Page 16 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

After he departed, Elizabeth took up her cloak and walked out with Jane, glad of the cold after the closeness of the room. The air bit at her cheeks, numbing her fingers despite her gloves. She found herself replaying the moment when he had glanced toward Jane and Hill before lowering his voice. Such a small thing. He had merely wished for privacy, which was natural and proper enough. And yet there had been something in the way his eyes had moved — a quick, assessing sweep, confirming positions — that had reminded her less of a suitor seeking a quiet word and more of a man checking whether he was being watched. She dismissed the thought as uncharitable. He was a stranger still, navigating English customs with care. Of course he would be cautious.

“You are considering accepting him,” Jane said quietly.

“What choice do I have?” Elizabeth's voice was barely audible. “Many women would be grateful for such an offer.”

“But you are not in love with him, Lizzy,” Jane said in agitation.

“No.” The admission emerged flat, final. “But perhaps love is a luxury I cannot afford. Perhaps respect and security are foundation enough.”

Jane stopped walking, turning to face her fully. “Lizzy, do not do this. Do not marry him out of desperation.”

“Is it desperation to be practical? To think of our family's welfare rather than my own selfish desires?” Elizabeth's hands clenched in her muff. “You heard Mama. We have nowhere to go. Malcolm offers salvation. How can I refuse?”

“Because you would be miserable. And Malcolm would eventually realise you do not love him. It would be fair to neither of you.”

“Fairness.” Elizabeth's laugh held no humour. “What is fair about any of this? Papa is gone. We are to be displaced. A kind gentleman offers rescue and I hesitate because...” She trailed off, unable to voice what her hesitation truly stemmed from.

“Because your heart belongs to someone else,” Jane finished softly. “To Mr Darcy.”

“Mr Darcy is in London or Derbyshire.” Elizabeth turned away, blinking against sudden sting in her eyes. “Whatever I felt for him is irrelevant now. He made his opinion of our connexions quite clear. I was not good enough then. Nothing has changed to make me good enough now.”

She did not say that the letter he had put into her hands at Rosings was still folded into the back of her writing case, nor how many times she had read it since April, until she knew Wickham’s true history and her own blindness by heart.

“Lizzy...”

“I should give Malcolm an answer soon,” Elizabeth said, more to herself than Jane. “It would be cruel to keep him waiting when I know what my answer must be.”

They resumed walking toward the house. Elizabeth's mind worked through the calculation she had been avoiding for weeks. Malcolm offered security, respect, partnership. She offered him... what? Appreciation without affection. Gratitude without love. Intelligence and capability, but nothing of her heart.

Was that sufficient foundation for a marriage? Perhaps in time, respect could grow into affection, appreciation into something deeper. Or perhaps she would spend the rest of her life comparing Malcolm's easy warmth to the intensity of dark eyes that had once studied her so intently across crowded rooms.

But Mr Darcy was gone. That possibility had closed at Hunsford when she rejected him with such vehemence. She had made her choice then. Now she must make another choice. A sensible one.

Even if it meant marrying a man she did not love whilst something remained stubbornly, foolishly attached to one who had likely forgotten her existence entirely.

Chapter 6

Afew days after his return to town, a letter arrived from Yorkshire in Bingley’s scribbled hand.

My dear friend,

I have received word from Louisa. She called on the Bennets a few days ago. A melancholy business, she tells me. Mrs Bennet's spirits were still quite low, though she rallied enough to receive her in the drawing room.

Louisa informs me that she was there not ten minutes when Mr MacKinnon joined them. The family received him with considerable warmth. She reports Mr MacKinnon appeared quite settled at Longbourn. In fact, he resides in one of the cottages on the estate instead of at an inn.

Indeed, Louisa declared herself quite surprised by the close connection between him and Miss Elizabeth. She states that he stationed himself beside Miss Elizabeth for the duration of her visit. Why, he even brought her tea without being asked, despite Mrs Hill’s presence. It appeared to Louisa as though Mr MacKinnon is now courting Miss Elizabeth, much to Mrs Bennet’s obvious delight.

This MacKinnon troubles me, Darcy, though I cannot say precisely why. Louisa informs me her husband felt the same, and despite all his failings, he is a good judge of character.

I thought you would wish to know of developments there, given your acquaintance with the family and your interest in Miss Elizabeth. I remain, as always, your friend,

Charles Bingley

Darcy set the letter down slowly and reached for his cup. His tea had gone cold whilst he read. He stared at Bingley's handwriting again without truly seeing it.

Darcy had not realised he was balling his fists until he felt his fingernails press into his palms. Shaking his head, he withdrew fresh paper from his desk, dipped his pen in the inkpot and started to compose two letters he suspected he might later regret.

The first went to Major Alastair Grant. They had met years ago at Lord Matlock's estate, an encounter that began with Grant's blunt assessment of the salmon being served at dinner and ended with both men somewhat foxed on Scots whisky, trading stories about their respective fathers' impossible expectations. Grant had served in the Highlands most of his adult life. If anyone could verify MacKinnon's claims and circumstances, it would be him.