Page 64 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

When Bingley spoke again, his tone was hesitant.

“There is one more thing. As I was leaving the first time, before my impulsive return, Miss Elizabeth enquired after you.”

“She asked whether I had news of you,” Bingley continued, watching his friend's face with undisguised curiosity. “Whether you were keeping well.”

Something kindled in Darcy's chest, and he found himself leaning forward slightly before he caught himself and forced his posture to remain neutral. Elizabeth had asked after him. It might mean nothing. Courtesy demanded such enquiries. And yet...

“What did you tell her?”

“That you were well. I nearly said more.” Bingley's gaze sharpened. “There was something in her expression when she spoke your name. I cannot quite describe it. Almost wistful, if I were forced to put a word to it. As though she were thinking of more than she was saying.”

Darcy felt hope stir within him, felt it stretch and uncurl like some creature waking from a long slumber. He suppressed it ruthlessly. He had spent weeks disciplining himself against such foolishness. Elizabeth had made her feelings clear when she failed to meet him at the pond. To read more into a polite enquiry would be the height of self-delusion.

“You wondered wrongly.” His tone came sharper than he intended. “Miss Elizabeth was observing the courtesies, nothing more. I shall thank you not to construct elaborate fancies upon such a slender foundation.”

Bingley looked as though he wished to argue, to press his observation further. Something in Darcy's face must have warned him off, for he subsided with a shrug and reached for his glass instead.

“Very well. If you insist upon being stubborn about it.”

“I do insist.”

The fire needed tending. Darcy busied himself with the poker and fresh logs, grateful for a task that allowed him to turn away from Bingley's too-perceptive scrutiny. The flames caught and crackled, sending shadows dancing across the walls, and by the time he returned to his chair his composure had been restored.

“The Scottish estates,” he said, steering toward safer waters. “What becomes of them now that the fraud has been exposed?”

“I had not considered that.” Bingley frowned into his glass. “I suppose they revert to whatever legitimate heirs can be found, if any still exist. Hamish did say MacKinnon had no surviving relatives, something that I believe was confirmed by the minister?”

“Indeed.” Darcy nodded. “There may still be very distant relations with valid claims. Cousins in cadet branches who survived.” Darcy filed the matter away for future enquiry. His solicitors could look into it when time permitted. “And what of Longbourn? What becomes of the Bennets now?”

“That is what torments me.” Bingley's expression grew troubled. “They find themselves precisely where they started. The entail remains in force, and with the Scottish inheritance revealed as fraudulent, there is no one to succeed after Mrs Bennet except that insufferable clergyman.”

“Collins.” Mr Darcy’s face grew thunderous. “Are you perhaps acquainted with him?”

“Once, last autumn, when he came to Longbourn proposing marriage to any Bennet daughter who would have him. A more ridiculous, pompous, self-important little man I have never encountered.” Bingley shuddered. “He spent half the visit praising his patroness Lady Catherine and the other half cataloguing the furniture he meant to retain when he inherited. The notion that their right to remain in their own home might one day depend upon his charity is insupportable.”

Darcy noted his friend's genuine distress, the furrowed brow and agitated manner. Yet Darcy himself remained composed, a fact Bingley did not fail to observe.

“You do not seem particularly troubled,” Bingley said, studying him. “I should have thought you would be more alarmed for the family's welfare, given the circumstances.”

“I am concerned. But perhaps not so alarmed as you might expect.”

“Why?” Bingley leaned forward. “What do you know that I do not?”

Darcy allowed himself a small, satisfied expression. “My solicitor and I have been working on something these past weeks. A possible solution to the Longbourn difficulty.”

“Solution? What manner of solution? The entail is ironclad, everyone says so. Mr Bennet himself attempted to break it years ago and was told nothing could be done.”

“Perhaps Mr Bennet did not have access to the same resources I possess.” Darcy rose from his chair and moved to the window, looking out over the frost-silvered grounds of Netherfield. “I shall need to meet with Mr Collins to discuss the particulars. Can you arrange a carriage for tomorrow morning? Early. I should like to reach Hunsford before noon.”

Bingley gaped at him. “You mean to call upon Collins? At Hunsford? Under Lady Catherine's very nose?”

“I do.”

“Whatever for? Surely you cannot mean to appeal to his better nature, for I am not persuaded he possesses one.”

“I mean to present him with a tantalizing offer.” Darcy moved toward the door, then paused and glanced back. “But if all proceeds as I hope, the Bennets may find their situation considerably improved before the new year arrives.”

He left Bingley staring after him, questions clearly burning on his tongue, and made his way upstairs to review Hartley's correspondence once more.