Page 42 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

Malcolm's countenance grew ashen. “Nay, child. I shall not shout again.”

When the sound of Moira's footsteps had faded in the passage above, Elizabeth found herself alone with a man who seemed barely in control of his own emotions. The contrast with his usual composure was so stark that she felt as though she were looking at a stranger.

“Troubling news from Scotland?” Elizabeth ventured, her voice carefully gentle.

Malcolm moved to the window, his shoulders rigid beneath his coat. “Business correspondence. Nothing that need concern you.”

Elizabeth waited in silence, having learned that patience often succeeded where direct questioning failed. The quality of Malcolm's silence spoke more eloquently than words, filled as it was with tension and barely suppressed fear.

“Some matters,” Malcolm said at length, his voice hollow, “resist burial despite one's best efforts. The past has a way of reaching forward to claim what it believes it is owed.”

“And this concerns Moira's safety?”

“Moira need never know of such things.” His hands trembled slightly as he folded the letter, though whether from anger or fear Elizabeth could not determine. “She is innocent of any wrongdoing.”

Elizabeth moved closer, studying the rigid line of his shoulders. “Mr MacKinnon, if there is danger threatening our household…”

“No harm shall touch this dwelling,” he interrupted, turning to meet her gaze with fierce intensity. “Upon my honour, Elizabeth. Whatever else may come to pass, I will not permit the past to poison the future I am trying to build.”

His choice of words struck her as oddly ominous. Whatever else may come to pass. What did he anticipate? What shadows from Scotland were reaching across the border to threaten their peaceful existence?

Before Elizabeth could frame another question, her mother's voice rang forth from the entrance hall with that particular pitch that signalled domestic crisis of the highest order.

“Lizzy! Where has Lizzy disappeared to? The flowers will not order themselves, and the dressmaker requires immediate consultation about the sleeve length, and Mrs Long has taken it upon herself to suggest alterations to the wedding breakfast menu that I find absolutely insufferable!”

Elizabeth pressed her eyes closed momentarily. The wedding date approached with mounting dread rather than anticipated joy, each passing day bringing fresh evidence that gratitude and wounded pride formed inadequate foundations for matrimony.

“Your mother experiences considerable anxiety regarding the wedding arrangements,” Malcolm observed, a ghost of his customary gentle humour attempting to resurface.

“Anxiety fails to encompass the full extent of her condition,” Elizabeth replied with manufactured lightness. “She has transformed wedding preparation into military strategy of the most complex and exhausting order.”

Malcolm turned from the window to study her features with uncomfortable intensity. “Elizabeth, if doubts plague you concerning our arrangement, if this engagement has grown distasteful or burdensome, you need only speak the words. I would not hold you to promises made under duress.”

Such gentle consideration nearly undid her composure entirely. How might she explain that her uncertainty arose not from any deficiency in his character, but from the growing conviction that safety and comfort, however appealing, might prove insufficient foundations for a lifetime's happiness? He possessed every admirable quality, displayed every consideration a woman could desire. Yet when she attempted to envision their future together, the prospect appeared strangely lacking in warmth and colour, not unlike a watercolour painting left too long in harsh sunlight.

“You are exceedingly kind,” she replied with careful precision. “I confess myself somewhat overwhelmed by the scope of Mama's enthusiasms.”

His eyes searched her countenance as though seeking some deeper truth, yet whatever intelligence he gleaned appeared to satisfy him. “Then we shall confront her enthusiasms as allies, united against the forces of superfluous ornamentation and excessive decoration.”

Elizabeth contrived a smile, though it felt fragile as spun glass upon her lips. Mrs Bennet's voice grew more insistent with each passing moment, and duty's call could not be indefinitely ignored.

The sound of carriage wheels upon gravel provided a welcome interruption to the morning's domestic trials. Through the window, Elizabeth observed Sir William Lucas handing down his eldest daughter Maria, followed by Georgiana Darcy.

“Miss Darcy!” Moira's delighted cry rang through the house as she raced down the stairs, apparently recovered from her earlier distress.

Elizabeth joined the welcoming party in the entrance hall, where Mrs Bennet was already expressing excessive and somewhat embarrassing gratitude to the Lucas family for their escort of Miss Darcy through the winter countryside.

“Miss Darcy,” Elizabeth said warmly, taking the young woman's gloved hands in her own. “How very good of you to venture out for Moira’s lesson on such a bitter day. I trust your brother accompanies you as usual?” Her eyes moved involuntarily toward the door, expecting to see Mr Darcy's tall figure following in his sister's wake.

“I am afraid not,” Georgiana replied with a shy smile that transformed her habitually serious countenance. “Fitzwilliam departed for London on urgent business matters. He assured me he would return within two days, though I confess I miss his company terribly when he is away.”

Elizabeth felt an unexpected pang of disappointment, followed immediately by confusion at her own reaction. Up until this instant, she had not quite fathomed how accustomed she had grown to Mr Darcy's presence during Moira's lessons. Indeed, she found herself wondering when exactly their philosophical discussions and verbal sparring matches had become something she anticipated with such keen interest.

Her gaze fell automatically upon her left hand, where Malcolm's cairngorm ring caught the pale light streaming through the hall windows. The sight served as a sharp and necessary reminder of her circumstances. She was betrothed. She had accepted Malcolm's proposal and would soon bear his name. These wayward thoughts regarding Mr Darcy were not merely inappropriate but potentially destructive to any hope of future contentment with her chosen path.

“Of course,” she managed, forcing brightness into her tone. “London business must always take precedence over social calls. Moira will be delighted to have your undivided attention today, Miss Darcy.”

Yet even as she spoke these appropriate words, Elizabeth could not entirely banish the treacherous thought that two days seemed an uncommonly long time to await someone's return. The recognition of this sentiment brought a flush of shame to her cheeks, and she turned quickly away before her expression could betray her thoughts to the assembled company.