Page 46 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

“The law does not discriminate between English and Scottish documentation, your ladyship, provided it is properly attested,” Malcolm replied, his voice steady. “Mr Philips of Meryton has examined every paper and found them in order.”

“Mr Philips.” Again the devastating inflection. “My London counsel is rather less easily satisfied, I find.” She rose from her chair, her heavy skirts settling around her with the finality of a judge donning his robes. “I shall not dissemble, Mr MacKinnon. I have come today to observe and to warn. You are an unknown quantity in an established society, and there are those with both the means and the motivation to examine your antecedents with rather more rigour than a Hertfordshire solicitor has applied.”

Something crossed Malcolm’s face — very briefly, very quickly — before his composure was restored. Elizabeth saw it. She did not know what it meant.

“Mrs Bennet.” Lady Catherine turned to Elizabeth’s mother with a manner that was almost gracious. “I offer you my sincere condolences upon Mr Bennet’s passing. May he rest in peace.” Then, to Elizabeth: “Miss Bennet. I trust you will reflect carefully upon all that has been said today. A hasty engagement is easily entered and not so easily escaped. I should not wish to see any young woman’s future compromised by insufficient examination of the facts.”

“Do come again, Lady Catherine,” Elizabeth said pleasantly. “It is always such a comfort in times of difficulty.”

Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed to their sharpest expression. She directed one final, significant glance at Malcolm — the sort of glance that conveyed, without words, that she knew more than she was saying and expected to know more yet. Then, with the unhurried magnificence of a ship coming about, she moved toward the door.

“I think you would do well to be more watchful of your betrothed, Mr MacKinnon,” she said, pausing in the doorway. “One never knows what may transpire when a young woman spends considerable time in the company of a gentleman who is not her intended.” She did not look at Darcy. She did not need to. “I bid you all goodbye.”

With that, Lady Catherine swept out of the room, leaving the most uncomfortable silence in her wake.

Chapter 15

Elizabeth's needle had not moved in a quarter hour. She sat before the fire in the small parlour, her embroidery forgotten in her lap as she watched Hill feed another log to flames that seemed to devour fuel as fast as it could be brought in. The wood hissed and spat. Beyond the frosted windows, nothing stirred.

From somewhere above came the halting notes of Mary at the pianoforte, the same passage she had been murdering since breakfast. Each stumbled chord grated against Elizabeth's nerves like a blade drawn across glass. In the drawing room, Mrs Bennet's voice rose in its familiar key.

“We shall all perish from this cold; I am certain of it. My nerves are quite shattered. Quite shattered, I tell you. Can you imagine the nerve of that woman?” she added in considerable distress. “Why, our Lizzy is the most respectful girl in all of Hertfordshire. After her visit yesterday, sleep evaded me all night long!”

Kitty coughed from the sofa, a dry, rattling sound she had been producing at intervals since yesterday. Lydia groaned theatrically and flung herself against the cushions. Jane's murmured reply floated through the doorway, too soft to make out, and Mrs Bennet subsided into wounded silence that would last, Elizabeth knew from long experience, no more than a quarter hour.

Elizabeth pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

Lady Catherine's voice echoed through her mind, sharp and imperious. The words had been nonsensical, of course. There was no understanding between Elizabeth and Mr Darcy. There could be no understanding. Not only had she rejected his proposal, but she was now promised to Malcolm.

Miss Elizabeth has conducted herself with absolutely perfect propriety throughout circumstances that would severely challenge individuals with far greater social advantages and resources.

Mr Darcy's voice, cutting across his aunt's tirade as he defended a woman who had once refused him in the most insulting terms imaginable.

Elizabeth pressed her cold fingers against her temples. Like her mother, she had lain awake half the night turning it over in her mind, examining it from every angle, and she was no closer to understanding what it meant. Why had he done it? What had possessed him to speak so? And why, when she ought to have felt only gratitude for his intervention, had she felt something else entirely, something that fluttered beneath her ribs and would not be still?

The sounds of boots stamping in the entrance hall jostled her out of her reverie.

“Forgive the cold that I’m bringing in, Mrs Hill,” came Malcolm’s voice. “Pray, have you seen Miss Elizabeth? I need to speak to her.”

“I just saw her in the small parlour, sir,” came the housekeeper’s reply. “Why don’t you join her? I shall ask Miss Bennet to chaperone, and I will be right there with a cup of tea to warm you up.”

Elizabeth's stomach tightened. She had not seen him since Lady Catherine’s departure the previous day. He’d retired to his chamber almost at once and not come out. She set aside her embroidery and rose, smoothing her skirts with hands that had gone unsteady.

Malcolm appeared in the doorway a moment later, greatcoat dusted with frost, cheeks raw from the cold. Ice crystals clung to his dark hair where his hat had failed to protect it. He smiled when he saw her, but there was something guarded in his countenance.

“I brought you something.” His voice had softened, grown almost hesitant. “Like the ring, this too belonged to my mother. I wanted to give it to you on our wedding day, but I find I cannot wait any longer.”

Elizabeth unwrapped the cloth. Inside lay a brooch of silver, oval in shape, its surface worked with Celtic knotwork surrounding words she could not read. The metalwork was old, worn smooth at the edges by generations of hands.

“Dìleas gu bràth.” Malcolm leant forward to trace the inscription. “It means faithful forever. My father gave it to my mother on their wedding day. She wore it every day of her life, until the very end.” He looked up at her, and for a moment something raw flickered in his gaze. “I should like you to wear it now, Elizabeth.”

The brooch sat heavy in her palm.

“I am honoured.” After a second’s hesitation, she pinned it to her bodice. The metal was cold through the thin fabric of her dress. “I shall treasure it, Mr MacKinnon.”

Across the room, Jane looked up from her book. Elizabeth caught something like concern in her sister's gaze before Jane dropped her eyes back to the page.

Finishing the tea Mrs Hill had brought in moments prior, Malcolm set down his cup with a small, precise click.