Page 57 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

"I am."

"To Longbourn. Where Miss Bennet is."

“I am. But you said you had to go anyhow, to settle things with Mr Morris.”

Bingley grimaced. “A visit I might have conducted without calling on the Bennets.”

Before Darcy could reply, the door opened once more, and Georgiana came in—still in her travelling pelisse of dark blue wool, her cheeks bright with cold, Mrs Annesley following a step behind and shaking the snow from her cloak.

"Fitzwilliam. I did not think to find you still awake." Georgiana crossed to embrace him. "We made better time than the coachman promised. And Mr Bingley." She beamed at him. “How lovely to see you. Will you spend Christmas with us?”

“No,” he said. “I am afraid not, but you shall see me again soon.” He smiled at Darcy while Georgiana’s eyebrows rose.

“Oh?”

"Never mind all that. Is everything settled?” he wanted to ask about Elizabeth but knew he could not involve his sister further in the matter.

Her face lit, then softened. "Yes. I finished the last lessons with young Moira and she will continue her studies once they settle in Scotland after the wedding.”

She stopped. “Have you heard?”

“Heard what?” Darcy asked.

Georgiana glanced from her brother to Bingley, and back. She drew a breath. "It has been moved forward. They are to marry at Christmas now—not January. Miss Elizabeth is to leave for Scotland directly the ceremony is done. They mean to winter at his estate on Skye."

The fire settled in the grate. Darcy felt the words go through him.

"Christmas," he said. "That is less than a week."

"Yes. A common license was arranged for, Lady Lucas spoke of it at breakfast, quite as though I already knew." Georgiana's voice gentled. "I am sorry, brother. I would not have had you hear it in this manner, but you deserved to know."

Darcy stood very still. Then, slowly, he turned to Bingley—who was already on his feet, who had heard every word, and whose face wore the particular look of a man watching his own half-formed hopes overtaken by another's necessity.

"Bingley," Darcy said. "How would you feel about going down to Netherfield a little early?"

For a moment Bingley said nothing. Then a slow, unsteady smile crossed his face—equal parts dread and hope, the smile of a man who has just been handed the very thing he feared to ask for.

"I should feel," he said, "that we had neither of us a moment to lose."

Chapter 19

The wedding gown hung from the wardrobe door, its ivory silk catching what pale light filtered through the December clouds. Elizabeth stood before it with needle and thread, setting the final stitches in the lace at the bodice whilst her thoughts wandered far from her work.

A few days only remained until she would speak vows binding her to a potentially dubious man she did not love, in exchange for security she could not otherwise provide.

A knock at her chamber door preceded the entrance of Great-Aunt Fraser. The old woman surveyed Elizabeth with the expression of barely concealed disapproval she had worn since her first moment at Longbourn.

“Still at your needlework, I see.” Mrs Fraser's voice carried the particular frost she reserved for her nephew's betrothed. “In Scotland, we employ seamstresses for such tasks. A lady of standing does not labour over her own garments like a tradesman's daughter.”

Elizabeth set another stitch. “In Hertfordshire, we take pride in our handiwork, ma'am. My mother taught me the value of attending to such matters personally.”

“Your mother.” Mrs Fraser's tone rendered the words an indictment. “Yes, I have observed much of what your mother has taught you.”

She moved further into the room without invitation, her dark eyes sweeping over the modest furnishings with evident disdain. Her fingers, heavy with rings that spoke of old Scottish wealth, brushed across the coverlet on Elizabeth's bed as though testing its quality and finding it wanting.

“Scottish brides traditionally wear pearls,” Mrs Fraser continued, her gaze settling upon the simple gold cross at Elizabeth's throat. “I suppose you have nothing suitable of your own to wear on the day.”

“My father gave me this cross when I turned sixteen. I had thought to wear it.”