Page 45 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

“My aunt,” he replied grimly, watching with sick fascination as Lady Catherine de Bourgh descended from her elaborate carriage with unmistakable imperial dignity and obvious hostile intent. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh has come calling.”

The morning room emptied of every easy thing at once.

Elizabeth's expression shifted rapidly from confused concern to dawning apprehension as she absorbed the implications of such an unexpected and potentially disastrous visitation. “Your aunt? But what could possibly bring such a distinguished personage to our modest establishment?”

Before Darcy could formulate any coherent explanation for this catastrophically unwelcome development, Hill appeared in the doorway to announce the visitor with the careful neutrality befitting such an august personage.

“Lady Catherine de Bourgh to see Mrs Bennet and her daughters,” the housekeeper proclaimed with admirable composure despite the obvious magnitude of receiving such elevated and intimidating company.

Lady Catherine swept into the morning room like an advancing squall, her imposing figure garbed in travelling dress of the finest materials money could procure, her expression conveying the particular displeasure of someone accustomed to finding the world arranged to her satisfaction and recently disappointed in this expectation. Her notoriously piercing gaze swept the room, catalogued every occupant with predatory precision, and settled upon Elizabeth and Darcy with unmistakable hostility.

“I have come,” she announced, without any preliminary courtesy, “to offer my personal condolences to Mrs Bennet regarding her recent tragic loss. Though I understand that congratulations may also be appropriate regarding certain recent domestic developments of considerable interest to myself.”

Mrs Bennet appeared in the doorway moments later, breathless, followed by Kitty and Lydia. Mary and Jane arrived seconds after. The room, so recently intimate, had become a theatre, and Lady Catherine its reluctant audience.

Lady Catherine expressed her condolences upon Mr Bennet’s demise with the warmth of a January frost, then turned immediately to her true purpose. “I am given to understand,” she said, her gaze fixed upon Elizabeth with imperious precision, “that your daughter has recently become engaged to some Scottish gentleman of allegedly distinguished Highland lineage. A certain Mr MacKinnon, I believe the name to be.”

“Indeed, your ladyship speaks truly!” Mrs Bennet’s pride overcame her nerves. “My dear Lizzy is to marry Mr Malcolm MacKinnon, of Strathaird on the Isle of Skye. Such a remarkably distinguished connexion for our family!”

“Strathaird.” Lady Catherine repeated the name as though tasting something disagreeable. “I confess myself entirely unfamiliar with that particular estate. What is its annual value? How many acres does it comprise? Who are this Mr MacKinnon’s connexions in the south? What was his mother’s family?”

Mrs Bennet faltered under this barrage. “His estate is— that is, the connexions are— it is a very fine property in the Highlands, your ladyship.”

“A very fine property.” Lady Catherine’s tone conveyed precisely what she thought of such an answer. “And has a solicitor verified the gentleman’s claim to Longbourn through the entail? I ask because I am given to understand that the lineage is somewhat remote and the documentation unusual. Most unusual.”

Elizabeth felt a chill that had nothing to do with the season. “Mr Philips has examined the documentation thoroughly, your ladyship.”

“A country solicitor.” The words carried a devastating contempt. “I have engaged counsel in London to examine this matter, Miss Bennet. Mr Collins— who is, after all, the rightful heir under the original entail— has engaged the same London firm. Should any irregularity emerge in this MacKinnon’s documentation, I assure you it will be found.” She paused to let the implication settle. “It would be most unfortunate for your family if the engagement were to proceed and subsequently prove founded upon a fraudulent claim.”

A silence fell over the room. Elizabeth could not look at Darcy. She did not look at Moira either, though she was conscious of the child’s stillness in the corner.

“I trust your ladyship’s journey was not undertaken solely to deliver threats regarding our domestic arrangements,” Elizabeth said, keeping her voice level with some effort.

“Threats!” Lady Catherine drew herself up. “I make no threats, Miss Bennet. I state facts. And the facts are these: Mr Bennet was laid to rest but two months past, and his family rushes headlong into a hasty marriage with a man whose antecedents are entirely unknown in any respectable society, in a ceremony so precipitate as to invite the very worst construction from every quarter.” Her gaze moved to Darcy with pointed deliberation. “Perhaps there are those present who might shed some light upon the extraordinary enthusiasm with which this connexion has been pursued on all sides.”

“Madam.” Darcy’s voice carried a quiet authority that silenced the room. “Miss Elizabeth’s personal choices are her own, and her character is beyond reproach. I will not hear her spoken of with anything less than the respect she deserves.”

The silence that followed stretched uncomfortably. Elizabeth’s eyes moved to Darcy despite herself. His expression was controlled, but she could see the set of his jaw, the rigid line of his shoulders.

“Fitzwilliam!” Lady Catherine’s face flushed with indignation. “How dare you take such a tone with me! Your duty lies with your family’s interests, not with defending some country miss of no connexion whose engagement may prove founded upon a fraud that will disgrace her and everyone associated with her!”

“My duty,” Darcy replied, “lies with justice and with truth. Miss Elizabeth has conducted herself with perfect propriety throughout circumstances that would have defeated individuals with far greater social advantage. If you cannot acknowledge that, then I believe this conversation has reached its natural conclusion.”

Lady Catherine turned the full force of her attention upon him, and her voice dropped to something low and dangerous. “I wonder, Fitzwilliam, whether you are entirely sensible of what you are doing. I wonder whether you have reflected upon how it will appear to the world — a man of your name, your position, your expectations — championing the cause of a young woman promised to another man. I wonder whether Miss de Bourgh, to whom your interests have so long been directed, would view your remarkable championship of this particular family with equanimity.”

Darcy said nothing. But a muscle moved in his jaw.

The door opened and Malcolm appeared. He took in the scene with one swift glance — the rigid postures, the charged silence, Georgiana’s pale face, Mrs Bennet’s barely contained agitation — and stepped inside with the careful ease of a man who understands when he has entered dangerous ground.

“Mr MacKinnon, I presume?” Lady Catherine’s gaze moved to him with the unhurried assessment of someone accustomed to forming rapid and irrevocable judgements. “Strathaird, you claim as your ancestral Highland holding. I confess myself entirely unfamiliar with that estate or your family’s history. Perhaps you might enlighten my ignorance.”

Malcolm inclined his head with courteous composure. “I am afraid I do not know you, my lady. Might I ask who I have the honour of addressing?”

“This is Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park, Mr MacKinnon,” Elizabeth said. “Mr Darcy’s aunt. She has made the considerable journey from Kent to offer her condolences.” She paused. “Most kind of her.”

A choked sound escaped Georgiana, hastily converted into a cough.

Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed. She turned the full force of her attention upon Malcolm. “And pray tell, Mr MacKinnon, how does a Highland laird come to have such remarkably detailed knowledge of English inheritance law? My counsel finds your claim to Longbourn’s entail most curious in its particulars. Three generations removed, an emigrant line, Scottish parish records in place of English documentation. Most irregular.”