Page 40 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

Darcy turned his attention back to Kinsman, studying the man with the same careful assessment he would give to any witness whose testimony might prove crucial. “If what you say holds truth, why come forward now? Why allow Hamish McLeod to live as Malcolm MacKinnon these ten years?”

Kinsman’s expression darkened. “I did not know he had survived. Thought the bastard had died or fled so far no one would ever find him. I made my way to Glasgow after the Clearances, worked on the docks, tried to forget. Then, but a few weeks past, I heard whispers: a Scottish laird in Hertfordshire, newly come into English property through some distant relation. Got curious. Made my way south and went to Meryton, asked questions.” He leant forward. “Saw him coming out of the church one Sunday, playing the fine gentleman with his daughter and his servants. That is Hamish McLeod. I would know that face anywhere, even after ten years. He has his father's eyes and his grandfather's nose.”

“Can you prove it? Can you provide testimony that would stand up to scrutiny in a court of law?”

“None other than what I know,” he replied. “Especially since he has all the documentation claiming to be who he is.”

“And yet,” the Colonel spoke for the first time, “according to my investigations, you yourself have an interesting history, Mr Kinsman. Whispers of stolen cattle during the eviction riots. Possibly assault on excise officers who were assisting the factors. Am I to place my trust in the word of a man with such a past?”

Kinsman's face darkened with anger, and his hands clenched into fists on the scarred table. “Aye, I took back cattle that belonged to my clan before the factors seized them to pay the landlord's debts. I may have struck men who were helping to turn out families into the snow to die. You think that makes me a liar about this? You think it makes what I saw any less true?”

“I think it makes your testimony questionable in any court of law,” said Darcy. “Your grievance against the factor's family is evident, and revenge is a powerful motive for false accusation.”

“Then get your own proof,” Kinsman snapped, pushing back from the table as though he might rise and leave. “Go to Skye yourself. Find the folk who knew the real Malcolm MacKinnon. Find the minister who kept the parish records before the fire. Talk to the doctor who tended Malcolm when he was dying. But do not sit there in your fine London clothes calling me liar when I tell you what I saw with my own eyes and carry with me every damned day.” He pulled a stack of documents from his bag and shoved it at Darcy. “Look, man, other than my word, all I have are the kirk records that were reconstructed after the fire destroyed the original ones. I daresay they have been forged, but I shall leave it up to you to determine that.”

Darcy held the man's angry gaze. Kinsman’s pain seemed genuine enough, his rage at old injustices palpable. Yet pain and truth were not always aligned, and rage could drive a man to say anything if it served his purpose.

“What do you want from this?” Darcy asked Kinsman directly, watching the man's face for any sign of deception. “What is your purpose in coming forward now?”

“Coin, but also justice,” Kinsman said, and there was something raw in his voice. “The real Malcolm MacKinnon died defending folk who had nothing. He deserves better than having his name and title stolen by the factor's whelp who helped destroy them.”

“And you?” Darcy turned to Wickham, making no effort to hide his distaste.

“Merely what is owed to me, dear Darcy.” He held up the purse. “Though I suppose I could be persuaded to share additional information I possess, for additional compensation, naturally.”

“I need proof,” Darcy said finally, rising from the table. “Not accusations, not convenient stories. Irrefutable evidence that would stand up to scrutiny. The Bennets might not believe me otherwise.”

“Then find it,” Kinsman said, his eyes hard. “Before that girl marries a fraud and it becomes too late for any of us to stop it.”

***

Darcy returned to his townhouse through dark London streets, his greatcoat pulled tight against the cold that seemed to seep through wool and linen to settle in his very bones.

In his study, he found himself poring over the kirk records Kinsman had provided. He could not focus on the estate correspondence that awaited his attention. The letters lay untouched on his desk, reports from his steward at Pemberley, requests for decisions about tenant leases and crop rotations and matters that had seemed important that morning but now appeared trivial.

Somewhere in Hertfordshire, Elizabeth was preparing for a wedding that might bind her to a man whose very identity was fabricated.

His hand gripped the edge of his desk until the wood bit into his palm.

Shaking his head, Darcy pulled the kirk records towards him once more, though he had already studied them so thoroughly he could have recited every entry from memory.

The baptismal entries were there in faded ink on an old, crumpled sheet of partially burnt parchment. He could hardly make out the date for Malcolm MacKinnon's christening. The other document offered another entry several years later for what appeared to be the same name. The accompanying note offered explanations that seemed reasonable enough on the surface: records reconstructed after fire, clerical errors during the chaos of troubled times, and the confusion that had reigned when so many had died or fled.

Or the careful, deliberate insertion of false entries to support a fabricated identity, created by someone desperate enough to steal a dead man's entire existence.

Darcy traced the faded ink with one finger, and then he saw what he had missed before in his earlier, less careful examinations.

The handwriting in the second entry was not merely unlike the first. It was distinct from all the surrounding entries as well, as though written by someone attempting to match the style of the original record-keeper but not quite succeeding. And the ink: when he held the page close to the lamp, he could see it was a slightly different shade, fresher somehow, as though it had been added years after the entries surrounding it.

His chest tightened. This was not mere clerical error or innocent confusion. This was deliberate falsification.

Yet it still proved nothing that would stand up in court. A clever barrister could explain it away: a different minister filling in gaps, an assistant with different handwriting helping to reconstruct damaged records, especially since the original record was hardly discernible because of the fire damage. He needed more. He needed additional witnesses who had known the real Malcolm MacKinnon, who could swear to his appearance and character and confirm beyond doubt that the man at Longbourn was not who he claimed to be.

“I do this for you, Elizabeth,” he said quietly to the empty room, not caring that he had now taken to speaking alone like a demented individual. “Not to win your regard, nor to claim you for myself. Simply to ensure you know the truth before you bind yourself irrevocably.”

The fire crackled in response, and outside the rain continued its steady drum against the windows. Darcy sat alone in his study, surrounded by documents that accused but did not prove.

Darcy gathered the papers with careful hands and locked them securely in his desk drawer. Then he extinguished the lamps one by one and made his way upstairs through the dark house. In his chamber, he dismissed his valet and stood alone at the window, looking out over London's sleeping streets whilst his mind refused to grant him any peace.