Scotch and Sirens

Chapter Seven

 

Predictably enough, Mrs. Tournier had not had one glimpse of her daughter or her niece when she set off at dawn to meet her appointment with the post at Crossings Inn the following morning. Of course they had not gone to bed. To presume they would have followed her advice was folly. She could only speculate on how many candles they had burnt down before they must finally have given up whispering and succumbed to sleep. It was a good thing Holly had received that commission, she reflected as she made her way, for the price of good candles was going up like everything else these days because of that cursed war.

The road was in a terrible state thanks to the heavy rain yesterday. Thankfully, not much traffic had passed yet, and she could make her way to the inn reasonably well. If only more people would realise the splendours of Mr. Macadam’s road construction, she reflected as she critically examined her boots in wait for the vehicle.

The post chaise was crowded and the travellers insipid, as always. But it served its purpose and she was safely delivered to her destination and her appointments. In between meeting Mr. Stone and receiving her pay for the two articles she had contributed, searching for the material Holly had commissioned her with and browsing the better booksellers among other things, there were enough showers to make her realise the journey back might not be as convenient. She set off to meet it with grim expectations of a return home that would not afford her any comforts and quite possibly hardships she could do without.

The muddy road did nothing for Mrs. Tournier’s advancement through the crowded streets. She was forced to skip and evade unspeakable dirt and take detours around pits of cess and mud. And when she finally turned the corner expecting the coach to wait for her in relative comfort compared to her ordeals on the streets, all she would see was the backside of a large vehicle and hear the shackles of the horses and the shouts of the coachman egging it on down the road.

At first she was incredulous. Surely she must be mistaken. Surely this must be another coach on its way to Edinburgh perhaps. She could not be late. Then she deposited her parcels and effects on a dryer spot and fished out her small watch from her purse. As she thought, it told her she was by no means late. The next logical step was then to take her person inside the inn and enquire from the proprietor what was the meaning of this and could there really be such a grave case of mismanagement as a post leaving too early?

With pursed lips she entered the inn and spied a large gentleman leaning at the bar ostensibly polishing the top. She set her face into a formidable frown and walked up to the man.

“Hear! Where is the post to Dundee, and at what time does it leave?”

The man raised an eyebrow but did not see the necessity for taking an upright position.

“Juist went.”

“That is clearly impossible. It is quite obviously not time for it to leave, and my intention is to take it.”

He shrugged and kept polishing the same spot. Mrs. Tournier felt holy anger building up. She leaned over the bar, fixed the man with a most stern countenance, and applied her most intimidating tone of voice.

“I fear you mistake my purpose. I am not stating a fact, I am asking for an explanation and voicing a complaint. That the post has left is clear, but why it has done so outside its appointed time and left passengers behind as a consequence is your responsibility. I see, that you do not keep a respectable establishment here, entitling you to the privileges and benefits of a coaching inn. That will prove to your misfortune. I now wish to know how you intend to compensate me for your negligence and get me to Crossings tonight.”

 

 

High Street was like any other of its namesakes in any other small town of no consequence. The two gentlemen walked down the street, lined with the kind of shops one usually found in a village, which preferred to call itself a town. His Lordship chattered on amiably about horses, weather, wares on display and guns. He seemed to enjoy himself, although as far as Darcy could tell the gunsmith was unprofessional, the bookseller appalling in its selection and the attractions of the town nothing out of the ordinary. He smiled indulgently at his friend and quietly agreed with him on all his exclamations.

But they did seem to get their affairs in order quite satisfactorily and the outing seemed to do them good. They returned to their carriage just as another shower was about to roll over them, and it was decided not to stop before halfway to rest and recuperate. Despite the appalling state of the roads they settled back with a sense of accomplishment, refreshed minds, and an eagerness to be on their way.

The small coaching inn was certainly conveniently located right in the thoroughfare of the small town, but otherwise it was not a remarkable place. However, it was the only possible stop before the open road and progress had so far been agonisingly slow.

“Remind me never to go anywhere until the roads are solid again”, his Lordship groaned to his friend, when once again they slid from one side of the road to the other in the coachman’s attempt to keep them upright and heading forward.

The courtyard was a sea of sludge when they made their way to the establishment – The Caledonian Thistle – and they were anxious to reach the inside. It was only a marginal improvement, however, and as their eyes accustomed themselves to the light and tried to focus on a possible Publican and refreshments, they were made aware of a dispute of a considerate magnitude between a man behind the bar and a tall, slim figure of a mature woman. Both the gentlemen were quite taken aback by the scene, and whereas Darcy concluded she must be a gentlewoman because of her imperious and fearless tone of voice, Brougham reached the same conclusion by listening to her uttered words of eloquent insults. That such a woman should be left to fight her own battles in a place like this was unthinkable to them, and they silently agreed to interrupt the scene…”

Both men hastened their steps towards the twosome. Ignoring the innkeeper entirely, Darcy approached the lady.

“Excuse me, madam, that we impose ourselves upon you uninvited, but might we be of some help to you? My friend and I have heard a part of your exchange, and we would be happy to be of assistance. Allow me to introduce ourselves. My friend’s name is Lord Brougham and I am Darcy of Pemberley. We understand that the coach you were supposed to take went off before its due time. Would you consider accepting my friend’s carriage as a mean of transport to your home?”

The lady looked at them suspiciously. “I am not accustomed to sharing a carriage with unknown gentlemen.”

“I am sure you are not, madam. If you choose to stay a night in the inn and take the public transport tomorrow your decision will be perfectly understandable. But please, give it another thought. We are heading in the direction of Dundee and Crossings is along our path.”

“May I enquire of your destination?”

Brougham, who stood silent till now, decided it was time to lighten the conversation.

“I consider myself very lucky to own Clyne Cottage over Kye river.” Brougham said, slightly directing the lady towards the nearest table. Please, tell me Mrs…”

“Tournier.”

“Mrs. Tournier, are you familiar with the area? I would readily claim it to be the most beautiful wilderness in the country.”

Darcy ordered refreshments and was now silently watching his friend’s easy exchange.

“I am afraid you will not find me as eager an admirer of nature as others happen to be. It is enough for one home to have two young girls under its roof who can hardly be kept inside. I myself prefer the solitude of my parlour.”

Darcy used the opportunity to reintroduce his offer. “I understand then that you are rather eager to join your family tonight?”

“I hardly can be called eager, Sir. Reason demands careful considerations rather than hasty conclusions. I am, however, inclined to admit that there is no need for me to spend a night in this unpleasant place.”

Mrs. Tournier sent the innkeeper a frown and returned to her conversation with Brougham, who, with just a few more amiable exchanges, persuaded her to ride with them. Darcy, rather confused by the lady’s tense, almost hostile responses, was only too happy to leave the inn and finally head towards Clyne. He felt perhaps she was only reacting in an anxious manner to her current situation, and he thought the sooner she arrived back to the comfort of her own familiar surrounding, the better for her nerves.

The two gentlemen showed Mrs. Tournier to the waiting carriage and insisted upon her taking the seat riding face forward. She softened a little at their obvious courtesy and settled down, privately blessing her good fortune. The handsome carriage set off and she reflected that it was a good while since she had had the pleasure of such a fine spring system and such a comfortable seat. This, she reflected, was more apt to render her favourably towards her rescuers than any interruption on her behalf they may have performed.

Opposite her sat Lord Brougham, eyeing her with a bemused smile. His friend was not as eager to please but showed great civility in immediately shutting the window on her side so as not to create a draught. He seemed to be a man of quiet restraint and reserved manner, whereas the owner of the carriage seemed to have the express intent of finding entertainment in this unexpected travel companion. Mrs. Tournier peered over her spectacles to take in the tall, handsomely built and impeccably dressed gentleman in front of her with his fingers restlessly drumming on his walking stick. She met his blue eyes boldly and sharply said, “Brougham? Any relation of Henry’s?”

His Lordship gave a laugh.

“Good Lord, no! Although I have been told his great grandfather was, as they say, half-kin to my great-great grandfather, but that hardly signifies. That is quite the shocking little secret of the Brougham Castle, you know Ma’am, and since there has not been a Whig in the family since my great-uncle sat for the Assizes and wore one on his Tory head, we do not really like to acknowledge the slight connection. He was shockingly bad at it, too, you know. Thought it was impolite to pronounce people guilty no matter what they had done. Adored by his tenants down in Cumbria, though, as I am sure you can imagine. And his children, too, I should not wonder. Had fifteen of them, do you not know? I should imagine that would have satisfied any ambition he ever had for dealing out justice and sitting on the bench!”

Mrs. Tournier’s face was a mixture of disbelief and disappointment. Before she had time to put this sentiment into words, however, his Lordship was off again. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Mr. Darcy sighing and displaying some sort of impatience, while he steadfastly stared out of the window. For the rest of the way his Lordship’s chatty disposition kept the conversation going, and it was a matter of personal opinion whether this made the journey more enjoyable or not. Finally, the carriage drew up before Rosefarm Cottage, and Mrs. Tournier came to a hard decision.

“Gentlemen”, she said, in a not very animated tone lest her companions would discern she had quite enjoyed her return home, “I am much obliged to you. It would be an honour if you would allow me to invite you to take some refreshments with me as a token of my appreciation of your assistance. I am sure you were meaning to have some more respite at the inn and sacrificed your needs for my comfort.”

Brougham did not even give Darcy a glimpse before he enthusiastically accepted and jumped out of the carriage. With a not too well disguised sigh and look up at the sky, Darcy gathered his person and followed them in.

The gentlemen were led to the parlour. Mrs. Tournier excused herself for a minute and went in the direction of kitchen. Darcy waited only for them to be alone to talk to his friend.

“Brougham, can you tell me what are we doing here? We were only to help the lady, not to have tea with her and her two daughters – who happen to love the outdoors so much.”

“Daughters? What daughters? Oh, the daughters! Who cares about the daughters?! Do you not know who that lady is?”

He leaned in closer to his friend and did his best theatrical whisper.

“Mrs. Tournier must be the widow of Jean-Baptist Tournier, the revolutionary and Girondist! The man who roused the crowd of Boston against the redcoats! I read his pamphlet “On the Necessity for the Abolishment of Noble Privileges” when I was fifteen, and it was rousing stuff, let me tell you. He had to flee Paris in ’92 and settled here and died quite soon afterwards. He was a very clever if, of course, frightfully radical man, and I have a sneaky suspicion his widow may turn out to have carried on his legacy in that quite faithfully. I must take tea with her and see if I can make her ask me back again. She is just too good to be true!”

Darcy smiled at his friend. Indeed, Brougham might find advantage from a diversion.

“Well, one might say that you would do better if the object of your amusement was not so radical, but I guess I can suffer the tea for your benefit.”

“Thank you my friend! Much obliged!” Brougham said, with his face beaming as Mrs. Tournier rejoined them.

Tea was served and Mrs. Tournier begged the gentlemen to take a seat.

“Now,” she said, as she poured them tea and waved her hand to direct them to the cake and cold cuts on the table, “what sort of animals are you engaged in shooting on your fine estate thus at the beginning of the season, Lord Brougham? And is it so large you need a helping hand?”

Darcy did not look like he was appreciating this sort of remark however much Brougham had assured him the lady was too good to be true. If that was the suspicion, he mused, it most likely was not true.

“Well, Mrs. Tournier, as my friend here will testify,” Lord Brougham on the other hand willingly answered, “I am a man plagued by irreverent servants and boorish companions, to which I must include the wildlife under my auspices, for I have nothing to show for the whole month, and the grouse sing ridicules to me whenever I venture out of doors.”

“Ah, then you must be one of those fine delicate young men who take refuge in nature’s mysteries and swoon at the sight of leaves turning in the wind as a sign of the astuteness of your sensibilities. Tell me, are you very fond of reading poetry out of doors?”

“Excessively! Of course! And when I am finished with the Roman ruins I have planned I think I shall hardly wish for more. Is it not a pity the Romans themselves never ventured past the river Tyne? It put such a constructional responsibility on us poor descendants.”

Mrs. Tournier tried to offer more cake to escape her irresistible urge to expose the young man either as a fop or a sport, but she was saved – or interrupted - by a commotion in the hall.

 

 

 

This story is written by Laura and Sylwia, and they own full © copyrights to it.

We do appreciate your feedback.
Comment on the story here!