science.
There was a reading of Mrs Burney’s play, which was a great success as well, for Mr Grant was cleverly persuaded by Miss Bennet that she absolutely depended on him to support her in her role as the old hypochondriac wife by playing her long-suffering, and thus heroic, husband. Holly was left to enjoy reading the spirited heroine with all the witty retorts and moral superiority against a perpetually chuckling Mr Pembroke. His fez fell off early in the first act due to this mirth and apparently he considered the reading harmless enough, for he left it off for the rest of the evening.
And there was dancing after all. Holly and Elizabeth performed a Scottish jig — with more enthusiasm than skill or concentration, it must be admitted — to the cheers and laughter of the crowd and Mrs Pembroke’s improvised accompaniment. All the guests except one seemed to enjoy this little variance to the usual curriculum heartily. Mr Grant, however, kept clutching at his heart and turning pale whenever Holly lifted her skirts ever so slightly off the floor to manage some of the more intricate steps required. In the end, he was compelled to sit down for quite a while and certainly looked more exhausted than the two dancers.
T ICK.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Baugham looked up at the clock for the fourteenth time in as many minutes. He then returned to his study of the board in front of him and, once again, had to re-orient himself as to the arrangement of the pieces.
Any further attempts at reading long since abandoned, the gentlemen were attempting to pass the time until the hour became acceptable to retire with a game of chess. The minutes, the seconds, passed in excruciating slowness.
Darcy shoved a pawn recklessly in the way of Baugham’s bishop and suddenly declared, “We should have tried to acquire an invitation to that gathering! Mrs Tournier sounds like an intriguing woman, and in any event, an evening at her home could be no worse than having only each other for company.”
“Absolutely not,” Baugham muttered as his hand lingered over his bishop. “That’s a terrible idea.”
Darcy frowned at him. “Don’t hover,” he said tersely.
“I don’t hover. I am approaching.”
“Well, approach a little less slowly then. Or I’ll call it fidgeting instead.”
Baugham moved his bishop and fell back into his chair.
“What we should do is stop pretending we have any social obligations towards each other and retire so we can get an early start for the trout tomorrow. This is simply mind-numbing.”
“I am certain,” Darcy retorted, “that the happenings at Rosefarm Cottage are anything but mind-numbing. How could they be otherwise with Sir John Ledwich as one of the guests?”
“Sir John Ledwich? Sir John is there?”
Baugham’s attention was suddenly caught and his hand stopped right over his queen.
“You’re hovering again,” Darcy said calmly.
“Never mind that. What on earth can he be doing there?”
“Mm.” Darcy carefully positioned his queen. “Check. ‘Explotions in the kitchie’, if your housekeeper is to be believed. Worth finding out at any rate, wouldn’t you say?”
Baugham hastily moved his king out of the way and into safety.
“I cannot believe you would want me to suffer the agonies of polite chit-chat with old hags and their spinster daughters and other dull females just to talk to Sir John. I had much rather commandeer his carriage back to Edinburgh and have my conversation there.”
Baugham swung his rook so that one of Darcy’s pawns fell off the board.
“Darcy, I neither know those people, nor do I wish to. That is the whole point of my stay here.”
“And I cannot believe that you take your pretensions of a hermitic existence to such extremes,” Darcy said as he calmly surveyed the board. “What can be the harm in making yourself agreeable to the locals here? It is, in actuality, a form of duty and a form of showing respect to them. An occasional appearance here
There was a reading of Mrs Burney’s play, which was a great success as well, for Mr Grant was cleverly persuaded by Miss Bennet that she absolutely depended on him to support her in her role as the old hypochondriac wife by playing her long-suffering, and thus heroic, husband. Holly was left to enjoy reading the spirited heroine with all the witty retorts and moral superiority against a perpetually chuckling Mr Pembroke. His fez fell off early in the first act due to this mirth and apparently he considered the reading harmless enough, for he left it off for the rest of the evening.
And there was dancing after all. Holly and Elizabeth performed a Scottish jig — with more enthusiasm than skill or concentration, it must be admitted — to the cheers and laughter of the crowd and Mrs Pembroke’s improvised accompaniment. All the guests except one seemed to enjoy this little variance to the usual curriculum heartily. Mr Grant, however, kept clutching at his heart and turning pale whenever Holly lifted her skirts ever so slightly off the floor to manage some of the more intricate steps required. In the end, he was compelled to sit down for quite a while and certainly looked more exhausted than the two dancers.
T ICK.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Baugham looked up at the clock for the fourteenth time in as many minutes. He then returned to his study of the board in front of him and, once again, had to re-orient himself as to the arrangement of the pieces.
Any further attempts at reading long since abandoned, the gentlemen were attempting to pass the time until the hour became acceptable to retire with a game of chess. The minutes, the seconds, passed in excruciating slowness.
Darcy shoved a pawn recklessly in the way of Baugham’s bishop and suddenly declared, “We should have tried to acquire an invitation to that gathering! Mrs Tournier sounds like an intriguing woman, and in any event, an evening at her home could be no worse than having only each other for company.”
“Absolutely not,” Baugham muttered as his hand lingered over his bishop. “That’s a terrible idea.”
Darcy frowned at him. “Don’t hover,” he said tersely.
“I don’t hover. I am approaching.”
“Well, approach a little less slowly then. Or I’ll call it fidgeting instead.”
Baugham moved his bishop and fell back into his chair.
“What we should do is stop pretending we have any social obligations towards each other and retire so we can get an early start for the trout tomorrow. This is simply mind-numbing.”
“I am certain,” Darcy retorted, “that the happenings at Rosefarm Cottage are anything but mind-numbing. How could they be otherwise with Sir John Ledwich as one of the guests?”
“Sir John Ledwich? Sir John is there?”
Baugham’s attention was suddenly caught and his hand stopped right over his queen.
“You’re hovering again,” Darcy said calmly.
“Never mind that. What on earth can he be doing there?”
“Mm.” Darcy carefully positioned his queen. “Check. ‘Explotions in the kitchie’, if your housekeeper is to be believed. Worth finding out at any rate, wouldn’t you say?”
Baugham hastily moved his king out of the way and into safety.
“I cannot believe you would want me to suffer the agonies of polite chit-chat with old hags and their spinster daughters and other dull females just to talk to Sir John. I had much rather commandeer his carriage back to Edinburgh and have my conversation there.”
Baugham swung his rook so that one of Darcy’s pawns fell off the board.
“Darcy, I neither know those people, nor do I wish to. That is the whole point of my stay here.”
“And I cannot believe that you take your pretensions of a hermitic existence to such extremes,” Darcy said as he calmly surveyed the board. “What can be the harm in making yourself agreeable to the locals here? It is, in actuality, a form of duty and a form of showing respect to them. An occasional appearance here
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