Page 8 of Elizabeth Bennet and the Scottish Laird

“Poor management, or bad luck?”

“Misfortune. Their eldest son was killed at Waterloo. The second son has consumption. They are down to hired labour, and it shows in the harvest.”

MacKinnon made a note. “What are the rents?”

“Hendricks pays one hundred and twenty pounds per annum. The Abbotts, eighty. Three smaller holdings at forty pounds each.”

“And arrears?”

“The Abbotts owe two quarters. I did not press them.” She met his gaze. “They are good people in difficult circumstances.”

“Quite right.” He turned the page. “What about drainage? The land hereabouts looks flat. Surely there are issues after heavy rain.”

“The south pasture floods in winter. Papa had planned to install tile drainage but never managed it. The expense was considerable.”

“How much?”

She told him. He made another note, his expression thoughtful.

They continued thus for more than an hour. MacKinnon asked about timber sales, the state of the cottages, repairs needed before winter. Which tenants were reliable, which required supervision. Whether the mill pond was properly maintained. If poaching was a problem. In the corner where she sat, Mrs Bennet began to yawn. Hill, who had remained near the door throughout — ostensibly to attend to any household need, but in truth standing sentinel — shifted slightly and cleared her throat. Mrs Bennet straightened at once, her embroidery needle resuming its dutiful motion.

“The deer from Netherfield wander onto our land,” Elizabeth said. “Mr Bingley leased the estate last autumn. He has departed now, but he does not mind if our tenants take one occasionally. It helps with the winter provisions.”

“This is quite generous of him.”

“He is a generous man.” Her voice caught slightly as she remembered how pale and drawn Jane had been after Bingley's abrupt departure last November.

MacKinnon glanced up. “You know him well?”

“He was a friend. Briefly.” She turned the page with more force than necessary. “Shall we review the household accounts? I have those as well.”

The household accounts were equally detailed. Coal, candles, wages for the staff. Repairs to the roof. A new stove for the kitchen. MacKinnon examined each entry, asked questions, made notes in a clear, firm hand.

“Your father kept meticulous records,” he said finally, sitting back. “And you have maintained the same standard since his death. No small accomplishment, Miss Bennet.”

“Thank you.”

He closed the last ledger. Tapped his fingers on the leather binding. The rhythmic sound filled the silence. Outside, the light was fading. Soon Hill would come to light the lamps.

“I shall speak plainly, if I may,” MacKinnon said.

Elizabeth's spine straightened. “I prefer plain speech.”

“This estate should be yours by rights. The entail is an injustice, and I shall not pretend otherwise.”

Her chin lifted. “The law is the law, Mr MacKinnon.”

“Aye. But knowing that does not make it fair.” He leaned forwards, his elbows on the desk. “I have a proposition for you. Hear me out before you refuse.”

Mrs Bennet's needle stopped. She set down her embroidery. “A proposition?”

“Aye.” He looked between them, his expression serious. “I have no need of Longbourn, truth be told. My interests are in Skye. My work is there. I have sheep to manage, land to oversee. But the law gives me this estate, and I shall not refuse it when it might solve difficulties for all of us.”

Something cold moved through her. “What difficulties are you proposing to solve?”

“Your family faces displacement within the month. I face inheriting property I do not need and cannot properly manage from Scotland.” His eyes held hers, direct and unflinching. “It seems to me we might help each other.”

“How?” The word came out clipped.