Page 52 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

She listened to the sounds filtering through the house. Mrs Annesley greeting Hill in the entrance hall. Georgiana's softer tones. Footsteps on the stairs as someone went to fetch Moira. And beneath it all, an absence that sat heavy on her chest.

Of course, Mr Darcy had not come. The new arrangement with Mrs Annesley had seen to that — and Malcolm had expressed quiet satisfaction when she told him of it, saying only that he thought it wise. She had managed the matter herself, calmly, as she had promised.

She ought to have felt some relief. It removed temptation. It was correct and proper.

Yet, she felt hollowed out, as though something essential had been taken and nothing remained to fill the space.

The lesson began in the morning room, faint sounds of instruction and response drifting through the walls, and Elizabeth rose and left the parlour before Georgiana's voice could reach her properly. She would not sit and listen. She could not pretend all was well when the ground had shifted beneath her and she could find no purchase.

Her mother occupied the drawing room, surrounded by fabric swatches and lists and all the accumulated business of wedding preparations. Mrs Bennet had recovered from Lady Catherine's visit with surprising speed, her nerves giving way to enthusiasm for the work ahead. Trousseau to assemble, linens to order, decisions requiring attention. She had flung herself into it with energy bordering on frenzy, as though industry might outpace the whispers already circulating through the neighbourhood.

“Lizzy.” Mrs Bennet looked up from a length of ivory silk. “Come, tell me your opinion of this. The mantua-maker promises she can finish within the fortnight if we settle on something today, though I confess I hoped for finer work. Perhaps London, if Mr MacKinnon consents to delay.”

Elizabeth took the chair opposite and folded her cold hands in her lap.

“Mama, I wished to speak about the wedding.”

“Yes, the wedding.” Mrs Bennet reached for another sample and held it toward the window light. “I have decided we shall hold the breakfast here rather than the inn. Hill believes she can manage with extra hands from the village. Our finances have certainly improved since Mr MacKinnon’s arrival, but we still ought to be mindful of our expenses.”

“Mama.” Elizabeth steadied her voice. “I wished to speak about the date.”

Mrs Bennet's hands went still. She looked up, studied her daughter's face, and set the fabric aside.

“What if we moved the wedding forward?” Elizabeth spoke before she could reconsider. “To Christmas, or just after.”

Silence settled between them. Mrs Bennet regarded her with an expression quite unlike her usual flutter.

“Christmas.” The word came slowly.

“Yes.”

“Barely three months since we buried your father.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“People will talk. After Lady Catherine, they already talk. A hasty wedding feeds speculation. They will say there must be reason for such haste, that perhaps you...” She coloured and did not finish.

“Let them.” Elizabeth heard the flatness in her own voice. “Lady Catherine proved they will talk regardless. Why arrange our lives to suit neighbours who think ill of us whatever we do?”

Mrs Bennet sat motionless, hands folded, and when she spoke again something had changed in her manner. The breathlessness had gone.

“Your father wished for you to be happily wed, Lizzy. He spoke of it often toward the end.” Her eyes searched Elizabeth's face. “How glad he would be that Longbourn would stay in the family. How relieved his girls would be provided for. He trusted you particularly, Lizzy. The understanding between you was something the rest of us only observed. You, Mistress of Longbourn. Why, he would have been overjoyed at the idea.”

Elizabeth's throat closed. She could not speak of her father. Not now.

“This is your wish, Lizzy?” Mrs Bennet leaned forward. “You do want to marry Mr MacKinnon?”

“Of course.” The words came easily, rehearsed through sleepless nights. “Why should I not?”

Her mother continued studying her, and Elizabeth felt herself measured in a way she had not experienced since girlhood.

“You are not doing this to save the family? To keep a roof over our heads?” Mrs Bennet's voice gentled. “I would not have you sacrifice yourself. Your father loved you too well to see you wretched on our account.”

“I am not sacrificing myself.” Elizabeth dropped her gaze to her lap. “The match is advantageous. Mr MacKinnon is a good man. Moira is a dear child. I shall be content.”

Content. A thin, pale word. A poor aspiration for one who had sworn to marry only for love.

“Content.” Mrs Bennet echoed it, and something moved behind her eyes. Then she straightened, and her customary manner returned. “Well. Content is more than many achieve. You shall be mistress of Longbourn and wife to a laird, and Mr MacKinnon is delightful, truly delightful, and little Moira such a sweet creature, and you shall all be happy together.”