The great hall in Strathmaran had been laid for supper, after which tables would be cleared for dancing. At the porch a lone piper welcomed guests, but most had arrived already and were seated by clan. At the head of the main table Flora Mackay sat next to her daughter Henrietta, whose forthcoming nuptials they were celebrating. Her son Hector, the laird, was still on service with the Highlanders in Holland.
Observing dozens of assembled guests, Elizabeth felt overwhelmed by their togetherness, the result of centuries of shared history. Flora was born a Campbell; her daughter Anna had married a Sinclair; Captain Robert had wed an Innes with cousins along the coast at Rith; estates had switched from Mackay to Bailey then back to Mackay.
Grand plates of food were filling the tables: a leg of deer; whole salmon baked in salt; roast potatoes mashed roughly with boiled Swedish turnip; dishes of kale and oatmeal. Elizabeth looked for her husband, still not returned from Callach. Opposite, Isobel Mackay frowned; Elizabeth wondered whether she was concerned, or merely displaying her usual hostility.
Morag touched Elizabeth’s arm. ‘He’ll be along in a wee while. Love your dress.’
Elizabeth forced a smile; to avoid upstaging Henrietta she had chosen a simple muslin gown. ‘Yours is a lovely shade, and the sash works so well.’
Overhearing, Isobel snorted. ‘How charitable of ye to praise our efforts, Mrs Bailey, although no doubt falling short of London fashions.’
Elizabeth faced the youngest Mackay daughter, kitted out in traditional white gown with puffed sleeves, and a bodice in blue-green tartan. Her hair, loose and dark, contrasted dramatically with pale skin and blue eyes with long lashes. Privately, Elizabeth judged her the loveliest woman she had seen in her life.
‘I assure you, Miss Isobel, that I hail from a modest country town with no such pretensions.’
Isobel straightened, preening her hair. ‘Ye never speak of yer family. Is there some secret that ye’ve been hiding?’
Elizabeth flinched—how much had Thomas revealed to this petulant girl? She attempted a light laugh. ‘I would gladly answer any questions you might have, if I believed you genuinely interested.’
‘Touché!’ Captain Robert Mackay, on his wife’s right, raised his hands in a double clap. ‘Ye’ve met yer match, Issy. Leave Mrs Bailey in peace just now and eat yer supper.’
Laughter rang around, and Isobel glared at Elizabeth before loading her plate. Gratefully Elizabeth turned to Morag’s diplomatic husband, resplendent in his regimentals of red coat with grey cuffs and lapels.
‘Captain, I’m concerned for Thomas. He’s never returned so late before.’
Robert Mackay glanced at his watch. ‘Aye, tis not like him. We’ll send two laddies to check the coast path.’
‘Thank you so much.’
He strode off towards the stables.
An hour later the searchers returned having found Thomas Bailey’s horse tethered to a tree. As dusk fell they set off again to Callach, where the factor confirmed that his visitor had left early that evening. As this news spread, the dancing and drinking wound down and people dispersed. Elizabeth returned to her room and fell into a feverish doze, in which the soothsayer’s warning circled her mind like a cat chasing its tail. But restorative sleep eluded her, and in the morning Thomas was still missing.
5
March 1814, seven months later, London
In Almack’s Assembly Rooms, beneath a gallery that held the orchestra, Darcy observed as couples formed up for the first set. Georgiana, her card filled out in advance by the committee, had taken the floor with the son of a cabinet minister, and Darcy noted with satisfaction that any nerves had flown: she was enjoying herself. In a pale blue gown, setting off her porcelain complexion and blonde hair, his sister was a picture of loveliness. Shy she may be, but with her fine sense of rhythm she had always danced confidently.
Getting an Almack’s voucher had proven a challenge to his ingenuity. Fortunately he was acquainted with the patroness Clementina Drummond-Burrell, whose high-born husband had overlapped him at Cambridge. Never a devotee of the season, with its endless parade of debutantes vying for his approval, Darcy had vowed to make a special effort this year for Georgiana’s sake. In truth, little else in his life interested him any more. He had become like a father who has abandoned his own aspirations and seeks to live through his children.
The reason for this apathy was not hard to see. A man like Bingley made friends easily and fell in love often. He, Darcy, had forged just one close friendship (outside family) since childhood—Bingley himself—and fallen in love but once, with a woman who despised him and was now married to another. He had not even managed to keep his friend: after Dublin, Bingley had wanted nothing more to do either with Darcy or Caroline, preferring the company of cousins in Liverpool who worked in the sugar trade.
Darcy winced as he recalled that autumn, nearly two years ago, when he had raced back from Ireland to search for Wickham and Lydia Bennet among the backstreets of London. At the cost of ten sovereigns he had wrung an address from Mrs Younge, but the runaways had moved on, the trail run cold. News from his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, rendered the quest irrelevant. Mr Bennet had died, Collins was to take over Longbourn, and Elizabeth had accepted a proposal from a Highland laird who was helping to support her family.
There was nothing to be done except return to Pemberley, look after his estate, guide Georgiana towards her emergence into society. Solitary occupations like fishing and reading filled his days. To an outsider he doubtless appeared a fortunate man, but he had lost hope.
Georgiana ran to his side, radiant after a set with an attentive young man named Mr James Inglis.
‘William, you must dance!’ She pointed to a young lady standing shyly beside a distinguished-looking older gentleman, her father perhaps. ‘Mr Inglis’s sister Margaret has not had a single partner.’
‘Who is the man beside her?’
‘Sir John Sinclair. Their uncle.’
Darcy sighed: he might as well endure a set. He followed Georgiana to her new friends, exchanged pleasantries, and asked politely whether Miss Inglis might be free for the Cotillion. She was plain but danced well, and after a little encouragement proved a spirited companion. Her face glowed as they returned to find Sir John Sinclair in conversation with the honourable Clementina.
‘Mr Darcy, have you been introduced to Sir John?’
Sinclair affected forbearance as the socialite listed his achievements; meanwhile, Georgiana retreated to a corner with Margaret Inglis, whispering excitedly.
‘That was kind of you, sir,’ Sir John Sinclair said. ‘You rescued what might otherwise have been a disappointing evening for my niece.’
‘The pleasure was mine.’
Sinclair bowed to Clementina as she moved on. ‘I have just come from Edinburgh to find Margaret much improved, through the influence of a companion I recommended when last in town.’
‘You have an estate in Scotland?’ Darcy asked.
‘Several, mostly in Caithness, the constituency I once represented in parliament. My son George has now taken over—to my relief. Drumming sense into ignorant heads is a thankless task.’
‘I wonder …’ Darcy looked into the distance, trying to recall a name. ‘Have you come across a gentleman named Thomas Bailey, who has an estate in the far north? I was once acquainted with his wife, who would now be Mrs Elizabeth Bailey.’
Sinclair twitched in recognition. ‘We met once at Wick, and shared a carriage. But have you not heard?’
Darcy frowned. ‘Heard what?’
‘The story ran in the Edinburgh press, but was probably not highlighted in London. Bailey died last year in an accident. There were no witnesses, but it appears he was riding along the cliff top when for some unknown reason he dismounted, went to the edge, and fell. His body was found next day on the rocks beneath.’
A shiver ran through Darcy’s body. ‘And what of Mrs Bailey? This must have come as a terrible shock.’
‘Yes, and her distress has been compounded by uncertainty over how the tragedy occurred. Why should a man endanger his life by peering over a precipice? Did he mistake the squawking of gulls as a cry for help? Was he suicidal? Was there foul play? The Procurator Fiscal ordered an investigation, but through lack of evidence had to presume the death accidental.’ He frowned. ‘Then there was the question of the inheritance.’
‘Yes?’
Sinclair squinted at the dancers. ‘It is said Bailey’s will left everything to his wife. In such cases the court has to consider other claims, and with no male heir the estate is often divided. If I am not mistaken, there was also a possibility of posthumous inheritance. An eldest son traditionally retains the right of succession even if born after his father’s death.’
Darcy nodded, struggling to collect his thoughts. ‘Can you recall Mrs Bailey’s maiden name? Or any other distinctive characteristic?’
‘Maiden name, no.’ Sinclair paused. ‘I would guess early twenties. Attractive, dark hair, charming but outspoken. She expounded a theory on the art of persuasion which struck me as acute for a member of the fair sex. I realised later that she might have been so impertinent as to intend a rebuke—but with such finesse that no offence could be taken.’
Darcy laughed. ‘Say no more, sir. We are speaking of the same person.’
The music stopped, and Georgiana came to join him, breathless after daringly dancing the waltz.
Next morning Darcy left Georgiana practising the pianoforte while he crossed town to Cheapside. He had risen early and dispatched a message to Miss Bingley, who was residing with the Hursts. Caroline’s reply was incredulous, but gave the information he needed: Gardiner, in Gracechurch Street.
He had planned to speak with Mr Gardiner, if he was at home, or his wife; but as he descended from the carriage a group of children ran up followed by a woman he immediately recognised as Jane Bennet: thinner than before, plainer in dress, but still beautiful.
‘Mr Darcy!’ Her face lit up in a warm smile. ‘What an unexpected pleasure!’
‘Good morning, Miss Bennet. Excuse my impromptu appearance. May I have a moment?’
‘Of course. Let me call my aunt.’
He waited, fearing another embarrassing Bennet relative, but the woman who received him proved courteous and sensible. Refreshment was offered, a private room found, and before long he faced Jane Bennet over a low table bearing coffee and pastries.
‘Let me go straight to the nub.’ Darcy leaned forward. ‘Yesterday, through a chance meeting, I heard an alarming report concerning your sister Mrs Bailey.’ He repeated what he had learned from Sinclair. ‘Have you more recent news?’
Jane nodded. ‘Yes, and I thank you for your concern. Poor Lizzy has indeed suffered a bizarre ordeal. First, the enquiry into her husband’s death.’ She took out a handkerchief to dab a tear. ‘Imagine, Mr Darcy, there was even gossip that Lizzy herself might have organised Mr Bailey’s death through paid assassins. My gentle sister!’
‘How absurd.’
‘Yes, and then people started questioning the will, until a physician said Lizzy was pregnant, which vexed them considerably in case she produced a male heir. She wanted to return to Edinburgh, among friends who could help her, but the physician said the journey was risky in her condition, and insisted she remained in Strathmaran …’ Jane burst into tears.
Darcy waited for her to compose herself. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Bennet. It is most distressing. Have matters become any clearer since?’
Jane wiped her eyes. ‘Yes, and in the strangest way. It turned out that Lizzy had never been with child at all! The physician said it was a phantom pregnancy, due to stress—but of course rumours spread that she had made up the story herself. With no male heir the legal disputation restarted. Lizzy was desperate to return to Edinburgh where she could employ the services of Mr Bailey’s lawyer, but was hamstrung by harsh weather and shortage of money. However, last month, a family making the journey agreed to take Lizzy in their carriage. Her lawyer advanced funds so that she could rent a room. He thinks she will get a portion of the estate.’ Jane swallowed. ‘The trouble is, we fear this will provide insufficient income to support the rest of my family …’
‘May I ask how your mother and other sisters are situated?’
Jane took a deep breath. ‘I assume you know what has happened.’
‘Only Mr Wickham’s infamy, and your father’s subsequent illness. He was a good man and I was sorry to hear of his passing.’
‘Thank you. Well, after Mr Collins moved into Longbourn, and wanted nothing to do with us, Lizzy’s fiancé provided an allowance sufficient for a cottage. Then Lydia turned up here, Gracechurch Street, having been abandoned by Mr Wickham, and Uncle Gardiner took her to Meryton and brought me back to help look after the children.’
Darcy felt a pang of guilt, having always felt illogically that it was his duty to clear up after Wickham’s calumnies. Could he have done more? But how, with Elizabeth engaged to another man?
‘I would like to send condolences to Mrs Bailey. May I have her address in Edinburgh?’
‘Certainly.’ Jane hesitated. ‘I was going to ask …’
‘Yes?’
‘I have had no contact with Miss Bingley, or news of her brother. Are they well?’
‘Miss Bingley is in London, enjoying the season. As to Charles …’ Darcy spread his arms. ‘We are no longer in regular correspondence. Last I heard, he was interesting himself in family business which might take him as far away as the Caribbean Islands.’
Jane nodded slowly. ‘I wish them both well. I think often of the pleasant times we had at Netherfield.’
Darcy paused. ‘Miss Bennet, forgive me, for I am going to ask a very intrusive question.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I see you are still unmarried …’
She smiled. ‘I fear that following our disgrace, eligible gentlemen have given us a wide berth.’
Darcy leaned closer. ‘Could I advise patience? I believe your fortunes will improve. The disgrace, as you put it, will fade in people’s memories. There may be friends who still hold you in the affection that you deserve. Do not hasten to the altar out of duty to your family. Wait, and see what develops.’
Jane stared at him, her cheeks bright pink.
‘I’m sorry.’ He sighed. ‘I have no right to speak thus.’
‘On the contrary, bless you for giving me hope. I must find Lizzy’s letter now, for the address.’
He watched, shocked at his own audacity, as she rose and left the room.
6
Three days later, Edinburgh
The lawyer’s office was in Canongate, uphill from Holyrood Palace in the Old Town. His name was Andrew Dalglish WS, of Dalglish and Fraser; on the wall behind his desk, a certificate declared him a Writer of the Signet, referring to a society of Scottish solicitors. The title guaranteed that he was experienced; more importantly, he had been Thomas’s friend from university days, and Elizabeth trusted him to act in her interest.
‘Thank you for your message.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So there are developments?’
He shuffled papers, displaying an unease far removed from his usual equanimity. They had met at her wedding, and he had been a frequent visitor thereafter, valued for his cheerful company and lively advocacy of the radical Edinburgh Review. He was stout, a devotee of busy taverns where men drank claret and devoured stacks of oysters, but his plump features were mobile, suggesting a mind always active.
‘The settlement is as expected.’ He handed her a document expressed in Scottish legal terms that meant nothing to her. ‘It is agreed that the southern fringe of the estate will revert to the Mackays of Strathmaran, who in return will not contest Laramore, which belongs to you—or your second husband and heirs if you remarry.’
She squinted at the document. ‘Why do they call me a portioner?’
‘It means you inherit part of a divided estate.’
She handed back the sheet. ‘Is that all?’
/> ‘Unfortunately not.’ Dalglish hesitated, studying her. ‘Did your husband ever confide details of his finances?’
‘He told me the estate generated an income sufficient to cover an allowance for my mother and sisters.’
‘That may be true.’ Dalglish pursed his lips. ‘It ignores, however, his own expenses. I have to tell you, Mrs Bailey, that during your marriage, and also before, Thomas was borrowing from Hector Mackay, laird of Strathmaran. Since he never saw fit to inform me of this arrangement, I was unaware of it until I received yesterday a note from Major Mackay’s solicitor. The sum is over £10,000, and must be met from your portion.’
Elizabeth stared at him, so shocked she could scarcely speak. Her family relied on a contribution from Thomas’s estate that she had assumed would continue.
‘Is this certain?’
‘They have notes signed by your husband and deposited with Major Mackay’s solicitor, whose reputation is irreproachable.’
‘What options are open to me?’
‘Either repay the money, or agree to sell your part of the estate. By coincidence Major Mackay is in Edinburgh now, on leave from his regiment. He has offered to meet you and discuss the matter.’
Dalglish passed over an embossed card with a name and coat of arms on the front, and an address handwritten on the back. ‘He’ll be at home this afternoon from two o’clock.’
The address was in George Street, a short walk from the house in Heriot Row where she was lodging with Professor Francis Napier, another acquaintance from Thomas’s circle, and his family. Like most roads in the New Town it was broad and straight, with prosperous terraced houses behind black railings. She found the number and was admitted to the parlour, to be joined by an imposing man dressed in the familiar regalia of the 78th Highlanders, but with breeches in place of the traditional kilt.
Now in half-mourning dress, Elizabeth had graduated from black bombazine to grey; she hoped he would consider this sufficiently respectful as he appraised her.
Darcy's Highland Fling Page 3
