Page 7 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

“Aye, the Scottish Highlands are a fair way from Hertfordshire.” MacKinnon glanced about the room. Not assessing, Elizabeth noted. Appreciating. “Mr Bennet kept a fine house. I can see he was a careful steward.”

“He was.” Elizabeth's voice came out sharper than she intended. “He loved Longbourn. Every inch of it.”

MacKinnon's gaze settled on her. “Then the loss is doubly felt. I am sorry.”

Silence stretched. Mrs Bennet twisted her handkerchief. Elizabeth refused to look away first.

“I have the estate books ready for your review, Mr MacKinnon. Whenever you wish to examine them.”

His brows rose slightly. “You have been managing the accounts?”

“Someone had to. My uncle, Mr Philips, is a solicitor in Meryton. He has handled the legal matters. I have seen to the household and the tenants.”

“Then you are the one I need to speak with.” He said it as though managing an estate was perfectly ordinary for a woman of one and twenty. “I shall want to review everything. The books, the land, the tenancies. Cannot make sound decisions without understanding what I inherit.”

Mrs Bennet roused herself. “You must be fatigued from your journey, sir. We have prepared one of the empty cottages for your use. It is small, but suitable. Now, some refreshment. Hill, the tea things!”

MacKinnon inclined his head. “I would be grateful, Mrs Bennet. Been on the road since dawn. Fair parched, I am.”

Hill departed. Jane was summoned. Kitty and Lydia, blessedly, were with Mary in Meryton.

Tea arrived with commendable speed. MacKinnon sat, accepted a cup, and ate cold meat and bread with the appetite of a man who had travelled hard. He answered Mrs Bennet's questions about his journey with good humour.

“And your family, Mr MacKinnon?” Mrs Bennet's tone was carefully casual. “Will anyone be joining you at Longbourn?”

“No family, Mrs Bennet. My wife died six years past. Our daughter, Moira, lives with my great-aunt.” He delivered the information plainly. No bid for sympathy. “My housekeeper remained in Skye. She is too old for such a journey, and I would not ask it of her. The woman has been with my family since I was in leading strings.”

Mrs Bennet's expression shifted. Elizabeth recognised the look. A widower in possession of Longbourn. She set down her teacup with deliberate care.

“Perhaps, Mr MacKinnon, you would like to see the estate books now. You mentioned being eager to review them.”

“Aye, that I am. If you are willing to walk me through them, Miss Bennet?”

“I shall accompany you both.” Mrs Bennet rose. “It would not be proper otherwise.”

“Naturally, Mama.” Elizabeth stood. “Though I have been managing the accounts for weeks without a chaperone.”

“That was necessity,” Mrs Bennet insisted. “This is different.”

MacKinnon's mouth quirked. “I would welcome Mrs Bennet's presence. I have no wish to cause discomfort.”

The study still smelled of leather and pipe smoke. Elizabeth's throat tightened as she crossed the threshold. Papa's chair. Papa's desk. Papa's books. The afternoon light slanted through the window, illuminating dust motes that danced above the ledgers she had arranged that morning.

MacKinnon settled into the chair without hesitation. Ran his hand along the desk's edge. “A fine piece. Oak?”

“Yes. Papa inherited it from his father.” Elizabeth took the seat opposite and straightened her skirts. “One of the oldest pieces in the house.”

“Built to last, then.” He smiled slightly. “Like the estate itself, I expect.”

Mrs Bennet positioned herself by the window. Close enough to observe propriety, yet far enough to suggest she would not involve herself in the details. She extracted her embroidery from her pocket and settled with an air of determined vigilance.

The pages crackled as Elizabeth opened the first ledger. Papa's handwriting marched across the columns, precise and careful. Her own hand, less elegant but equally neat, filled the more recent entries. “The estate generates approximately two thousand per annum. The majority comes from tenant rents, with additional income from timber sales and—”

“Please explain it to me in more detail,” MacKinnon interrupted, as he leaned forwards. “Start with the farms. How many tenants? What do they produce? What are the rents, and are any in arrears?”

She had expected cursory interest. Perhaps a few obvious questions before dismissing her. Instead, his first query concerned crop rotation.

“The larger farms rotate wheat and barley with turnips and clover,” Elizabeth explained. “Mr Hendricks holds two hundred acres and follows a four-year cycle. His soil is in good heart. The Abbotts are less systematic. Their yields have dropped these past two years.”