Page 13 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

“You are always most welcome at Longbourn, Mr Darcy.” Mrs Bennet's smile carried implications he chose not to examine too closely, her eyes bright with speculation despite her mourning attire. “Perhaps you might call again. Such distinguished visitors bring credit to our home, even in our current reduced circumstances.”

Elizabeth rose as well, performing her role as hostess with flawless propriety despite her evident exhaustion and grief. “I shall see you out, Mr Darcy.”

“I trust Miss Jane Bennet is keeping well under the circumstances?” he asked, noticing the eldest sister’s absence for the first time.

He did not miss the brief flash of annoyance in Elizabeth’s eyes. “She lost someone she had hoped to wed, and within the same twelvemonth she lost Papa as well. My sister has certainly seen better days, Mr Darcy.”

“Lizzy!” Mrs Bennet looked at her in outrage. “Where are your manners, my dear? Now, please accompany Mr Darcy outside and mind your manners,” she added in a hiss.

They walked to the entrance hall in the sort of silence that felt heavier than mere lack of words could account for. His coachman brought the carriage around. The air seemed suddenly colder than it had felt that morning, cutting through his greatcoat with sharp persistence.

“Thank you for calling,” Elizabeth said quietly, her voice carefully controlled as though each word required deliberate effort. “It was thoughtful of you to come.”

“I wished to...” He stopped himself, uncertain how to complete the thought without revealing too much, without exposing the real reason he had driven twenty miles on impulse.

“We are managing as well as can be expected under such trying circumstances,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding his halting speech or perhaps understanding it perfectly and choosing to deflect with mercy. “Mr MacKinnon has been most helpful in addressing the various practical matters that arise from my father's death and the complications of the entail.”

“He seems a most worthy gentleman.” The words tasted bitter in Darcy's mouth even as he forced them out with what he hoped sounded like sincerity.

“He is kind. Respectful. Practical in his approach to difficulties.” Each descriptor felt like another door closing between them with quiet finality. “In a way, he is exactly what our present situation requires.”

And I am none of those things, in your estimation. The unspoken accusation hung heavily in the cold air between them, neither acknowledged nor denied.

“I wish you well, Miss Bennet.” The formal words emerged stiffly, inadequate for everything he could not say. “Whatever the future may hold for you and your family.”

She curtsied with perfect correctness. “That is generous of you. I hope your journey back to town proves uneventful.”

As he climbed into the carriage and summoned the coachman, Elizabeth remained standing in the doorway, a solitary figure in unforgiving black against the warm stone of Longbourn's entrance. Seconds later, MacKinnon emerged from the house to join her there, leaning close to speak quietly into her ear. She nodded in response to whatever he said, her expression softening slightly in a way it never had during Darcy's entire visit.

The drive back to London passed in a haze of grey roads and greyer autumn landscape. Darcy's mind circled endlessly around the same troubling observations, unable to settle on any one thought long enough to examine it properly.

There was something about MacKinnon that sent a wave of unease through him. It was more than the jealousy he had felt whenever he had observed the familiarity between Elizabeth and the Scotsman.

That rehearsed quality to his explanations about inheritance and legal complications. The careful vagueness about his Highland estate's specific location and production capacity. The way he had arrived at Longbourn so conveniently positioned to assist with precisely the sort of estate management that would bring him into close daily contact with Elizabeth. His knowledge of Pemberley's acreage, his immediate assessment of Longbourn's income, his smooth discussion of tenant relations and agricultural improvements.

Darcy could tell by Mrs Bennet’s insouciance about potentially losing Longbourn that something was transpiring between MacKinnon and Elizabeth, and the thought filled him with apprehension. What game was the man playing? What precisely did he hope to gain?

It might signify nothing whatsoever, of course. Many gentlemen were imprecise about business details in casual conversation, particularly when first making acquaintance with strangers. But Darcy's experience with fortune hunters who had pursued Georgiana last year had left him with finely tuned instincts for detecting careful manipulation disguised as helpful concern and genuine assistance.

The carriage reached his London stables as full darkness fell over the city. Darcy climbed down with joints stiff from the day's driving and emotional tumult. He surrendered the horses to the capable hands of waiting grooms who knew better than to attempt conversation with their master when he wore such a forbidding expression.

Inside his townhouse, the familiar sanctuary of his study beckoned with promises of routine distraction and work. Correspondence awaited his attention. Accounts needed review. Estate matters demanded decision and action. The usual refuge from troubling thoughts and unwelcome feelings.

But tonight, the familiar sanctuary offered no comfort whatsoever. He poured himself brandy from the crystal decanter with hands that were not quite steady. One afternoon at Longbourn had comprehensively shattered whatever peace he had managed to construct in the months since.

Darcy finished his brandy with a grimace at its expensive smoothness doing nothing to ease the tightness in his chest. He set the empty glass aside with unnecessary force. Tomorrow would bring its usual flood of correspondence and concerns requiring his attention and decision. Tonight, however, offered only one certainty: Malcolm MacKinnon was not entirely what he seemed to be, and Darcy would discover the truth of the man's intentions before Elizabeth bound herself to something she did not fully understand.

Chapter 5

Frost had etched delicate patterns across Elizabeth's window overnight. Each crystalline tracery spoke of autumn's surrender to winter's approach. She traced one design with her fingertip, the cold glass biting against her skin. Beyond the pane, the last beech leaves clung to their branches in defiance of the season, copper and amber against a grey sky that threatened snow.

The harvest was complete. Three days past, the tenants had brought in the final crops, and Longbourn had settled into that peculiar stillness which preceded winter proper. Yesterday she had walked the fields with Malcolm, reviewing what had been accomplished, discussing preparations for the fallow months.

“What am I to do?” she whispered to no one in particular.

It had been nearly two weeks since Malcolm’s proposal, and his courtship should have flattered her. After all, he brought her Highland poetry transcribed in his own hand.

“The verses speaking of rugged landscapes and fierce loyalties,” he had said. “I hope you shall enjoy them as I did.”