Page 20 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

She sighed. “Brother, I can tell you would like to be near Miss Elizabeth. I am giving you a reason. Your sister and her companion had business in the area, leading you to be nearby.”

He blinked. “Oh. I see.” He did not want to take her up on the idea, for he did not want to draw his sister into his foolish affairs. But he could not deny that she was right.

After Georgiana withdrew, Darcy remained in his study, staring numbly at the letters from Grant and Hartley. Suddenly, it appeared as though none of it mattered. Elizabeth had moved forward with her life, as was her absolute right. She owed him nothing. Not her confidence, not her trust, certainly not any consideration of his feelings when making choices about her own future and happiness.

He had been too slow, too careful, too concerned with propriety and the appearance of his motives. Whilst he questioned and investigated and debated, she had done what people do when faced with difficult circumstances: she had made the best choice available to her by allowing this courtship.

And if that choice was MacKinnon, with all his complications and questionable associations and uncertain prospects, then perhaps that said more about Darcy's own failings than about her judgement.

The thought was not comfortable, but it had the ring of truth nonetheless.

He thought back to Georgiana’s idea. Mrs Annesley did have family in the area. It would serve as a valid reason for his being nearby. He could tell Bingley he would keep an eye on Netherfield. Perhaps inspect the place for his friend.

Was it obvious what his real intentions were? Perhaps. But perhaps only to him – and his sister. Perhaps to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, it would seem entirely natural.

At the very least, it would give him a reason to see if his concerns about MacKinnon were founded in reality – or in his hearts unfulfilled desires.

Chapter 7

The carriage appeared at the end of the lane just as the afternoon light began to fail. Elizabeth watched from the morning room window, her needlework abandoned in her lap, as the vehicle made its slow progress towards Longbourn. Beside her, Malcolm stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his customary ease quite vanished.

Looking uncharacteristically nervous, he shifted his weight and cleared his throat.

“She will be tired from the journey,” he said at last, though whether to Elizabeth or to himself, she could not determine. “Days in a carriage with only great-aunt Fraser and her nursemaid Mrs Douglas for company. Moira is not accustomed to sitting still for so long. I suppose it is only natural for a nine-year-old girl to be restless after such a long journey.”

Elizabeth set aside her embroidery and rose, Mrs Hill following suit. “Then we shall not keep your daughter waiting.”

The wind cut sharply as they stepped onto the gravel drive, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and wood smoke from the tenant cottages. Elizabeth drew her woollen shawl closer about her shoulders. The carriage slowed to a halt, the horses blowing great clouds of breath into the cold air. Malcolm was already at the door before the wheels had fully stopped, his hand upon the latch, every line of him taut as a bowstring.

The door swung open. An elderly woman emerged first, her movements stiff from travel, her face weathered but shrewd beneath a widow's cap of starched white linen. Mrs Fraser, Elizabeth surmised, the great-aunt who had raised Moira these past years whilst Malcolm pursued whatever business kept him from his daughter's side. Behind her came another middle-aged woman with the practical countenance of one accustomed to managing difficult situations. And then, at last, a small figure in a travelling cloak of heavy grey wool, far too large for her slight frame.

Moira MacKinnon was not what Elizabeth had anticipated.

She had imagined, perhaps foolishly, a child softened by grief and circumstance, one who might cling to her father and regard Elizabeth with the cautious hope of the lonely. Instead, the girl who descended from the carriage possessed an assessing gaze that seemed far older than her nine years. Unlike her father, she had dark eyes and fair hair pulled back in a plain arrangement that had come loose during the journey, wisps escaping to frame a pale, pointed face. Her chin, even as she surveyed Longbourn with studied indifference, jutted forward in a manner Elizabeth recognised. She had seen that same stubborn set in her own looking glass often enough.

“A mhuirninn,” Malcolm said, dropping to one knee before his daughter. “My darling girl.”

Moira permitted herself to be embraced, though she held herself stiffly, her small hands patting his back twice, precisely, before she stepped away.

“The roads were verra bad after Grantham,” she said. Her voice was clear and surprisingly strong, her English precise but overlaid with a lilt that transformed the familiar syllables into something foreign. “Mrs Douglas was ill twice. Great-Aunt Fraser said words I am not to repeat.”

The fluency of the child's speech startled Elizabeth. She had supposed, given Malcolm's accounts of Skye, that his Gaelic-speaking daughter might struggle with English, or speak it haltingly as a second tongue. But Moira's command of the language was remarkable, her accent notwithstanding.

Malcolm laughed, though the sound caught in his throat. “Did she now?”

“Aye.” Moira's gaze moved past her father and settled upon Elizabeth with the directness of a hawk marking movement below. “You'll be her, then.”

“Moira,” Malcolm began, but Elizabeth raised a hand.

“I am Miss Elizabeth Bennet, you may call me Elizabeth or Lizzy if you like,” she said. “Welcome to Longbourn, Miss MacKinnon. I hope your journey was not too terribly uncomfortable.”

Moira merely continued her scrutiny, her dark eyes moving from Elizabeth's face to her gown of brown cambric to her worn half-boots and back again. The examination was thorough and entirely without embarrassment.

“You're bonnier than I thought you would be,” she said at last. “Father's letters made you sound plain.”

“Moira!” Malcolm's face coloured.

Elizabeth pressed her lips together. “I assure you, your father was being kind. I am the acknowledged plain sister. My elder sister Jane holds the family claim to beauty.”