Page 58 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

Mrs Fraser's lip curled. “How... sentimental. I shall speak with Malcolm about the pearls. It would not do for his bride to appear before the parish looking like a governess.”

She departed without awaiting a response, leaving Elizabeth to wonder, not for the first time, what offence she had given to earn such pointed dislike. The old woman had taken against her from their first introduction and had not softened since. Perhaps it was simply that Elizabeth was English, or that her family lacked the ancient lineage Mrs Fraser prized, or that she had brought no fortune to recommend her. Whatever the cause, the woman's coldness served as yet another reminder of what awaited her in Scotland, far from everyone and everything familiar.

The gown blurred before her eyes. She blinked rapidly to clear them. She would not weep. There was nothing to weep over. She had made her choice, and she would see it through.

A commotion in the entrance hall below drew her attention. Voices she could not distinguish, followed by Hill's measured tread upon the stairs. A moment later, the housekeeper appeared at her door.

“Miss Elizabeth, Mr Bingley has called. He asks to speak with you and Miss Bennet and your mother. Most particular about it, he was.”

Elizabeth set aside her sewing. Mr Bingley had not called at Longbourn since his hopes of Jane had been quietly set aside. He had departed months ago and none had expected to see him here again. She calculated in her mind – the lease on Netherfield had to have run out already. Perhaps he’d come to settle it, or to collect belongings. In any case, why would he be calling on them?

It was too late for a condolence call. Besides, his sister, Mrs Hurst, and her husband had called on them the week after her father’s death and had conveyed condolences from the entire Bingley family.

Had this to do with Mr Darcy? She couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope.

“Where is Mr MacKinnon?”

“Gone to Meryton on business, miss,” replied the housekeeper. “He is not expected back until midday.”

“Very well. Tell Mr Bingley we shall join him directly.”

She found Jane already descending the stairs, her sister's countenance showing the same puzzlement Elizabeth felt. They exchanged glances but did not speak, conscious of Mrs Fraser watching from the upper landing with undisguised curiosity, and Mrs Douglas hovering near the morning room door with her arms folded across her chest.

Mrs Bennet emerged from the breakfast room, her cap askew and her expression torn between pleasure at receiving a caller and suspicion at his unexpected appearance. “Mr Bingley! What a surprise. We did not look for visitors this morning. Had I known, I should have had Cook prepare something suitable, though I confess the household has been in such upheaval with preparations...”

“Forgive my intrusion, madam.” Bingley's voice held none of its usual warmth. “I come on a matter of some urgency. Might we speak privately? You and Miss Jane and Miss Elizabeth.”

Lydia, Mary, and Kitty, who had joined them in the entrance hall, looked at Bingley with undisguised curiosity.

“What about us?” Lydia demanded impetuously.

“Hush, Lydia, do not be rude,” Mrs Bennet admonished. “Let us adjourn to the parlour, Mr Bingley. Hill, we are not to be disturbed.”

Elizabeth felt Mrs Fraser's gaze upon her back as they crossed the hall, heard Moira's disappointed protest as Mrs Douglas shepherded the child upstairs. Whatever Mr Bingley had come to say, he clearly wished no witnesses beyond those he had named.

The parlour felt smaller than usual with the four of them gathered within it. A fire crackled in the grate, and the mantel clock ticked steadily, marking seconds that seemed to stretch longer than they ought. Bingley did not sit, though Mrs Bennet indicated a chair. He stood near the fireplace, his complexion pale beneath its usual ruddiness, turning the satchel over in his hands.

“Mr Bingley.” Elizabeth broke the silence when it had stretched past bearing. “You said the matter was urgent.”

“Yes.” He paused, gathering himself. “I scarcely know how to begin. What I must tell you will come as a considerable shock. I beg you hear me out before drawing conclusions.”

Jane had settled onto the settee beside their mother, hands folded in her lap with that stillness she adopted when bracing for difficulty. Elizabeth remained standing, some instinct warning her she would need to act before this interview concluded.

“Pray continue.”

He lifted his eyes to hers, and she saw real distress in their depths. “The man you know as Malcolm MacKinnon is not who he claims to be.”

Mrs Bennet made a sound of confusion, but Bingley pressed forward before she could form words.

“His true name is Hamish McLeod. He was born the son of a factor on the MacKinnon estates in Skye, not the heir as he has represented. The real Malcolm MacKinnon died in 1805, during the Clearances that swept through the Highlands. He lies buried in Kilmuir kirkyard, where the parish minister has served forty years and can attest to these facts under oath.”

Elizabeth gripped the back of a chair, feeling the blood drain from her face.

“Mr McLeod assumed the dead man's identity after the Clearances and has maintained the deception these ten years.” Bingley's words came faster now, as though he feared losing courage if he paused. “The minister noted both boys' eye colour in the parish register, as was his custom. Malcolm MacKinnon possessed dark eyes and fair hair. Hamish McLeod's are quite distinct in colour.” He held Elizabeth's gaze.

“Preposterous.” Mrs Bennet's voice emerged thin and reedy. “Who has told you such lies? What possible reason could anyone have for inventing such a tale?”

“I have documentary proof, madam.” Bingley touched the satchel. “The evidence would satisfy any court in England or Scotland. I daresay he maintained the pretence in a bid to become Master of Longbourn and thus secure his daughter’s future.”