Page 71 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

By the time she descended to the breakfast room, the house had erupted into the cheerful chaos that marked Christmas Eve at Pemberley. Servants bustled through corridors bearing armfuls of greenery, the scent of pine and holly mingling with the rich aroma of Cook's mince pies emerging from the ovens below. Through the tall windows, snow lay thick upon the grounds, turning the formal gardens into a landscape from a child's picture book.

Jane sat by the fire with young Thomas in her lap, the child gnawing contentedly upon a silver rattle whilst his mother attempted to prevent him from inserting it into his nose. At ten months, the Bingley heir had developed a firm conviction that all objects existed primarily for oral exploration, and his current focus upon the rattle represented a victory, given his earlier designs upon the fireplace poker.

“Lizzy!” Jane's face brightened as Elizabeth entered. “Come and sit. You look tired. Are you sleeping enough? Is Darcy making certain you rest?”

“Darcy is making certain I do nothing but rest. If he had his way, I should be wrapped in cotton wool and stored in a cabinet until June.”

“He worries. It is rather sweet.”

“It is rather maddening.” Elizabeth lowered herself into the chair opposite, accepting the cup of chocolate Jane pressed into her hands. “Though I suppose I cannot fault him. He has been practising his concerned expression in the mirror. It is becoming quite accomplished.”

The breakfast room filled gradually as the house party descended, drawn by the smell of food and the promise of entertainment. Mrs Bennet arrived in a gown of startling yellow, her voice preceding her by several seconds as she issued instructions to no one in particular about the arrangement of chairs, the temperature of the rooms, and the shocking state of roads between Hertfordshire and Derbyshire.

“Lizzy, my dear, you must not exert yourself. Do not sit so near the draught. Jane, put a screen to that window. Mr Darcy, I trust you are ensuring she takes proper care? In my day, a woman in her condition was not permitted to lift so much as a teacup. Mrs Long's daughter walked too much during her confinement and the child came out with exceedingly long legs. Like a stork. You would not wish for a stork-legged grandchild, I am certain.”

Elizabeth concealed a smile. “I shall endeavour to remain stationary, Mama.”

Kitty came in a moment later with her portfolio under one arm and set it against the wall with elaborate carelessness. Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane. Kitty's artistic pursuits had blossomed remarkably over the past two years, transforming a silly girl with no particular talents into a young woman of quiet accomplishment. Her landscapes now decorated several rooms at Pemberley, and Mr Worthington's interest, whilst professionally motivated, was not entirely without a personal dimension that Kitty affected not to notice but clearly did.

The morning dissolved into the pleasant chaos of family, punctuated by Thomas's periodic attempts to escape his mother's lap and explore the fascinating world of breakable objects. Mrs Bennet held forth on topics ranging from the excellence of Pemberley's housekeeping to the shocking price of ribbons in Meryton to the proper management of lying-in, a subject upon which she considered herself the foremost authority in England.

Darcy materialised at Elizabeth's elbow, as he had done approximately every quarter hour since breakfast began. “Are you comfortable, my dear? Not too warm? Not too cold? Should I have another cushion brought?”

“I am in possession of sufficient cushions to furnish a small palace. Any additional cushions and I shall be unable to locate my own person among them.”

“I require you to stop hovering like an anxious moth. You are making Mama nervous, and when Mama is nervous, she talks. More than usual, I mean. Which I had not previously believed possible.”

He had the grace to look abashed, though he did not actually retreat. Elizabeth suspected he had positioned himself to catch her should she suddenly topple, an eventuality she considered unlikely given that she was firmly wedged into an armchair and surrounded by the aforementioned cushions.

Elizabeth found a quiet moment in the library as evening approached, retreating briefly from the noise to rest her feet and gather her thoughts. She had just settled into her favourite chair by the window when the footman appeared with the afternoon post.

Among the cards and letters, two packets bore Scottish postmarks. Elizabeth's breath caught as she recognised the handwriting on the smaller one, the careful script of a child who had once wept and called her a liar for breaking promises she had never intended to keep. They had been corresponding ever since, a tradition now two years old.

She opened Moira's letter first.

The girl wrote of her life in Edinburgh, of the academy where she had lately begun studying Italian in addition to French, of her stepmother Aileen who was teaching her to bake proper Scottish shortbread. She wrote of her baby brother Callum, born in the autumn, whom she adored despite his tendency to cry through the night. And she closed with words that brought moisture to Elizabeth's eyes:

Thank you for teaching my papa that truth is better than comfort. And thank you for showing me that English ladies can be brave and kind. I hope you are very happy with your Mr Darcy, and I hope your baby is as bonny as my wee brother.

This time, there was a short letter enclosed from Hamish. He wrote of his business, which prospered modestly under his true name, and of his continued efforts to assist the families displaced during the Clearances. He wrote of Aileen and their son, of Moira's accomplishments at school, of the contentment he had found in honesty after so many years of deception.

You gave me the gift of knowing myself, he wrote. I spent ten years wearing a dead man's name like armour, believing it protected me, when in truth it only prevented me from healing. You showed me that the truth, however painful, is preferable to the most comfortable lie. May your marriage be built upon that same foundation, and may it bring you every happiness you deserve.

Elizabeth folded the letters carefully and tucked them into her pocket. Whatever pain Hamish had caused, whatever deception he had practised, he had given her in the end the gift that mattered most. Without his final act of honesty, she might never have found her way to the life she now possessed.

The door opened, and Darcy entered, drawn no doubt by some sixth sense that told him she had been alone for more than five minutes.

“Letters from Scotland,” she said, holding them up. “Moira and Hamish send their Christmas blessings. He has remarried, you know. A Scottish widow named Aileen. They have a son.”

Darcy settled into the chair opposite, his long legs stretched toward the fire. “I am glad to hear it. He deserved the chance to build something true.”

“That is generous of you.”

“It is not generosity. It is merely justice.” He paused, his gaze moving to her face with that searching quality she had come to know so well. “You have been weeping.”

“Only a little. Moira writes that she hopes our baby is bonny. She has forgiven me, I think, for not becoming her mother.”

“You would have been a good mother to her.”