Scotch and Sirens - Lizzy and Darcy - Scotch and Sirens

When Darcy woke up a few hours later nothing in the sky promised any alteration of the weather or his mood, but remembering his night’s resolution he dressed himself for a ride and, deciding against an early breakfast, he headed directly to the stables and had his horse saddled. He soon spurred his stallion into a gallop and traversed Brougham’s grounds randomly. Even in his state of his mind he could not refuse their beauty and the brisk air soon freshened his senses. He calmed himself enough to face his friend and be able to try giving a new chance to the day. After spotting the familiar figure near a bridge he headed there directly.

“Good morning!” Brougham shouted good-naturedly, “I hope you had a nice rest and lost some of that solitary grimness my hospitality has so far afforded you!”

“Good morning, Brougham, I see you amuse yourself with a landlord’s obligations. How does it feel to have responsibilities?” Darcy asked in response.

Brougham grinned and stayed out of the way of Darcy’s dancing horse. He wiped the sweat off his brow with his shirtsleeve and decided his friend looked like he was hiding a challenge behind a joke. Or was it the other way around. One could never know with him when he was in one of his moods…

“About as good as to be without them I suppose, judging from the way you have worked your horse. Have you had breakfast yet?”

“No, I have not. Would you mind arranging something for me when you finish here?”

Brougham eyed his friend closely. ‘It is more of a test hidden in a challenge,’ he thought to himself, and averted his eyes to something resting somewhere underneath the bridge.

"Sorry to hear that, old man. Well, responsibilities, as you so well know, cannot be put before pleasure, so I will be a while yet. Then I need to speak to Mr. McLaughlin. But I am certain Mrs. McLaughlin would be only too glad to hear your preferences."

And test that challenge by herself, I should not wonder, he added to himself.

"So why do not you ride ahead, I am on foot in any case. You must be famished after that hard ride of yours, and I would not wish to keep you."

Darcy hesitated for a moment.

“Very well, then. I shall meet you later.”

Thus said, he directed his horse towards Clyne.

Brougham once again turned his eyes toward his friend as he urged his horse into a furious pace towards the hills. He shook his head and let his mind wander for a while. Then he sighed, gave the old bridge a kick in a few decayed planks and directed his steps back to his home.

Darcy entered the house and went upstairs to change his attire. Passing Riemann he uttered quickly that he was going to breakfast now. After a short toilet he descended to the dining room, where Mrs. McLaughlin awaited him. She poured him some coffee and left him to serve himself. Darcy prepared his plate and took a fresh newspaper.

In as much as Brougham had promised to join him soon, there was no sign of him for many more hours. In the meantime Darcy strolled into the library and chose one of Kant’s Critiques to peruse. He needed something that would challenge his mind and divert his thoughts from all moot considerations.

When the daylight started to diminish he put the book away with the feeling that, although the lecture served its purpose, his general frame of mind was not very much improved. There was little optimism to be found in Kant, and Darcy made a mental note not to read suicides until he felt better. Which led him to another question, which was when that would be. He was determined to start things anew, and felt that his sojourn at Brougham’s might serve him well, but there were still many questions that troubled him, and threatened his future with resentment of the past. He rose from his chair and strolled out of the room, more because his muscles demanded the long refused motion than because his mind had any planned direction.

“Well, well! And there you are! Glorious day, was it not? And what have you been doing with yourself all day? I have not caught one glimpse of you the whole time since before breakfast!”

Darcy stopped in the middle of the hall. His thoughts still wandering to distant questions, his eyes unsuccessfully looking for granted answers. He made an effort to focus his attention on Brougham and his question. However, there was no answer that might be easily found. Annoyed, he tried at least to find the main cause of his poor humour, however, there was not one. Was it the weather or his latest weariness, or better yet a great boredom without any action in sight? What was Brougham’s question again? Ah, yes, what had he been doing all day? A simple question it seemed, but it played on his nerves even more.

“Nothing in particular, and you may hardly expect me to be sorry for our missing each other since you chose to spend your day outside.”

Brougham stole a glace at his friend before he intently started inspecting the beams in the ceiling above his head. His friend was so obviously in a dreadful humour he did not know whether to laugh or frown. But then he stopped himself and decided to show him sympathy as he was so clearly in need of it.

“Ye-es”, he leisurely answered while slowly withdrawing his pocket-watch from his waist pocket, “and quite exhausting it was, too. Beat and ground I feel like. Since we keep to country manners here, dinner should not be far off, thankfully. I say, could I persuade you to break the seal on my contraband bottle of Armagnac in the library? I have not had a good enough occasion to open it yet, but now that you are here I dare say I should be very happy to share it with someone who can appreciate it…”

Brougham looked at Darcy. It was obvious that all was not right with his friend, he reflected with a sad smile.

Darcy looked at his friend with hesitation, earnestly not sure if he was in the mood for company right now or returning to the library. But after all, a bit of civility towards his friend’s offer was due.

“Your Armagnac sounds tempting, indeed, though one might consider the hour a bit too early.”

Lord Brougham let a wicked grin spread across his face, and his blue eyes started to twinkle. ‘Maybe I will not need tongs to have him ease his mind after all,’ he thought.

"Well, after you have tasted it you might feel differently. You might even say it deserves special reverence, undivided attention and an hour of its own..."

Darcy suddenly felt the tension diminish when the subject did not touch him personally.

“Then I am sure it will be so. Shall we go?”

Brougham showed his friend into the library with an over-exaggerated gesture; at which Darcy gave him a grim look. But the attention on something outside of themselves seemed to give them a purpose to move away from the previous standoff. Brougham laughed and closed the door behind him. To further add to his mirth, Darcy sat himself down in Brougham's favourite chair - a habit he had acquired during this short visit and which his Lordship supposed was his own fault for not being around at his friend's arrival to protect his property.

Darcy’s eyes followed his friend silently as Brougham walked up to one of the bookshelves and groped about behind the eight leather bound volumes of Mrs. Macualay’s History of England. Suddenly there was a squeak and the shelf bounced open to reveal a hidden shelf with papers, a few small caskets and something, which revealed itself to be a bottle of Armagnac wrapped in an old piece of cloth. Brougham unwrapped it tenderly, carried it over to the table, took out two small glasses from the cabinet and solemnly broke the seal of the bottle. Wordlessly (to Darcy’s great surprise) he poured the liquid with an air of expectance, pride and excitement and offered his friend a drink.

“Cheers, my friend! And in case I did not have the chance to get around to it before now – welcome to Clyne Cottage. My heaven on Earth.”

“Thank you, Brougham. To Clyne Cottage then and our happy reunion.” Darcy raised his glass and sipped the warming liquid.

“Excellent drink! While I appreciate your carefulness in finding the best beverages, are you not being a bit too cautious keeping it in that cache?”

"Perhaps. But then again, I find presentation adds to the taste and appreciation. Now if I were the lewd philosopher I sometimes claim to be I would say that goes for a lot of tempting things, but maybe this is not the night for those kinds of reflections. Speaking of reflections, you seem in a very sombre and introspective mind. I hope you do not regret coming here, as I have shown you little companionship and have been telling myself you are in a solitary mood. Am I wrong in presuming as I do?"

“Why do you assume my mind is sombre? I did spend some time alone while you were occupied elsewhere, but I neither complained nor can you expect me to chatter merrily when I am my only companion. I am lacking some active diversion, I guess, but I hope it may be helped during the next days of my sojourn here. Pray, tell me what are the tempting things you mentioned?”

"Well, as I see your eyebrows have risen back to their normal place above your eyes, those eyes are no longer clouded over with a dark shadow and your jaw is no longer cast in iron with your teeth clenched to give you difficulty in uttering anything but the most necessary communication - all of which, by the way, I presume is the result of this excellent beverage - I shall elaborate. Do you not find my friend, that good conversation is improved by a inspiring atmosphere, or that a good book is bettered by a beautiful binding of the pages, or even that a lovely woman is enhanced by her smile?"

"Or better yet, her smiling eyes!" said Darcy, and then quickly remembered himself. "I see nothing escapes you as usual, but do you not consider your sharing your picture of me with myself a bit impertinent?"

Brougham laughed and took another sip of his drink.

"I think, Darcy, you underestimate me. I do not profess to have a special affection for smiling eyes, but otherwise I am definitely an admirer of presentation myself. You forget my penchant for the stage! And as for impertinence, that is my favourite chair you are sitting in. And have been sitting in ever since you first arrived at my doorstep… No, no, no! Do not get up! Whatever you do, please do not take my impertinence seriously, or we shall have a wretchedly short evening. I think you must deserve every comfortable minute you can steal in your life at the moment."

"Good, I will keep the chair then." Darcy said as he sat back in it comfortably. "Although, would you mind revealing what makes you think I deserve it?"

"I would be delighted to. But first you must tell me if you are more susceptible to flattery or pity at the moment. I never thought either one suited you very well, but if you insist on flattery I will say that your endeavours in town on behalf of Miss Lydia surely have earned you a throne, and if you could use some pity I will say that you look...well, sad, my friend."

“Brougham, I am certainly not susceptible to any of them. Please, spare me your arts. However, if your conviction that I should be pitied is truthful, I ought to be positively concerned.”

Darcy, agitated, stood up from his chair and started walking back and forth across the room in silence. He stopped in the middle of the library, locked his eyes on Brougham, then abruptly turned his face toward the window, as if the things he wanted to say were directed to the whole universe rather than to his friend.

“If I am sad, I know it not. I think this is what bothers me most. I do not know what I am, nor for that matter how I feel. When I signed my letter as a man from nowhere, I suppose it was not just a witty remark, for I certainly cannot find my place.

Brougham struggled with himself for a while. He wanted to find some appropriate words to answer his friend, as was their habit, as he always did. Darcy’s state of mind was so different from anything he had witnessed and his reactions to his repartee so out of character. Of course he had often seen him uncommunicative and aloof, even forbidding, but his manner had never been so moody and unpredictable. Finally he resolved not to try to inject words into a situation where, perhaps, words had no worth. Suppose silence and time is better? And there was silence in the room for a long time. Darcy stared out of the window steadfastly, seemingly quite prepared to stay with his back towards him forever. Brougham fiddled with his glass, his dress, the logs, and the books – but as quietly as possible.

Darcy eventually turned to his friend. “Forgive me, Brougham, I forgot myself. I came here counting on diversion, and I am sure I will not be disappointed. Then, tell me, my friend, what kind of entertainment does Scotland offer.”

That Darcy had decided to speak before Mrs. McLaughlin arrived to announce dinner was a source of great relief to his Lordship. His shoulders relaxed and he directed a genuine smile towards his friend feeling quite pleased he could show sympathy and understanding without dinner and simple companionship being jeopardised.

"Well, diversions are aplenty but I would not be as certain about the entertainment. We could engage in some shooting, I suppose. I have already bagged some grouse to Mrs. McLaughlin’s delight. There is fishing, of course. The terrain is not too difficult for the horses, as I am sure you found out already. I am afraid I am quite sentimental about the scenery and prefer to get around on foot.

The society is something savage if you leave this house, unless you count Robertson at the Inn as a possibility. I am afraid I have not found anyone equalling his conversational skills yet, and that is not saying much. There are a few villages with some decent tradesmen that can provide you with books and papers from London, not to mention guns and such. I hope you have had the time to browse through my library before I appeared and have found something to your liking. I expect another bunch to come up from Edinburgh next week to Watkins’ in town. He is no Hatchard's, but he does a decent job of my fancies.

And then, of course, there is golf. I have membership with the Honourable Golfers over at Leith Links. Have not been over there much lately and have not played in the competition for years, though. Do you play?"

“Golf you say! Why, I have not played in years, but I would really like to freshen my memory. When can we go there?”

There was a glimmer in Darcy’s eye and Brougham noticed he might have sparked an unknown interest here.

“Well, the links are awfully crowded nowadays, you know, with people wandering on and off, nicking balls and disturbing the procedures. And some of them keep harassing you with opinions on the suitability for such a sport with the war and all. Hunting is supposedly more productive and in keeping with the times. The fellows rather keep away from the club, including me I have found. But I would be glad to show you my clubs and dig out a few balls, and maybe we can persuade Mr. McLaughlin to caddie for us on the other side of the west fell.”

Darcy’s face had softened and Brougham felt he might have inadvertently done his friend a service in mentioning this unfashionable past time. But then he should have guessed his friend appreciated the antiquity and tradition of such a sport rather than the fashion and popularity of it.

There was a strong rap on the door, and without further introduction Mrs. McLaughlin stuck her head around the door and announced dinner.

“Ye’re getting’ a gigot an’ tumshies in bree, an I just put ‘na on th’ buird, if ye please, Mi’Laird and Mr. Darcy.”

The two men exchanged glances that betrayed both amusement and bewilderment, but his Lordship whispered to his friend as they pass through the door, “I tend never to ask – it is usually recognisable upon sight…”

Darcy finished his wine and asked Brougham, “I hope we are still going to have something stronger after dinner, and do I remember you mentioning keeping a billiard table here?”

As it appeared that indeed his Lordship’s love for the sport caused him to have a table, even if usually there were no partners to the game, the gentlemen proceed to the billiard room after they had eaten. Darcy chose a cue and prepared the balls. As Brougham offered to let Darcy start the game, he pointed his cue, struck and watched how a half coloured billiard-ball dropped into a side pocket. Darcy played out his turn and then asked Brougham a question.

“Why did you actually leave London? Are you on holiday, or are there some reasons for which you wanted to be alone?”

As his Lordship had just bent over the cue and ball when Darcy got the sudden urge to engage in polite conversation, Brougham did not stir but gave his friend a stern look and continued to concentrate on his performance. The ball bounced across the board and the hard sound of collision together with the thumping of a ball in the net was the only thing heard. After that had finished, Brougham raised himself and grinned.

"Since when have you developed an inquisitive streak when playing billiards? Nice strategy but I will not be fooled. I know you and your competitive mind. It is not that long ago since Cambridge, after all..."

He walked over to his glass of brandy and leaned against the wall.

“Which reminds me! I have something to show you!"

His Lordship left his cue and abruptly left Darcy to fiddle with his chalk and the scoreboard. Not long afterwards, the door opened again, revealing not Brougham, but Mrs. McLaughlin bearing a tray with cold mutton pieces, slices of bread and a pot of mustard.

“Ye dinna eat much denner, so I suppose ye’ll be wantin’ a by-bite to tide ye over through the evenin.”

She crossed the room, muttering under her breath as she went.

“Veesitors a poppin’ in as they pleeze... No wallett to heelp him dress... Layin’ about the hoose all day...”

After depositing the tray on a nearby table, she looked him up and down with narrowed eyes. As she reached his face her expression momentarily softened.

“Weel, guid nicht then,” being her only comment, she then left as abruptly as she came.

Darcy could not help but smile to himself at the singular performance. "I guess Brougham would rather die than employ a polite servant. What is that singular wish for impertinency around him? Hence the bizarre need of proof for his being a mere mortal?" He put his cue aside and poured himself a drink. Sipping it slowly, he wondered about all of the questions still disturbing his thoughts where his friend was concerned.

When Brougham returned to his friend, he was wearing a mischievous expression and waving a letter in his hand. He sat down on the billiard table, carelessly swinging his leg back and forth, a sure sign, his friend noted, that he was amused and excited.

“I have here a letter from Professor Wilson-Ashe, or Sir John Wilson-Ashe as he is now known. You remember him do you not Darcy? He was one of the fellows at the College and sat on the review board for the Grand Mathematics Prize. I ran across him a few months ago, and he is now one of His Majesty’s most diligent servants. Anyway, I will not bore you with the details – I do not even know them that well to be honest – but the thing is he remembered you and me from our days up at Cambridge and he was overcome with the most infuriating smugness. I could not rest until he told all. This is priceless! If you will excuse the pun, which might annoy you when I reveal what he had to tell me…

Let me quote: ‘ Dear Lord B etc, etc…’ um, yes, here it is:

I trust your youthful high sprits and competitive passions are somewhat subdued since then and I can reveal the mechanics of that most intriguing race for mathematical glory and intellectual recognition in your final year. It had come to the fellows’ notice that the friendship of yourself and Mr. Darcy had been under a most regrettable strain due to the intensity of your participation. It was the source of some observations on youthful folly and young men’s over-heated tempers but also a cause for concern among those more inclined to emphasise the famous sportsmanship and honour of our college. Since the third candidate had proved himself just as worthy of the recognition it was unanimously decided on the Board that the Prize should go to him, and that his rather weak rhetorical demonstration should be overlooked. It was felt that had either of you actually won the Prize, the glory would have been overshadowed by a certain breach between you as a result, not adding to the reputation of the ancient College. Furthermore, with the aid of hindsight, it must be said that Mr. Gallagher’s later papers for the Royal Society has proven the choice justified…

As he finished his reading of the letter Brougham let out a boisterous laugh.

“Now what do you say about that? ‘Competitive passions’ eh? And I have resented Gallagher all these years as a usurper, and now it turns out he is to be thanked for saving our friendship! Well, well! I am sure we were intolerable, but do you really think we were ever in the danger Sir John portrays us to have been? I must admit it makes me laugh now. I am sorry if I am so advanced in years to have lost some of those ‘youthful high spirits’ but I hope it can be replaced some time in the future with more substantial qualities and not this current cynicism of past behaviour…”

Darcy listened to the letter with great interest. It seemed strange, indeed, that Gallagher had proven to be better than any of them.

“Were we in such a danger? I know not, do you? Although it is a good thing that neither of us realised back then how unfair the competitions were.”

Brougham absentmindedly waved the letter back and forth, and he seemed lost in thought. He got up to take his turn with the cue, and when he finished he wistfully said, "I cannot imagine it now, but I am not so certain about then. I was very rash and impulsive then, and although I would hate for anyone to call me settled-down and stale today, I do confess I do not look back at that young man only with fondness. I did take it very, very seriously. And so did you, I know.”

His Lordship twirled his stick around and smiled.

“Had you won the prize, which in all honesty you did deserve, I will grant you that, I think I would have resented you. Not as much as I have resented Gallagher, but nonetheless. I would have searched for a reason to better you in some other area and, considering what other sports were available, I think there could have been some danger.”

There was a small pause during which both men, each deep in their own thoughts, seemed far away from the other’s presence and the dimly lit billiard room snugly fitted in a comfortable establishment in the Scottish countryside. Brougham broke the silence first.

"Well you certainly have changed since then. The rate you give me warnings, bashings and stern looks has seriously deteriorated. In fact, your tolerance for folly seems to have grown considerably, and your social disposition is quite admirable these days! Now I do not know if that is a good thing or if it is a sign of old age creeping in.

The gentlemen returned to their game, both trying to appear much less interested in its eventual outcome than an observant witness might presume from closely watching their countenances. The underlying tension soon showed however in Darcy’s attempt to tease Brougham about his peculiar inclination to choose somewhat arrogant servants, and his friend’s most defensive reply to that assertion. Thus, what should have been no more than a friendly contest, soon turned into a far too serious sparring, and when the game came to its completion both friends felt spent, though if asked about the cause that could account for that state, neither would be able, or even inclined, to admit that anything was amiss.

“I should say Sir John was not that far off in his presumptuous estimation after all… Will you join me in the library then for a whisky?” Brougham asked, putting the sticks back into the rack.

“Certainly, my friend. I would say that was enough either of billiards or any other duels for one day. And your whisky offer sounds delightful.”

The two men moved silently through the dark hall into the library. Darcy took an extra turn by one of the bookshelves before he chose his seat – not his usual one but an older chair with its high back toward the fireplace. During his tour of the bookshelves he had picked up a book and was now fingering it, flipping through the pages with a studied leisure.

Brougham had also taken his time picking a comfortable seat. He was busy by the window choosing glasses for the whisky standing on the table in front of him. He took his time glancing out of the window intently studying the already darkening night sky.

It seemed that his traditional chair in the best spot by the fire had lost some of its popularity with the two friends tonight and taken on some symbolic significance, for Brougham avoided it too. After leaving a filled glass by Darcy, he leaned against the mantle piece, stoked the fire with one hand and admired the light shining through his glass in the other. The previously shared object of interest in the search for comfortable repose seemed to mock them with its emptiness, and their eyes finally met. A tentative grin spread across their faces. His Lordship twirled the glass, took a sip and shifted on his feet.

“So what is that book that has caught your fancy? Is it yours or mine?” he asked.

“Yours. Immanuel Kant’s Critiques, the philosopher from Königsberg,” Darcy answered. “I find it remarkable that the man opted for a constitutional republic as the best political system, just after Prussia decided to invade Poland for their struggles in that very direction. His Copernican Revolution seems interesting as well. In short he says that things are not responsible for what they are but their observers are for what they see in them.”

“Ah yes Herr Kant. Peculiar man. And you know how peculiar men tickle my fancy even if all they say is nonsense. However, I must say that whole train of thought on man’s morality versus his nature is fascinating. You can probably understand I have seen much to make me argue in both directions.

“But that Copernican Revolution is quite a romantic sentiment. I really like his arguments on beauty, genius and aesthetics. What do you think? You are a man of principle and pride in your sense of judgment. Are you of the opinion there is such a thing as absolute beauty, or are the romantics right in that everything lacks everything if it is not viewed with individual passion?”

Darcy smiled at his friend while he listened to his outpouring of arguments.

“Brougham, sometimes I cannot but wonder if your own passion is not infectious to the point that everyone else sees the world with your eye. While I find Kant’s thoughts quite rational, I certainly would not call them romantic. But then we, both of us, are the best proof for his words. It is not about what things are but how we see them. So no, there is not absolute beauty until everyone has your eye, but there is an absolute which none of us can see.

“And what do you mean about man’s morality versus his nature? I would rather say that they are one. ‘The starry heavens without and the moral law within.’ Does it not say that the moral laws are not distinct from one’s nature, unlike the heavens, which one cannot touch?”

A slight smile played on Brougham’s lips, and his eyes were fixed somewhere far away. “And by touching beauty, a little piece of the starry sky is within your reach… So you see, you are stuck with a romantic after all! I must plead guilty to applying passion to everything I do that has any meaning to me, and additionally I rove the countryside around here like a man obsessed. That alone should prove me a hopeless case in your rational mind. So, how far does your reason take you these days? Could this sudden restlessness and unease I sense in you have its cause in the failure of life’s rationality? Maybe Miss Lydia Bennet and her husband’s prime example of reason failing and passion ruling must have upset you regardless of the rational manner in which you responded.”

“The twosome did upset me, of course, though I cannot claim I was very much surprised with them after all. One would not look for too much reason in their actions. My restlessness, as you call it, comes rather from the knowledge that no moral law within me ever gets me closer to the starry heavens.”

Although his tone was casual, Brougham was struck by the dark sentiments behind Darcy’s words. In vain he waited for an explanation or elaboration. “What is the reason for such self-censure? You are a man, Darcy, just as the next. Why should your struggle be in vain? Have you no faith?”

“Faith? Perhaps it would be too strong to say I have no faith at all. But all my life I have tried to live up to my moral principles. I believed it should be so, and only so. And yes, I had faith. I believed that my life would be rewarded. I am not so sure today if my struggles were in vain or simply in the wrong direction. Tell me, Brougham, do you think I was right? I am not asking about any single action. Was I right in general, or were my morals wrong?”

“It is not for me to be the judge of any of my fellow men”, his Lordship mumbled as he stared into his glass and noticed all the air that had gathered in it. “I can sport with you and gauge you, but please do not ask me to judge you. Take my friendship as measure if you will, but know that I am singularly ill equipped to pass moral judgment on anyone. My mother once said one thing to me I can never forget or the circumstances behind it. She said, ‘Do not condemn his judgment because it differs from your own. You may both be wrong.’”

“You mistake me my friend. I was not asking your judgment. I was only curious for another opinion. You know me and my life. If you were I, would your choices differ? If your mother was still alive, or your father was more like mine, where would you be today?”

Brougham walked over to the whisky, and after he poured himself another glass he did not put down the bottle again.

"If that is how things would have been I could have nothing more to wish for in my life. And if I were you I would have made the exact same choices and struggled just as much in putting them right. Events may have an impact on your view of life, but people change you both for good and for bad. You know, the opposite of love is not hate – it is indifference...”

“Yes, I know it is. Indifferent ignorance is something I find myself wishing for. I know I am ungrateful, perhaps undeserving even of what I have, and that is what makes me uneasy, Brougham. I should be content with my life and try to live on. As you said, there is nothing more I should wish for.”

His Lordship stood in the shadows of the window watching the flames throw flickerings of light upon the walls, the furnishings and the face of his friend. "Yes. Absolutely nothing," he muttered to himself. "Except perhaps..."

He drained the remaining contents of his glass and refilled it immediately. Suddenly it seemed as if there was nothing left or possible to say. To be articulate on such a subject, which he knew was of some pain to both of them for personal reasons, was impossible.

He set down the whisky. The shadows grew longer. The fire crackled and turned from spirited flames to a dull glow. Silence reigned in his house.

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