Page 31 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

I refused him with such vehemence. Such righteous anger. I felt powerful in that refusal, Papa. I felt like myself. Sharp and certain and uncompromising.

But when we spoke during Moira’s lessons, I believe I saw a hint of a different gentleman, Papa. Still, I accepted Malcolm MacKinnon's proposal with quiet resignation, and I feel like a stranger to myself.

The difference, I suppose, is that I could afford pride at Hunsford. I could afford anger. You were still alive, and Longbourn was still ours, and the future seemed full of possibility.

Now I can afford only pragmatism.

Elizabeth stared at the words on the page.

She thought of Mr Darcy's face during that disastrous proposal. The way his pride had warred with his feeling. The way he had stumbled over words that should have been tender but came out all wrong.

She thought of Malcolm's calm certainty, his gentle presumptions, his complete lack of doubt.

Which was worse? A man who offered everything with insulting pride, or a man who offered security whilst quietly erasing her?

Elizabeth read through the letter once more. Then, slowly, deliberately, she tore it in half.

Chapter 10

Mrs Hill appeared in the doorway of Longbourn's entrance hall, her cap ribbons askew and her countenance decidedly flustered. “Miss Darcy, Mr Darcy, pray do come in. Miss MacKinnon is ready in the morning room.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hill,” Darcy said absently as he followed his sister inside.

In truth, the letter he had received from his solicitor that morning still rested heavily upon his thoughts. References to the MacKinnon family were still vague, and the dead man’s identity remained frustratingly ambiguous. The fact that Elizabeth was now engaged to a man who may or may not be whom he claimed to be required some urgency.

“Is something amiss, Mrs Hill?” Georgiana enquired as they stepped into the hall.

“Oh, nothing amiss precisely, miss,” Mrs Hill said, twisting her apron between her fingers. “Only Mrs Bennet finds herself rather overset with the wedding arrangements, and she has been...” The housekeeper trailed off meaningfully. “Well, you shall see for yourselves.”

Before either could respond, Mrs Bennet swept into the hall, her face flushed and her handkerchief pressed to her temple. “Miss Darcy! Mr Darcy! How good of you to come, though I declare I am nearly distracted with all there is to manage. A wedding in January! People will talk, naturally they shall talk, but what choice remains to us? We must be practical, must we not? It cannot be thought disrespectful to Mr Bennet, God rest his soul, to attend to our circumstances with proper consideration.”

She paused for breath. Darcy bowed, attempting to formulate an appropriate response.

“I am certain no one would consider it improper,” he began, though Mrs Bennet had already resumed.

“Oh, they shall consider it, Mr Darcy, they most assuredly shall. 'Mrs Bennet marries off her daughter before her husband is cold in his grave,' they will say. Mark my words. Yet what am I to do? Mr MacKinnon must return to his estate. He cannot linger in Hertfordshire indefinitely. We must be sensible. Surely sense cannot be mistaken for disrespect?”

“Mama.” Elizabeth's voice descended from the stairs, calm and steady as morning light. “I am persuaded Mr Darcy and Miss Darcy did not come to debate wedding arrangements.”

Mrs Bennet turned towards her daughter with visible relief. “Oh, Lizzy, there you are! I was merely explaining to Mr Darcy that we act from entirely practical considerations, nothing that might be construed as—”

“Yes, Mama, I heard.” Elizabeth smiled despite her mother's theatrical anxieties. Her grey morning dress flattered her colouring admirably. “Miss Darcy has come for Moira's French lesson, and the morning room awaits.”

“Of course.” Mrs Bennet pressed the handkerchief to her brow once more. “Though I do hope you comprehend, Mr Darcy, that we endeavour to manage as best we can in difficult circumstances. My poor nerves can scarcely bear it, yet we must consider the family's security above all else.”

“I understand perfectly, Mrs Bennet.” Darcy's reply came quietly. He understood, perhaps, more than she intended. The desperation colouring her voice spoke eloquently of precarious fortunes.

“You are very good, sir. Very good indeed.” Mrs Bennet applied the handkerchief once more before retreating towards the back of the house, her murmurs regarding propriety and practicality gradually fading.

Elizabeth observed her mother's departure, then turned to Darcy and Georgiana with an expression balanced between mortification and wry amusement. “Pray forgive my mother's effusions. The wedding arrangements have rather overwhelmed her customary composure.”

“There is no need for apology,” Georgiana said warmly. “Any mother would feel the weight of such responsibilities. And may I offer my congratulations?”

“Thank you, Miss Darcy.” Elizabeth’s smile faltered as she gestured toward the morning room. “Shall we? Moira has been awaiting your arrival, though she would sooner perish than confess to such eagerness.”

The morning room had been arranged in their customary fashion over these past weeks. Moira's French primer lay open on the small table near the window. Elizabeth’s embroidery was positioned on her customary chair by the fire. Everything spoke of established routine. Moira glanced up when they entered, her expression brightening at the sight of Georgiana before settling into wariness at Darcy's presence.

“Good morning, Moira,” Georgiana said warmly, moving to join the child at the table. “Shall we begin where we left off? I believe you were just mastering the verbs.”