Page 29 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

“It is him! Mr MacKinnon is back from the village! Oh, my nerves, I am not prepared. Kitty, straighten your cap! Lydia, stop fidgeting! Mary, do try to look pleasant!”

Within moments, Malcolm entered the parlour. He cut a fine figure in his dark coat, his weathered face composed.

“Mrs Bennet. Miss Bennet. Ladies.” His gaze lingered on Elizabeth. “I hope I am not intruding upon a conversation.”

“Intruding!” Mrs Bennet clasped her hands together. “Oh, Mr MacKinnon, you could never intrude! We are delighted, absolutely delighted! We have spoken of nothing else since yesterday!”

Malcolm crossed to Elizabeth, reaching into his coat pocket. “Then I hope you will permit me to make it official.”

He withdrew a small velvet box. The room fell silent as he opened it.

Inside lay a ring, a cairngorm stone set in Scottish silver, the smoky quartz catching the afternoon light. No delicate gold band, no fashionable diamonds. This spoke of mountains and mist, of a world far removed from Hertfordshire drawing rooms.

“It belonged to my mother,” Malcolm said quietly. “I packed it with the valuables I brought with me. She wore it all her life, and her mother before her. In the Highlands, such rings pass from mother to daughter, or in this case, to the woman who will become mistress of our home.” He lifted the ring from its velvet bed. “Will you accept it, Elizabeth?”

She extended her hand. It trembled slightly.

Malcolm slipped the ring onto her finger. It fitted as though it had been made for her hand, the silver cool against her skin. He raised her fingers to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“You honour me,” he said.

“The honour is mine, sir.”

The formal words felt strange in her mouth. She looked down at the ring, at the way the stone seemed to shift colour in the light. Beautiful. Foreign. A symbol of a life she could not yet imagine.

Mrs Bennet descended upon them in a flurry of exclamations. “Oh, how exquisite! How unusual! I have never seen such a stone! Is it a Scottish tradition? How romantic! Let me see, Lizzy, let me see properly!”

Elizabeth extended her hand, allowing her mother and sisters to admire the ring. Kitty and Lydia cooed over it. Mary observed that the modesty of the setting was most appropriate for a woman in mourning.

Malcolm stood beside Elizabeth, his hand resting lightly at the small of her back. The touch made her aware of how little distance remained between her old life and her new one.

“I must speak to practical matters,” he said, addressing the room. “Much as I would prefer a longer courtship given Mr Bennet’s recent demise, circumstances do not permit it. I must return to Strathaird before winter makes the roads impassable. After mid-January, travel to the Highlands becomes treacherous, sometimes impossible.”

Mrs Bennet's hand flew to her throat. “How soon, then?”

“I propose we marry in early January,” replied Malcolm. “That allows time for proper arrangements whilst still ensuring we can make the journey north before the worst weather sets in.”

“Mr MacKinnon, I know you mentioned January and I already informed Mama, but still… it’s very soon, is it not?” Elizabeth said tentatively.

Malcolm's gaze found hers, gentle but firm. “I know it is not ideal, my dear. But we must be practical. The estate in Skye requires my attention, and I would not leave you here whilst I travel north alone. You will be my wife. Your place is with me.”

The words settled over her like a mantle she had not chosen.

“Of course,” Elizabeth said. “I understand the necessity. But we must maintain proper mourning decorum. The wedding should be a simple affair.”

“Naturally.” Malcolm smiled. “I would expect nothing less from a woman of your good sense. We shall arrange everything appropriately. A quiet Anglican ceremony properly witnessed. Though I hope you will permit me to include a small Highland tradition. A Gaelic blessing, perhaps, after the formal vows. And tartan ribbons in your bouquet, if you would allow it.”

Elizabeth nodded, her mind already sketching the details.

“You will find the Highlands beautiful,” Malcolm said. “Different from Hertfordshire, certainly, but beautiful in their own way. The sea, the mountains... there is nothing quite like it.”

“I am sure I shall adjust.”

“You will thrive there.” His voice held quiet certainty. “When you are settled in the Highlands, you will wonder how you ever tolerated the flatness of the south.”

Elizabeth managed a smile. Settled. As though it were already decided and done.

“The house at Strathaird will require some updating,” Malcolm continued. “It has been without a mistress these six years. But you will find our customs more suitable to efficient household management than the English habit of excessive ornamentation. Highland practicality serves a household well. And Moira will be able to live with me again,” he added, smiling at his daughter.