A Matter of Honor

by Abigail Reynolds

  Or perhaps the problem was that she could not stop thinking of the last thing she had embroidered, that bookmark for Mr. Darcy. His dark eyes haunted her, no matter how hard she tried to distract herself, and she kept finding herself remembering the sensation of his lips brushing against hers. Oh, why did he have to find her and raise these regrets for what she could not have?

  The thread became caught, so she tugged harder and it broke. Now she would have to do the entire petal over again. Another mistake caused by Mr. Darcy.

  Why could she not put him out of her mind? When she first came to Scotland, she had felt the loss of many people in her life, but he had not been one of them. The part of her that had been flattered by his offer at Hunsford had quickly been quashed by the disaster following it. Yet she had been flattered again when he tried to speak to her, and hurt when he ignored her that day he visited the theatre with the little girl. Perhaps she had never been as indifferent to him as she thought.

  What did it matter, anyway? There was no future for them. Further contact with him could only bring tragedy. If only she could simply forget the man, and erase him as easily as pulling out her stitches!

  Why should she care that he had followed her to Scotland? He had done that for his honor. He had said as much. How could she believe he truly wished to marry her when he had made such a point of paying no attention to her that day? He must have been ashamed to admit to his friends that he had once cared about her. Yet at Christmas, he had asked her to sit with him and kissed her tenderly under the mistletoe. That meeting might have been an accident, but he had deliberately gone to some trouble to seek her out on Hogmanay.

  Perhaps seeing her at Christmas had rekindled his old affection for her, but then why would he claim to have spent all his time in Scotland because of her? She could make no sense of it.

  Teasing, teasing man! She resolved to think no more of him. Who would want a husband whose affections were so fickle? She ran her thumb lightly over the inside of her wrist where his warm lips had lingered on Hogmanay. Why must the one man she could never have be the one to stir her senses?

  She blew out an annoyed breath between her teeth and tossed her embroidery aside.

  Margaret asked timidly, “Is aught the matter, miss?”

  “Men,” Elizabeth said with heavy meaning.

  “Men are always trouble,” agreed Margaret.

  “They certainly are, especially men who cannot decide what they want and drive women mad trying to guess, and then we are fool enough to still want them.” Elizabeth could not believe she was saying this to a servant, but if it kept running around inside her mind, she would soon be a candidate for Bedlam.

  Margaret eyed her in shock, and then a broad grin spread across her face. “Aye, just so! It is a wonder we dinna lock the doors and never let a one of them in!”

  “I like that idea,” said Elizabeth firmly. “With very big locks.” Otherwise Mr. Darcy would probably try to break down the door. But with luck, the days of Mr. Darcy pursuing her were over. That thought left her with a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  “It took my Charlie two whole years to make up his mind,” the girl confided. “I was ready to pitch him into the loch.”

  “No doubt he deserved it!”

  Margaret laughed. “Aye, that he did.”

  “Is he a local man?”

  “Aye, he works for the laird. Not at the castle, though. He manages one of the farms,” the girl said.

  “The castle?”

  “Castle Lochard, where the laird lives. Now, the laird’s son is a bonny lad, and I would not lock him away if he came calling! ’Twill be a lucky woman who catches his eye.” Margaret seemed to be watching her carefully.

  Elizabeth did not care about the laird, but Margaret’s words reminded her of her promise to her aunt to check on the estate. “I would like to meet some of the tenants here. Will you go with me tomorrow?” She was not looking forward to what was bound to be a reception of barely hidden hostility at best. If they hated her for being English, so be it.

  “Aye, if ye wish.” Margaret turned away and put some coal on the fire. “What was it like, the place ye lived in England?”

  It was not an appropriate question for servant to ask, but it was such an improvement over fear and flinching that Elizabeth decided to overlook it. “My father has a small estate in the countryside not far from London. The house is much the same size as this one, although it is older. The landscape is not nearly as hilly, but very green and pleasant.”

  Margaret hesitated. “Were there tenant farmers there?”

  An odd question. “Yes, a goodly number. When I was small, I liked to stand on the stile and watch them planting in the spring.”

  “Are they still there?”

  “The tenants? Of course. Where else would they be?”

  The girl looked up at her nervously. “I dinna know. It sounds like a pleasant place, though.”

  THE TENANT COTTAGE was tidy but sparsely furnished. A bed in the corner was covered by a much mended blanket. The woman of the house, another Mrs. MacLaren, had wan cheeks, but her eyes showed smile lines, even if her expression was the wary one Elizabeth had come to expect from everyone. Big Tom, the footman Margaret had insisted on bringing with them, hovered behind Elizabeth, making the cottage seem crowded.

  By the small window, a girl of perhaps twelve sat behind a simple loom, her hand nimbly moving the shuttle back and forth.

  “Our Jenny is turning into a fine weaver,” said the woman.

  Elizabeth obediently examined the fabric forming on the loom. It was the now-familiar tartan pattern so many of the MacLarens wore, and the weave seemed even and neat. “Well done,” she said.

  A movement near the hearth caught her attention. A boy perched on a stool, his hands in constant motion as he whittled a small stick.

  “Stand up and make your bow, Andrew,” said the woman firmly.

  The boy carefully set aside his work and reached behind him for a crutch. He struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on the crutch and balancing with his other hand on the stool. Even the small bow made him stumble, but his mother caught his elbow before he could fall. “Good day to ye, Miss Merton,” he said in a raspy childish soprano. He turned his face aside as he coughed.

  “Pray sit!” Elizabeth said, embarrassed. “You need never stand for me.”

  “Andrew is a useful boy, for all he is lame,” said his mother with a mixture of defiance and fear.

  “I can see that.” Elizabeth tried to sound reassuring. “What are you whittling?”

  The boy held it out to her shyly.

  She took the unfinished figure in her hand. A man’s shape, the helmeted head and arms formed already. “A toy soldier?” She had not spent months with Timothy for nothing.

  He bobbed his head.

  His mother placed her hand on his shoulder, her chin forward. “He mostly makes shuttles, handles, and spoons, but when he’s done with his work, he is allowed to make toys.”

  Elizabeth turned over the whittled soldier in her hand. Why was his mother so worried? “I have a young friend at the house, my aunt’s ward, who loves his toy soldiers. He will not allow me to play with them, though. He says I ruin everything because I want the soldiers to solve their problems instead of fighting,” she said with a droll smile.

  Big Tom’s rumbling voice came from behind her, weighed with significance. “He is lame, too. A clubfoot.”

  The woman’s shoulders relaxed a bit.

  The boy piped up, “Girls dinna understand toy soldiers.”

  Elizabeth handed the soldier back to him, noticing how thin and fragile his fingers looked. “I fear we do not!” She turned to his mother. “Timothy is very lonely. He rarely sees other children because he is sickly. If you would be so kind as to permit your Andrew to visit him one day, I would be in your debt.”

  The woman eyed her suspiciously, but shook her head. “Andrew canna walk all that way.”

  Big Tom said, �
�I could bring him in the wagon, if Miss Merton permits.”

  “Of course,” said Elizabeth.

  The woman still hesitated until Tom gave her a decisive nod. “If ye wish it, then, miss.”

  “Good. Timothy will be so happy to meet another boy who likes toy soldiers.” She had hoped the woman would be pleased with the offer, but apparently her distrust of Elizabeth was too strong.

  “’Twill be a rare treat for Andrew, too,” said Big Tom.

  Once they had left the house, Elizabeth asked Margaret, “What was that woman so worried about?”

  “Och, she was afraid ye would want to send her boy away. Him being lame and all, and the family not able to pay their rent,” said Margaret as if that should be obvious to anyone.

  “What kind of monster do they think I am?” exclaimed Elizabeth in annoyance.

  Big Tom rumbled, “They dinna know ye, miss.”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and took a deep breath, but it did nothing to calm her. “Yes. I was born on the other side of the border, so I am a heartless beast until proven otherwise.”

  Margaret repeated Big Tom’s words weakly. “They dinna know ye.” As if she herself did not flinch every time Elizabeth sounded the least bit vexed.

  “Margaret, when that boy comes to the house, he is to be fed all the meat and milk he can eat, and he is to be returned home with a basket of nourishing food.” Elizabeth did not even try to keep her anger from her voice.

  “Aye, miss.” Margaret sounded subdued.

  Chapter 9

  ELIZABETH WAS BREAKFASTING with Timmy the next day when Big Tom brought Andrew to visit, along with an aged three-legged sheepdog. “Bonnie Prince is no longer needed in the fields, and I thought he would keep the two of them out of trouble,” he said with a glint in his eye.

  Timmy fell to his knees beside the dog and began to pet him. “What a good boy you are, Bonnie Prince! Is that his name? I always wanted a dog.”

  “He is verra well-trained, miss,” Big Tom told Elizabeth apologetically.

  “And you thought Timmy would like a dog,” Elizabeth said dryly, but not without warmth.

  Big Tom grinned, apparently not the least troubled to be caught overstepping his position. “Boys and dogs, they go together, miss.”

  Elizabeth knew a losing battle when she faced one. “Big Tom, pray have another breakfast brought for Andrew. Timothy, you must finish yours as well.” She had not missed the longing glances the tenant boy kept giving to their abandoned meal.

  “But I want to play!” cried Timmy, as if she had threatened to imprison him for life.

  “And play you shall. After breakfast.”

  Elizabeth stayed in the nursery long enough to make certain the toy soldiers did not come out until both boys had eaten their fill. The minute they finished, they began setting out their armies, one for each of them and one for Bonnie Prince, who was apparently a warlord in disguise as a dog. By then Timmy had completely forgotten her existence, so she decided it was a good time to take the long walk she had been promising herself.

  She left the house quietly and headed down the lane towards the loch, but once she was out of sight of the house, she doubled back and cut across the heath. If she kept walking towards the tallest hill, she should reach the forbidden path with no one the wiser. It was harder going than she expected, with the dead-looking gorse branches catching at her pelisse, but she found the path without a problem. Good; the house was still out of sight. She smiled. How foolish did they think she was?

  She stuffed her hands inside her muff and set off at a vigorous pace, hoping the exercise would keep her warm.

  Nothing untoward was apparent in the first mile or two as she climbed the mountain at a steady pace. The path was not washed out, nor did she encounter wildcats or a horrid man with a vicious dog, unless said dog was cleverly disguised as a placid sheep. There were a few icy patches, but they were rare and far between. If anything, this path seemed better traveled than the others she had taken.

  She shaded her eyes with her hand. Was that some sort of building behind the crag? It might be a simple outcropping. It was hard to see clearly with the sun so low in the sky, but she thought she saw smoke rising from it.

  She would have to turn back soon if she wanted to return to Kinloch House before dark, but first she would go as far as the ruined tower or rock outcropping, whichever it might be. The prospect of returning to Kinloch House was not unappealing, though. The cold had sunk into her bones and she could barely feel her toes. Tomorrow she would have to get an earlier start if she wanted to explore farther.

  Yes, it was some sort of structure. Half ruined stone walls and what must have been a tower, and scraggly thatch forming a roof over part of it. Someone had lived there, and recently.

  This must be the secret no one wanted her to find. She slowed her pace. Perhaps it would be wiser not to go straight up to it. She could circle around and see if she could find a hint as to the mysterious inhabitants.

  But it was already too late. A gaunt, beak-nosed older man strode towards her, his hands buried in the pockets of his greatcoat. “This is no place for a lass alone. Ye maun turn about and never return.” His dialect was thick, but she recognized his voice.

  “I know you,” she said slowly. “You stopped the carriage on the road the day I came to Kinloch.”

  He tipped his head to one side. “Then you must be Mrs. MacLaren’s niece.” He stepped forward and tugged on her muffler. “The one who is not a MacLaren and is therefore not entitled to wear the MacLaren plaid.” His voice was silky and dangerous. The thick accent had disappeared as if had never existed.

  “I know. Mrs. MacLaren – the housekeeper, not my aunt – insisted I wear it whenever I go out.”

  The gleam of teeth showed. “A wise woman. It saved you from being shot a few minutes ago.” He said it as calmly as if he had been commenting on the weather.

  “How very inhospitable.” Fear prickled at Elizabeth’s neck, but she would not let him see it.

  “The housekeeper should have warned you against taking this path.”

  “She did, and so did everyone else. I have been told that the path was washed out, icy, and dangerous. Others told me there were wildcats and starving foxes prowling this trail. One person mentioned a pack of rabid dogs and an old madman. One bold soul even mentioned wolves, which I understand are extinct in Scotland except along this very path. I had hoped someone would be more inventive, but no one mentioned werewolves or Macbeth’s witches as a reason to avoid this trail. How disappointing to discover the only threat is something as mundane as a gun.”

  He drew a pistol out of his pocket. “Guns may be mundane, but they are deadly. Now I suggest you turn back and forget you ever saw me here.”

  “Pardon me, but would it not be difficult to explain to my aunt that you shot and killed her niece for the crime of walking on her own land?” If he had not shot her by now, she suspected it was because he did not dare. “Perhaps you missed the point of my story, which is that vague warnings against doing something are not likely to deter me.”

  He did not look amused. “You do not know what you are facing, and you are better off that way.”

  She lifted her chin. “I daresay I am facing one of Auld Jack’s men.”

  “Tsk. Who has been telling you stories?” He ran his finger along the barrel of the pistol.

  “Very few men stop carriages along the highway for no apparent reason. It is clear to me that my uncle knew of your presence here and turned a blind eye, and I suspect my aunt does as well. Since my aunt expects to leave her property to me, I wonder why you are trying so hard to make an enemy of me.”

  He raised his eyebrows, an amused smile hovering over his lips. “Touché.”

  “Do many Scottish bandits employ French fencing terminology? It makes me wonder why an educated man who has some acquaintance with the sport of fencing is now a bandit in this godforsaken place.”

  His smile was replaced by a cool look. “Yo
u will simply have to wonder. But you have accused me of being inhospitable. Would you care to come in and warm yourself before you undertake the walk home? We usually do not allow ourselves a fire during the day to avoid our smoke being seen, but we have made an exception for today. Of course, you would be alone among bandits.” His mocking tone told her he knew no young lady could accept such an invitation.

  He did not know Elizabeth Bennet. “Thank you. I would be glad of a little warmth.”

  He tapped his finger on the pistol barrel. “You are an unusual one.”

  “I do not like being underestimated,” said Elizabeth with a touch of acidity. “Besides, if I will one day have to decide your fate, it behooves me to learn more of you.”

  “If you live that long, which I begin to doubt.” Oddly, he sounded more amused than threatening. “This way, then.”

  This was foolhardy at best, but Elizabeth was in no mood to back down. She was probably safe enough; if she disappeared while walking on the estate, her aunt would know whom to blame, and the man in front of her knew it.

  He escorted her through what must have once been an arched doorway. The keep within was floored with hard-packed earth and empty apart from a Highland pony standing in a sheltered corner. A crude hut had been fashioned by putting thatch over what must have once been a room. Smoke curled up from an opening in the thatched roof. A ragged blanket hung over an empty doorway. He pulled it aside and bowed as if he were welcoming her to a London drawing room.

  She would have liked to sweep past him, her nose in the air, but who knew what might be in the mysterious space beyond the blanket? She stepped in carefully.

  It was dark and smoky inside. The only light came from the hole in the roof, chinks in the wall, and the doorway, making phantom shapes loom in the smoke. The hearth, if it could be called one, was a half circle of rocks surrounding two small glowing logs. A long dark shadow lay in front of it.