Page 1 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

Chapter 1

The morning room smelled of burnt candle wax and old lavender. Elizabeth sat at her father's desk and watched the grey September light inch across the floorboards. Three days since the apoplexy had taken him. Three days of Mrs Hill's red-rimmed eyes and her mother's shrieks echoing through passages grown narrower, meaner.

She had not cried. At least not properly. There had been no time for it.

The household books lay open before her, their columns marching down the pages in her father's untidy hand. Some entries were clear enough: butcher, chandler, dressmaker. Others trailed off into abbreviations she could not decipher, or worse, into blank spaces where sums ought to have been recorded. She traced her finger down one such gap. Something cold stirred beneath her breastbone.

A shriek from upstairs made her flinch. Her mother, whose capacity for lamentation appeared boundless. Mary's voice followed, low and droning. Doubtless another verse about death's inevitability. From the parlour came Kitty and Lydia's voices, too bright, debating whether their mourning gowns might be trimmed with black ribbon or whether that would be thought too elaborate.

She closed her eyes, then opened them again. The accounts remained.

A few minutes later, Mrs Hill appeared in the doorway, her cap askew, flour dusting her apron. “Mr Philips is here, miss. Shall I show him in?”

Elizabeth felt a tightening in her stomach. She had known this summons would come, but she had not anticipated it so soon. She smoothed her black mourning gown, hastily altered from an old dress, for there had been no time to order proper attire for them all.

“Yes, Hill,” she replied. “Show him in, if you please.”

The housekeeper hesitated. “Miss Elizabeth.” Her voice dropped. “There is scarce any tea left. I have stretched it as far as I may. We need to purchase more.”

Elizabeth managed what she hoped resembled a smile. “Thank you, Hill. Yes, please purchase more.”

The housekeeper’s face clouded. “But funds are running scarce and…”

“I am sure we shall manage, Hill,” Elizabeth interrupted tersely. “Thank you.”

Hill withdrew, only to return moments later with her uncle, Mr Philips. He was a solid, practical attorney, much given to snuff and plain speaking, but today his manner seemed curiously subdued. He bowed and murmured his condolences, which Elizabeth acknowledged with a nod, for she could not trust herself to speak just yet, then settled heavily into the chair opposite the desk.

“I shall not tax your patience with preamble, Lizzy.” He withdrew a folded document from his coat. “The matter of Longbourn's entailment must be addressed.”

“I had assumed as much.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “My father once mentioned the estate was entailed upon the male line.”

“Indeed. Your father attempted, more than once, to have the entail broken. The sum required exceeded his means. I regret to say the entail remains in full force.” Philips unfolded the paper with care, smoothing its creases. His fingers drummed against the desk. “There is an heir.”

She had expected this news. “Mr Collins, I suppose.”

“No, Lizzy. Not Mr Collins.” Philips drew forth another bundle of papers, bound with twine. “I have received correspondence from a solicitor in Inverness. It appears there is a prior claimant, one whose existence was unknown to your late father and, I confess, to myself until very recently.”

Cold spread outward from beneath her ribs as she cast a quick glance at Hill who was standing by the door. “I do not understand.”

“Your great-grandfather had three sons.” Philips spoke slowly, as though reciting a lesson imperfectly learnt. “The eldest inherited Longbourn. The third founded the line that produced Mr Collins. We believed there were only two sons, but as it stands, there was a third. A middle son who quarrelled with his father in the year 1720 and emigrated to Scotland. He established himself on the Isle of Skye, at a place called Strathaird, and took a Scottish bride. Over time, the connexion to the family was lost.”

Philips paused, pressing his lips together. “I must confess the legal situation is exceedingly complex. By law, this second son and his descendants outrank Mr Collins’ line. I have sent to London for a second opinion, though I cannot say when the reply will arrive. Three generations removed, an emigrant line, no correspondence preserved — there are challenges enough to give any counsel pause.”

Elizabeth stared at him. “You are telling me there is a Scottish heir?”

“A laird. Malcolm MacKinnon of Strathaird.” Philips's mouth thinned. “The documentation is unusual. Yet it appears to be in order.”

“Unusual?”

He untied the bundle and spread its contents across the desk. Elizabeth leant forwards. There were several sheets of dense script, interspersed with older, more fragile documents. One bore a faded seal she did not recognise. Another appeared to be written in a mixture of English and Latin, the words crammed close together.

“Extracts from the parish register at Strathaird.” Philips tapped the topmost page. “A minister's affidavit, attesting to the MacKinnon lineage. And here, the faded leaves of a family Bible, with births and deaths recorded in several hands over the last century. It is irregular, yet sufficient in law to establish Mr MacKinnon as heir-at-law. He is the last surviving male of that previously unknown son's line.”

Elizabeth picked up the Bible pages with care. The ink had browned and the paper gone soft as cloth. She could just make out a sequence of names: Bennet, MacKinnon, Bennet-MacKinnon. Marriages, births, deaths stretching back into shadow. Her great-uncle's name appeared near the top, stark against the yellowed vellum: Robert Bennet, departed this life in the year of Our Lord 1745, at Strathaird, Isle of Skye.

“How did this come to light?” she asked quietly.

“Mr MacKinnon's solicitor asserts that his client became aware of the connexion whilst settling his late father's affairs. The father, it seems, had preserved certain family papers and made mention of English relations, though without pursuing the matter. Upon discovering the entailment, and, I suspect, the value of the estate, Mr MacKinnon engaged legal counsel to verify his claim. The solicitor, a Mr Dunbar of Inverness, had been monitoring the matter for some months. He wrote to me a full week before your father was taken, so the claim was already lying upon my desk when the apoplexy came. That is why Mr MacKinnon was prepared to travel almost before we had buried him.”