Page 66 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

“Moira. Dear Moira. This is not about you. You have done nothing wrong.”

“Then why must we go?” Moira's voice rose. “Ye said you would be my new mama. Ye promised you would teach me to dance properly and read me stories and never let anyone hurt me. Ye promised!”

“I know.” Elizabeth's voice caught. “I know I did.”

“Then ye lied too!” Moira snatched her hands away, her small face contorted. “Ye are no better than Papa. Ye made promises you never meant to keep. Ye never really loved us at all!”

Before Elizabeth could respond, Mrs Douglas appeared at Moira's side and gently took the child's arm.

“Come now, mo chridhe,” she murmured, steering Moira toward the waiting carriage. “That is enough. Miss Elizabeth cares for you a great deal, but sometimes caring is not sufficient. You will understand when you are older.”

“I shall never understand!” Moira's voice rose as Mrs Douglas lifted her into the vehicle. “I hate her! I hate all of them!”

The carriage door closed, muffling the child's sobs. From within, Mrs Fraser's sharp voice issued a reprimand in rapid Gaelic. Elizabeth remained kneeling on the gravel, her eyes stinging, an ache spreading through her chest that she had not anticipated.

Jane's hand descended upon her shoulder. “Lizzy. Come inside. You will catch your death.”

“Presently.” Elizabeth rose unsteadily.

Hamish had been standing apart, watching. Now he approached once more, his expression hesitant.

“Miss Elizabeth. Might I speak with you privately? Just for a moment. There is something I must give you before I go.”

Elizabeth glanced at her mother and Jane, then nodded. They walked a short distance along the drive, far enough that their words would not carry to the others, though still within sight of her mother.

Hamish reached into his coat and withdrew a thick folded packet, creased and worn at the edges, its red seal broken.

“I must give you this,” he said quietly.

Elizabeth stared at the packet. She recognised it at once, having seen him thrust it into a drawer when she entered his study several days past.

“What is it?”

“A letter addressed to you.” Hamish's gaze dropped. “It arrived above a fortnight since. I intercepted it before you could receive it.”

Elizabeth took it. The direction was written in a close, angular hand she had known at once, though she had not seen it since April.

“I had no right to keep it from you,” Hamish continued, barely above a whisper. “I told myself I was protecting what we had, but that was merely another lie. You deserved to read it. You deserved to make your choice with all the facts before you. I have been carrying it since we were exposed. I meant to burn it. But I found that I could not — that whatever else I have done, this one act of restitution was still within my power. When a man has nothing left, it matters more than one might think to do the last right thing.”

He paused, and when he spoke again, his words came haltingly.

“I understand he is currently residing at Netherfield. I am not sure if you are meant to know this. I only know because I saw him last night, riding out with Mr Bingley on the estate. I had gone for a walk to clear my … It is of no importance. He is there. If that should be of any help to you.”

Darcy was here? At Netherfield?

Before Elizabeth could enquire more, Hamish bowed once and turned away. He walked back toward Jane and Mrs Bennet, offered them a final bow, and continued to the carriage where his daughter still wept. He climbed inside and pulled the door shut.

The coachman cracked his whip. The horses leaned into their harnesses, and the carriages began to move, wheels crunching over frozen gravel. Elizabeth watched until they disappeared around the bend in the lane, until even the sound of hooves had faded.

Then she looked down at the letter in her hands.

She broke the seal with trembling fingers and unfolded the pages.

Dear Miss Elizabeth,

I write to you in full knowledge that I possess no right to do so…

Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears as she read Mr Darcy’s letter. She read of his investigation into Malcolm MacKinnon's identity and his discovery of the fraud, even though he had no tangible evidence then. She read of his certainty that she deserved to know the truth before binding herself to a man who was not what he claimed.