Page 6 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

The letter from Bingley included details of the funeral arrangements, relayed to him by the Hursts. Saturday next. Darcy calculated the journey time. He could be there in time. London was mere hours from Longbourn.

The impulse to go seized him immediately, followed just as swiftly by doubt. Would his presence not cause her distress? She had accused him of pride, of an ungentlemanlike disregard for the feelings of others. To appear at her father's funeral when they had parted on such terms would be precisely the sort of presumption she had condemned.

He imagined arriving at the church, seeing her face when she recognised him amongst the mourners. Would she think him intrusive? Overbearing? Would his presence remind her of that dreadful proposal at the very moment when she ought to be focused on her grief?

No. He could not go. His attendance would serve only his own need to see her, to assure himself of her welfare. It would be selfish, thoughtless. All the things she had rightly accused him of being.

By the time he returned to the house, mud-splattered and exhausted, his decision was made. He would not attend the funeral. He would not write to express condolences. He would not insert himself into Elizabeth's grief in any visible way.

But neither could he dismiss the image of her facing an uncertain future, her father's protection lost, her home about to be taken from her.

The days that followed were amongst the longest of Darcy's life. The funeral came and went. Darcy did not attend, though he thought of little else that entire day. He imagined the service, the burial, the gathering afterwards. He imagined Elizabeth's composure in the face of her grief, her return to Longbourn to face the grim task of preparing for displacement.

Bingley wrote again a week later. Mr Morris, Netherfield’s owner, had attended the funeral and provided Bingley with details. According to him, the funeral had been well attended. The Bennets were bearing up as well as could be expected. The Scottish heir was expected within a month. Miss Bennet looked pale and drawn. Rumour had it that Miss Elizabeth had taken charge of cataloguing the household, preparing for their removal.

That last detail made Darcy's chest tighten. Elizabeth, cataloguing her own home for a stranger. Sorting through her father's possessions, deciding what could be kept and what must be left behind. Managing everything whilst her mother collapsed and her younger sisters failed to comprehend the magnitude of their situation.

He wanted, desperately, to do something. But what? His interference had already caused sufficient harm. His misguided attempts to separate Bingley from Jane had deprived Elizabeth's sister of the very protection that might have saved the family from destitution. Had Bingley married Jane, as he ought to have been allowed to do, the Bennets would have had a secure future.

Instead, Darcy's pride had ensured they would face poverty and displacement.

The guilt sat heavy on his conscience, made worse by the knowledge that he had no means of making amends. Any assistance he might offer would be rejected, and rightly so. He had forfeited any claim to her good opinion, any right to concern himself with her welfare.

All he could do was wait, and wonder, and wish with bitter futility that things had been different between them.

The autumn afternoon faded into evening. Darcy remained at his desk long after the light had gone, staring into the darkness beyond the window. Somewhere to the south, Elizabeth Bennet was preparing to lose everything.

And he could do nothing but think of her, and regret all that he had cost her through his pride.

Chapter 3

The post-chaise turned into the drive just past noon. Elizabeth, arranging accounts in the morning room, heard the wheels upon gravel before she saw the equipage. Mrs Bennet flew to the window.

“He is here! Lizzy, fetch Jane at once. Your hair! Oh, where is Hill? The tea things are not prepared. Was she able to source some more tea leaves? We are not ready!”

“Mama, Jane has gone to church with Lady Lucas. As for our visitor, he inherits a house, not a bride. We need not perform.”

Mrs Bennet's hands fluttered to her cap. “Do not be pert. First impressions matter greatly when—”

Footsteps sounded in the hall. Hill's measured tread, then another, heavier. A man's voice carried through the partly open door, rich with a lilt Elizabeth had not anticipated.

“Aye, a bonnie house. Near a fortnight from Skye is no small journey, but the roads improved south of Northampton. We changed horses at Carlisle. Decent stock there.”

Elizabeth stilled. Warmth, not the cold formality she had braced for. Laughter followed, genuine and unforced.

“No need for ceremony. There has been a death. I shall not stand on propriety.”

Mrs Bennet's mouth opened. Closed. She gripped Elizabeth's arm.

The door swung wide. Hill entered, her expression neutral as always. “Mr Malcolm MacKinnon, madam.”

The gentleman who followed was broad-shouldered and tall — that much she registered at once. Auburn hair, tied back but showing a tendency to curl. A pale seam of old scar ran from beneath his left ear to the point of his jaw, faded almost to the colour of his skin; she caught herself looking at it and made herself stop. His hands, weathered and strong, bore no rings. When he bowed, the movement was easy rather than studied.

“Mrs Bennet. Miss Bennet.” His grey-green eyes were direct.“I am deeply sorry for your loss. I wish I had reached you sooner. The letter took near a fortnight to Skye. Mail to the islands is uncertain. It depends on the weather, the ferry crossings. Ten days at best. A fortnight when the seas are rough.”

Plain speech. No elaborate condolences. Elizabeth had braced for flowery sentiment or, worse, Mr Collins's brand of unctuous sympathy. This was neither.

Mrs Bennet found her tongue. “You are very kind, sir. We understood you might be delayed, the distance being so considerable.”