Scotch and Sirens

Chapter Twenty Nine

 

Lizzy had spent the last seven mornings since the tea in the exact same manner. First she would walk with Monsieur Vian, then they would return and play the piano together.

At first she had thought he was not an early riser and would not seriously meet her for a walk, but she found him waiting for her in the dining room when she came down that first morning, and he had been waiting for her each morning since. She had also thought him only teasing about the piano lessons, but soon discovered that was not the case. Quite frankly, it was apparent that he needed no instruction, in fact at times he played better than herself, but she realised it was something to do that was entertaining to him and would help fill his days in some way, so she politely did not point out the obvious.

Each afternoon she would sit in the parlour and read, do needle work, write letters, do odd jobs for her aunt, who now seemed to have many tasks for her relating to filing and the like, and then she would work in the garden where she was usually and most gratefully not followed by anyone. She always made sure to stay at the house, which seemed to please her aunt, but really it was because she hoped Mr. Darcy would come to call. He had not come so far.

On the first day, she had decided it was too soon to expect him. On the second she had spent some time making up reasons for why he would not come then either. All of them were completely rational explanations that soothed her sensibilities somewhat, but not completely. On this day, just as she had on the rest of the days that had followed the second, she spent a great many hours alternating between giving herself reasons for why he would not come, telling herself that he was now on his way and would be coming along any minute, and losing hope altogether that he would ever come again. When the last possibility would take its turn, she tormented herself with reliving all that had went wrong that had surely driven him away for good. There were a good many things to dwell on there, so needless to say it was where she spent most of her time.

Finally, when the afternoon sun had sunk low on the horizon, and she could no longer see to work, she knew he would not come this day either. Tomorrow, she tried to tell herself. She was certain he would come tomorrow. With a sense of foreboding, and doubt eating away at her sensibilities like a cancer, she went back into the house.

 

 

The gentlemen spent the week in a calm and quiet manner, except for one outing. Darcy’s steward, who was always well acquainted with his employer’s plans and preferences, had forwarded an invitation from the Royal Society of Edinburgh. Normally, Darcy would have declined it, considering a trip to the Society’s establishment too long a journey from England. As a regular promoter he was apprised of all its developments by correspondence, so there was no need of attending in person anyway. This time, however, Edinburgh being but a few hours journey away, he extended the invitation to Brougham, and his friend readily acquiesced.

In fact, Brougham was so excited by the thought of meddling with Scotland’s finest minds that when it was time to go he paraded out of his chambers clad in a well-fitted kilt.

Mrs. McLaughlin gave him a motherly smile, and Darcy a sardonic one. Brougham looked down at his outfit smugly and quickly offered to lend Darcy one – an overture which his friend flatly refused.

“Darcy, are you sure?” Brougham uttered in total amazement. “You know how the Highland aristocrats are about it since the Dress Act is not enforced any longer. They all quite proudly wear them. The highland traditions simply must be observed you know, even by the lowlanders now. Come now, Darcy. Show your Scottish pride!”

“I am English, Brougham.”

“So am I, but a Scottish laird as well, a small hold granted, but a nice one all the same. I do not see why I should not. And you provide financial support to the society! I am surprised you would not. It is a nice gesture from an Englishman.”

“Perhaps, but I do not see why wearing your tartan might make me anything but a dressed up fob.”

“What do you have against my tartan? Do I have something on it?” He quickly spun his hips around from side to side while twisting his upper body in the opposite direction, trying to see all the way around the garment. “There is nothing there, Darcy, not a spot or stain on it. My valet would see to that, of course. Oh, you mean the pattern? It was especially commissioned for me you know. Quite expensive, but very worth it. I think the predominate greens in it would look just as fine on you as they do on me.”

“Exactly that, it is yours. There is no sense in my wearing it, unless I desired to show off my legs.”

“Come on, Darcy, you are not being shy, are you? There is nothing wrong with legs, and it is very comfortable too. A kilt is a very freeing garment my friend. I enjoy wearing one tremendously.”

“It serves you well that you think so since you are going to show yours off. Let us hope your knees are all that you display. Shall we go?”

Once in the carriage, Brougham leaned back comfortably and Darcy decidedly turned his head to the window in his effort to avoid the sight of his friend’s knees flashing from under the kilt. Brougham eventually noticed his friend’s uneasiness, and joined his legs together.

“So who is going to be there? Anyone I know?” Brougham finally asked to break the silence.

“You might know the president. He is an old Cambridge graduate and I remember him as a visiting lecturer during our time there.”

“I thought the Duke of Buccleuch was the president.”

“No, he died in January. Sir James Hall is holding that office now.”

“Hall! Indeed, I do remember him, although not much about his lectures. Something very dull I think.”

“He is a geologist,” Darcy offered.

“Indeed. As dull as that.” Brougham’s spirits seemed to sink a bit. He was afraid that the evening might prove boring after all.

“Do not fret. You will find many people to interest you there,” Darcy hastened to explain, therefore hoping his friend would sit up in the seat, for his slouching and disappointed posture had the effect of exposing more of his friend than Darcy wished to see, and he was rather weary of holding his gaze out the window. “There are fine mathematicians, philosophers and even poets to meet your tastes.”

“Poets?” Brougham’s tone was more cheerful now and he sat up excitedly.

“Yes, I think we may expect to meet Walter Scott.*”

Upon arrival, Darcy mentioned his name at the entrance and the gentlemen soon found themselves being attended to by Sir James. Darcy engaged in polite conversation about the Baronet’s findings about geological formations in the Alps and on Mount Etna, while Brougham, seemingly bored with the topic and its length, scanned the room curiously.

“I would not like to monopolise your time,” Darcy said to Sir James, seeing his friend’s impatience. “Your presence must be desired by many a party during a gathering such as this.”

“It is no imposition at all, I assure you. It is not every day that we have the pleasure of hosting such a generous benefactor like yourself.”

“It is my pleasure to support the society and to finally be able to accept your kind invitation. Lord Brougham and I are looking forward to this evening and to meeting other members.”

“Well then, please allow me to introduce you around before I leave you.”

Darcy studiously ignored Brougham’s ironic smile as they walked about the rooms filled with gentlemen proudly exposing their knees from beneath their kilts. If one could ever feel such an oddity in a pair of breeches it was now. As was to be expected Brougham was interested in the acquaintance of Scott more than any other, and as the afternoon progressed they eventually found themselves discussing the poet’s latest work with the man himself.

Although Mr. Scott appeared to be quite critical about The Vision of Don Roderick, he was happy to explain the underlying history of it and willingly engaged in retelling the legend of the last Gothic King of Spain. That poem led them in a natural way toward discussing the recent events in Peninsula, and when that topic was exhausted Brougham enquired about what Mr. Scott was working on at present.

The gentleman visibly sighed, and proceeded to tell about love’s turbulences that lay at the base of Rokeby. Brougham listened with interest, but Darcy was rather more interested in the unexpected sentiment the poet exhibited.

Lord Downshire, a young gentleman in his twenties who was now standing silently beside them, motioned Darcy a little to the side and explained in a low voice, “Perhaps it would be wiser to stray off that topic.”

Darcy paid him a curious look, but nodded in understanding without further comment.

“The lady described in the poem died but two years ago,” Lord Downshire offered as an explanation.

“I was under the impression that Mr. Scott was married.”

“Yes, he is, and to my late father’s charge no less, however sometimes the allure of first attachments never pale.”

“I see.” Darcy said curtly, not wanting to sound unduly interested in things that should not be of his interest.

“Yes,” the Marquess said, and added as a short explanation, “perhaps the disappointment would not be so bitter if his hopes were not once set so high. It seems that both the lady and her family were welcoming at one time, but in the meantime she developed another acquaintance and attached her heart more firmly there.”

Now Darcy was silent, not able to keep from wondering how Elizabeth’s acquaintance with Mr. Vian would develop and what effect it might have on his own life if it did. Finally, he spoke.

“You said that Mr. Scott is married to your father’s charge. I presume he was careful of her sensitivities.”

“Indeed.” The Marquess paused. “I cannot say that he does not love or respect her as a man should his wife. It is only the old sentiment of lost love, a love so joyful in its novelty that could be offered to only one lady, that never leaves him. That probably is a normal thing for everyone. The only difference is in what the sentiment produces in a poet.”

“Right.” Darcy nodded his understanding and fell silent again, wondering if one day he would meet a woman he would love and marry.

“Tell me about her.” He started at the audacity of his own question.

“I have never met her.”

“I meant Mr. Scott’s wife,” Darcy clarified a bit contritely.

“Oh.” Lord Downshire looked at him curiously, but acquiesced. “She is French. She lost her family early and had been under my father’s guardianship after that. They met while Scott was touring the Lake District with his friends and they married soon after.”

“Has she not other family?”

“One brother in the East India Company.”

“It is good then she found her own happiness.” Darcy’s voice dropped almost to whisper. “Are they happy?”

“I believe they are.”

Darcy was confused. He could not explain why he was so interested in the married couple, even though there was nothing in their circumstances more unique than in any others he had heard about. He felt the impropriety of his questions as firmly as the need of asking them in the first place. He now strove to redeem himself and change the topic.

“Might I assume then, that you have spent some time in France?”

“Indeed, I have. My father travelled broadly and I have made the acquaintance of many families other than just the Charpentiers.”

“I have recently made the acquaintance of a French nobleman myself.”

“May I enquire after his name?” Lord Downshire’s interest was kindled.

“It is Vian. I understand he is a Count, but I do not know the full title.”

“Vian? Maurice? Le Comte du Poitou?”

“Most probably.” Darcy nodded.

The Marquess’ pleasure at the sound of the name was evident.

“I have not seen him for years, but I certainly would not mind meeting the old chap again.”

“It should then please you that he is but a few hours ride from Edinburgh,” Darcy said in the most impartial voice he could muster.

“Would you be so kind and let him know that I would be glad to renew the acquaintance?”

“Certainly.”

Lord Downshire steered them to a nearby counter and offered Darcy a drink. “My, my,” he proceeded in a much more familiar manner. “The world is small indeed.”

He filled their glasses and offered a toast. “It is certainly an occasion to drink to. Vian was my guide into adulthood.”

“Indeed?” Darcy’s interest was genuine.

“Oh yes, he has a way with the ladies, if you know what I mean,” the Marquess offered with a wink.

“I am not certain I do,” Darcy answered, trying to keep his suspicions out of the tone of his voice.

“I do not mean anything abhorrent.” The Marquess’ answer made it clear to Darcy that he had not succeeded in his attempt. “He is not a rogue. Actually he never resorts to lies or deception. However, he can well tell when a lady is willing or might be persuaded to become so, and he knows better than anyone else how to break her scruples down. I would say that he is very egalitarian in his views on the sexes, and he believes that the pleasure should be mutual and liberally bestowed.”

“Does his egalitarianism expand to married ladies as well?”

“Not all married ladies are happy with their circumstances, surely. Vian certainly would not censure them for their wish for something more.”

“Indeed?” Darcy smiled slightly. “Even if she were his own wife?”

“I do not think Vian’s wife will find anything lacking in her circumstances.”

“Unless she finds the lack of her husband in her own marriage.”

“Oh no, certainly not. Vian is quite adamant about it. Once he marries it will be a happy match. He may have a liberal attitude towards women now, but he values family above all. He will be as good a husband and father as you may find.”

“Interesting.” Darcy put his glass aside and made the suggestion that they rejoin the others.

Brougham was just extracting an invitation to Abbotsford House from Mr. Scott, and the poet cordially extended it onto Darcy as well. Each member of the party exchanged their cards, and after making their farewells to Sir James, Darcy was seated in the carriage again, facing Brougham’s grinning countenance. His friend was visibly content and relaxed, which did not help with Darcy’s uneasiness about his friend’s posture in his seat and Darcy’s view of it, and so the journey home was spent with one long monologue coming from one gentleman and complete silence from the other – who spent the entire time staring out the window at the passing landscape.

 

 

As Darcy reflected on the past week now, he realised it was the only eventful day he had spent, and he wondered at his own passiveness. Not being able to come to any decisive conclusion, he shifted his eyes back to the newspaper in his hands.

Brougham suddenly stirred awake in his second-favourite chair and found he had taken a nap in the middle of reading about Mr. Hiddlesworth’s fantastic bathing machines in Brighton on the second page of the newspaper. His joints ached. How long could he have slept? To his surprise the newspaper was still upright and he could neither see his friend, who sat reading his newspaper in his favourite chair, nor anything else since his view was completely obscured by the printed page.

“Stuff!” he said, stretching his legs. “Machines, indeed.”

Darcy was reading part of the same newspaper, but his article referred to house innovations. His eyes quickly scanned the history of the different types of toilets and stopped on the Joseph Bramah’s valve type flush one, which he had had installed both at Pemberley and his London house. But now it seemed that an Albert Giblin was working on an improvement called the Silent Valveless Water Waste Preventer and Darcy started to ponder whether he should purchase that system.

“Mmm… yes, machines and water do fit it seems.”

“Generally speaking, of course, they do. Mills, steam, and so on. But in this instance I gather they are referring to sea water and that makes no sense.”

“Sea water? Indeed, no sense at all. Can they not take it from Thames?” Darcy enquired.

“I should think not! I have never heard of any fashionable lady who would take to anything but Brighton waves!”

“Brighton?” Darcy exclaimed. “I do not think even the ladies of fashion are as capricious as to think Brighton is the only means of water service.”

“Well, as far as I understand it - and mind I think it is total nonsense, too - capriciousness does not enter into it, but it is thought to be very beneficial for one's health and is quite the fashion. So Brighton it must be. One would think it is all the same, since water flows freely around our isle.”

“Do you think they can really tell the difference? I bet it is always just the closest water and the ladies of fashion do not even notice that.”

“That just shows how much you know of fashionable women and their obsession with being of the first cut!”

“Brougham, I know of them as much as I have ever wished to. I am sure, however, that Lady Catherine does not use the Brighton water.”

“Lady Catherine? Your Aunt? I should hope not! Good Lord, what is the world coming to! I should have thought Lady Catherine would not be caught dead anywhere near Brighton!”

“Well, she would not have to go there personally, but still, you are right. It is good then that there are not real ladies of fashion in my life if this is their current demand.”

“Darcy, there are plenty of women of fashion in your life. You simply chose to ignore them.”

“That is why I say they are nonexistent. Well, at least of little consequence.”

“Mmmm. If you insist. And you always do.”

Finally he let down the newspaper and looked at Darcy with a deep frown.

“I have never heard a more absurd idea, Darcy. There is no way one can put sea bathing machines in the Thames!”

“What are you talking about, Brougham? Why would anyone put sea bathing machines in the Thames?”

“They are not. They only go in at Brighton. I told you so!”

The two gentlemen stared at each other for a moment. Then Brougham raised his newspaper before his face again. “Humpf!”

Darcy kept looking at his friend and finally burst out with laughter.

“Sea bathing machines? Why, I am relieved then that even ladies of fashion can be satisfied with less when it comes to their toilets with flushing systems.”

“Yes, sea bathing machines. I think you must have let your mind wander something terrible, Darcy. I never said anything about flushing systems. What kind of topic just before tea is that anyway?”

He threw his paper on the floor.

“Lord, I am bored. Let us go down to Rosefarm! I am sure they have excellent tea there, too. And I need to get out of the house.”

 

 

They were not very talkative on their way to Rosefarm. A week spent in each other’s company was enough of an opportunity to discuss all the current topics to death. Darcy’s thoughts went to Elizabeth. Every morning he had wanted to go and see her, and every time he changed his mind. It was difficult to say why. Was it the presence of that walking Frenchman, her disapproving aunt, or rather a trial of his own strength of will? He had spent so much time in Elizabeth’s company before, he now wondered if living without her would be possible at all. And yet he had to consider and prepare himself for such a possibility. He both missed her and was afraid of that meeting.

The gentlemen entered the house and were shown to the parlour where Mrs. Tournier greeted them. Neither Elizabeth nor Vian were present. Brougham readily took his place beside the lady. Darcy, having been greeted with a rather cold frown, refrained from too many comments, instead preferring to listen lazily to the conversation.

It was perhaps inevitable that Mrs. Tournier should dwell a long time on speculation regarding Miss Tournier’s homeward journey. This was partly due to Brougham’s polite enquiry, but also since the gentlemen noticed nothing else they said could make her utter anything more than a few words. She told them about her daughter’s most recent letter and that she was expected home this evening, and so experiences and observations on that most fatiguing journey were willingly shared. Mrs. Tournier had ready opinions on everything from the state of the roads to appropriate spring mechanisms of different modes of transportation. Brougham listened attentively and posed appropriate questions, while Darcy pondered the possibilities of the remaining party’s whereabouts.

 

 

Lizzy was walking with Monsieur Vian toward Rosefarm when she saw Mr. Darcy and Lord Brougham pass by far in the distance. She tried not to quicken her pace too much so that her eagerness would not be noted, but it was a hard thing to hold back from. Had she been alone she would have simply broken into a run on the parts of the path she thought she might get away with it and not be observed. She had missed her time with Mr. Darcy, and since she now hoped the two men were headed to Rosefarm, she did not want to miss even a moment of his visit. Was he finally, at long last, coming to see her, or was he simply accompanying his friend on a social call to Mrs. Tournier?

She tried to feign interest in whatever Monsieur Vian was talking about, but had lost all focus once she had seen the tall figure on the white horse. The Frenchman did not require much of a response, as he was telling her about a funny little palace he had stayed at in Venice and was including many details in his description, and so it thankfully mattered little.

Soon, they had arrived at the house and entered the foyer. Lizzy, quite nervous now, heard voices in the parlour and headed in that direction while mumbling something about unexpected visitors to Monsieur Vian.

Vian followed Miss Bennet and greeted the gentlemen. Upon seeing Mr. Darcy standing idle, he decided to keep him company.

“Mr. Darcy, how good to see you. I hope you have had a good time since we last met?”

“Yes, thank you. I understand that you were well entertained yourself.”

“As well as possible. Mademoiselle Bennet is a wonderful companion.”

“ Will you then still be interested in joining our hunting expedition, Monsieur Vian?”

“Oui, bien sür. I would love to bring my catch to Rosefarm and offer it to ma tantine.”

“Very well then. You should come to Clyne tomorrow morning.”

 

 

Lizzy greeted Lord Brougham and her aunt, and then stood by to bid good morning to Mr. Darcy while he spoke to Monsieur Vian. When there seemed to be a break in their conversation, she spoke.

“Mr. Darcy, you look well. I trust you have had much to occupy yourself with since last we met? I know you would hate to be idle, so it must have been so.” She smiled warmly at him, happy just to be in the same room once again.

Darcy smiled slightly, “Thank you, Miss Bennet, I have. I hope you were entertained as well.”

“I was, I thank you, Mr. Darcy. I kept myself busy. My aunt has developed a sudden need for an assistant of sorts and I have on my own discovered a joy of gardening that I did not know was inside of me,” she replied with a laugh. “At least Miss Tournier will not be disappointed in the state of her garden when she returns.”

She took a seat on a divan.

“May I ask if you still find delights here in Scotland? Do you suppose there are still new joys to discover in the countryside or elsewhere around here, Sir?”

“Well, what I have found already is perfectly to my satisfaction. But I have come here to Scotland looking mostly for entertaining company, and that I am never missing when Lord Brougham is with me.”

She found herself disappointed at his words. He had not missed her company at all evidently.

“It is good then that you do not find you need more than is readily at hand. However, if you should find that your needs grow or change, you might try gardening. I highly recommend it as it lends itself easily to contemplation. One does not have to concentrate too heavily on which are the weeds and which are the begonias,” she smiled sincerely at him.

Begonias, the flowers of genuine friendship, Darcy thought to himself bitterly.

Lizzy continued, “I hope you like shepherd’s pie with plenty of grouse in it, Mr. Darcy, because that is what I think is on the menu for this tea time. Although I have yet to discover where Mrs. Higgins gets all of the birds she feeds us. Perhaps one of the Celtic little people?”

“Interesting, in fact I think there must be plenty of grouse in Scotland. I am sure we have much more of them than we are able to eat. Otherwise Mrs. McLaughlin would serve us something else from time to time. But then we are shooting them ourselves, so it must be our own doing.”

Darcy looked at Vian and smiled, “And Mr. Vian will probably add to your supplies tomorrow.”

She smiled inwardly at what she thought was the solving of two mysteries – the one of the excess grouse, and the reason for his not coming to see her sooner. He must have been out hunting birds every single day.

“So you are eating much of the same? Tell me, how many grouse have you gentlemen been shooting lately? Enough perhaps for Mrs. McLaughlin to share with her cousin, Mrs. Higgins? I begin to wonder if you do not also supply our table? I will make sure not to complain of them then. But if you could perhaps shoot a few too many rabbits or other wildlife, I would be most obliged.” The twinkle in her eye was unmistakable.

Darcy was not sure what she was alluding to. Was Mrs. McLaughlin or even Brougham presenting the ladies with some of their catch? He glanced at Brougham conversing evenly with Mrs. Tournier. Quite likely, indeed.

“Miss Bennet, if Mrs. McLaughlin did share, I am sure it was only proper and thoughtful of her. I am now ashamed of myself that I did not think about it before. Actually we have not been out shooting for some time, but as you know we are going tomorrow, and I will be very pleased to add to Mr. Vian’s trophy if that is your wish. Is rabbit your favourite dish or can I present you with something else more to your liking?

She smiled back at him, covering her disappointment, for she had realised both of her mistakes too late. She should not have mentioned Mrs. McLaughlin, and he had not been hunting this last week.

“I am sure that Mrs. Higgins has another source for her grouse, Mr. Darcy. I only thought it a coincidence when you mentioned having partaken of them at Lord Brougham's table also. Monsieur Vian will bring us his catch, and I know Mrs. Tournier will be grateful for whatever that is.”

She smiled at them both and then glanced out the window, trying to hide her dismay and sorrow. The sun was on its journey toward the west, and to bed, but it gave one last glow to the roses growing right in front of the windowpane. It made a pretty picture and gave her temporary relief.

“Are those roses not most beautifully lit up just now? I love that flower. What is your favourite Mr. Darcy?”

Darcy felt disappointment at her refusing his offer, but covered it immediately. However, when she asked him about the flowers he was not sure what to say, or rather how much he wanted to say.

“I like many kinds of flowers, but it is of no consequence now since winter is coming and one will have to be content with nothing more but rue*.”

On the other hand, Vian found her set down to his liking and now burst with laughter at Darcy’s reply.

“Why, Mr. Darcy, when one chooses to live in the English climate one cannot expect the constant company of the sun.”

Winter was coming, but to her the words he spoke were not of the dearth of flowers they would soon experience, but rather the solitude and hopelessness that was creeping in, unwelcome yet so inescapable. There was nothing more than rue for her either. She brought her eyes up to his, and for a moment she could not tear her gaze away. She wanted to see into his very soul, and she felt that if she just tried hard enough, looked deeply enough, she would be able to read him clearly. But it seemed he would not let her in, and in time she turned her eyes away.

She suddenly thought of the daisy* and its conveyed underlying meaning of I concur.

“I think there are some daisies left still blooming in the garden. I shall pick a last bouquet of them tomorrow for the parlour. Perhaps they will chase away thoughts of the coming winter.” She sent Mr. Darcy a quick look.

Darcy caught her gaze and added in a low voice, “I guess Miss Tournier does not grow heleniums* here. Indeed, they are not very popular.”

She did not know if he was talking to her with the meaning that she knew could be behind that flower, but she wanted it to be true. She did miss him and she longed for him to feel the same. If she were brave enough, or thought that he would welcome it, she could mention the anemone, which would convey the message that she did not want to lose him, or the acacia, which would tell him of her concealed love for him, but she did not dare. She would settle for telling him that the sun shone when he was with her, and she wished him to think of her. That was all she could bring herself to do, doubting that he would even understand the gesture.

“She does not grow heleniums, but they are one of my favourites. Along with the daffodil and the white anthurium.” She locked eyes with him once more.

Vian listened to the conversation of the two lovebirds with growing amusement. It seemed that Miss Bennet would still readily play her little games with Mr. Darcy, like the one he had observed in the forest the other day, if not for his own continuous company during her morning walks getting in their way. He was greatly indebted to his aunt for her insistence upon it. He must have spoiled many of their sweet encounters. Yet he was now getting closer and closer to her, and since it seemed she derived great pleasure from that kind of amusement he was more than willing to provide her with some of it.

“Why, it seems the English rain must be very gracious to the flowers after all.”

Darcy turned to Vian abruptly, “Yes, Mr. Vian, and since the sun does not shine here as often as in France, the more we are taught to properly appreciate it.”

“Please, Mr. Darcy, do not think that we do not derive great pleasure from the sun only because we have plenty of it. Everyday experience only teaches us how not to burn in its beams.”

Darcy was about to answer, when Miss Tournier entered the room. The general havoc that followed dragged everyone’s attention to the newcomer.

“Well!” was Mrs. Tournier’s only utterance when her daughter burst into the parlour, and no one – least of all herself – could have discerned whether it was a mark of pleasure or irritation. When her daughter had sat down beside her she could still not utter anything except “Well!” but this time it was clear that she was well pleased with the return.

“You must have some tea,” she then sternly said, although the light in her eyes and the warmth with which she regarded Holly could not be mistaken. “You look quite freakish, my dear, you must have walked all the way from the inn. I shall take that as a compliment, but I will insist you go up and change as soon as possible. Lizzy! Ring for some fresh tea!”

Now that her daughter was dealt with in equal amounts of reproach and tenderness, she felt quite restored and looked around at the others.

“As you see, we have been quite busy and have hardly had time to miss you at all, which explains why all these gentlemen are once again descended upon Rosefarm. This, my dear, is Maurice Vian, your father’s Godson.”

Holly smiled at her mother's gruff manner and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. “Well, I missed all of you dreadfully.”

She stood to greet Monsieur Vian and the remaining gentlemen, and then excused herself and went upstairs to change.

 

 

When Darcy noticed that Brougham rose to say his farewell soon after Miss Tournier removed herself from their company, he turned to Elizabeth.

Miss Bennet, probably it will be wiser not to trespass on Mrs. Tournier’s kindness anymore tonight. I am sure she would enjoy some close family time. However, would I ask too much if I renewed my picnic offer to you and your cousin? We could go the day after tomorrow. Of course Mrs. Tournier and Mr. Vian are very welcome too.

When she admitted she would be very pleased with the scheme, and offered to pass the invitation on to the rest of the party, he bid his goodbye and both gentlemen left Rosefarm Cottage.

 

 

The dinner at Rosefarm was a very quiet affair. Mrs. Tournier had eyes and ears only for her daughter, Lizzy was equally absorbed in the tale of her cousin’s trip, and Monsieur Vian withdrew into himself.

One might think that a Frenchman in his pursuit of a wife would be eager and engaging, but Vian, having gathered enough trophies to decorate his chambers, treated the matter very seriously. Courtly love was one thing, and family quite another. He resolved himself to silent observation for the time being. His eyes discretely wandered from one young lady to the other. Sorting his thoughts and old memories in the face of reality.

Later, while lying in bed, Holly shared a part of her ordeal with Lizzy that she had left out of her earlier telling. She revealed that she had had to use all of the money she had earned from making the London trip just to get herself back to Rosefarm, and now she felt disappointment that she had nothing to show it. Lizzy commiserated with her, knowing how strongly Holly felt about it, yet she tried to console her with the fact that at least she had seen the sights of London, which she had longed to do for some time.

When her exhausted cousin had drifted off to sleep, Lizzy lay awake for some time longer thinking of flowers. She tried in vain to see in her memory the bouquet he had given her just before she had to tell him that the rides had to end. Try as she might, she could only see a vague picture of scattered flowers lying on the ground at her feet and not what kind they were. She had been too upset at the time to focus on them. What message might she glean from them now if she could recall exactly what they were? Any? Sighing softly, so as not to wake Holly, she soon switched to wondering what delights the picnic might bring. At least that lay ahead of her and not behind.

 

 

* If you wonder why we didn’t use his title when referring to Sir Walter Scott, it’s because he didn’t become a Baronet until 6 years later.

rue = solitude
daisy = I share your sentiment
helenium = I miss you very much

 

 

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