasting any more time she impulsively drew out a fine sheet of paper from the open shelf on the writing desk and set to work.
It took her just a few minutes to produce her short note. Really, there was no need for ceremony on the issue. She was already late with her answer and a quick refutation to put the doctor’s mind at ease that he need not even contemplate going through the arduous task of engaging another illustrator—not when they had come so far and she was so confident she could carry out her original engagement without any trouble at all—was surely all that was needed to settle the matter.
Holly looked down at the note she had composed in such certainty and hurry, “ . . . it is clear that such a measure would be unnecessary on my account and much too troublesome on yours...” She frowned when her conscience rebelled at this turn of phrase, but she put the thought out of her mind and signed the note. It was true. It was far too much trouble to put kind, good Dr McKenna through after all he had done for her. It was certainly impermissible that other concerns of the new Lady Baugham, who had, after all, assumed that title without much warning to anyone, should become a detriment to the career and work of another. No, she would finish her work for Dr McKenna quickly and it would be no bother to her husband or her new life. In fact, he probably need never even know she was doing it . . .
She was startled out of her thoughts at the voice of her husband in the doorway.
“There you are, I see” he grinned cheekily, “just as I commanded. Or almost. This is not quite the dining room, is it?”
She quickly straightened up in her chair, hastily stuffing the doctor’s letter into her pocket. “If you think . . . ” she began, but he merely breezed in and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.