Darcy pursed his lips, and she waited for him to confirm the lawyer’s opinion. But instead he said thoughtfully, ‘I sense reluctance on your part, so we should explore other options.’
‘There are none,’ Dalglish said.
‘Really? I see at least two.’ Darcy turned to Elizabeth. ‘But is my impression accurate? Would it displease you to sell to Major Mackay?’
‘I confess it would,’ she replied, grateful for the opportunity to explain. ‘Perhaps it is foolish, but I feel affection for the village and the people who live there. Partly, I admit, because they welcomed me; also because I have been able to help. I bought books for the school. Arranged for a competent physician to visit. Begged Thomas to distribute grain from Strathmaran when they ran short.’ She coloured. ‘Thus adding to his debt, I suppose.’
Dalglish raised his hands. ‘But don’t you see, these improvements are happening all over Scotland. The tenants adapt. They find work in cities or on the coast.’
‘There are no cities in the far north,’ Elizabeth said. ‘As for the villagers, has anyone asked them?’
Darcy said to Dalglish: ‘You mentioned options. One, I agree, is to accept Mackay’s offer. But Mrs Bailey could also sell to someone else, or not sell at all.’
‘The debt,’ Dalglish reminded him.
Darcy looked at Elizabeth. ‘I could loan you the money, using the estate as guarantee.’
She stared at him. ‘Be serious, Mr Darcy. But I accept your first point. We could seek a buyer with less draconian plans.’
Dalglish shrugged. ‘I doubt you’ll find one, but try if you wish.’ He stretched. ‘It’s getting late and I’m thirsty. Shall we adjourn to a tavern?’
Elizabeth breathed deeply: after such a stressful day it would be pleasant to relax in a convivial atmosphere. She looked uneasily at Darcy, realising he might regard such an invitation as ill-advised—especially for her. ‘Will you join us?’
He looked shocked, but after a brief hesitation agreed, to her private amusement. She had guessed he would feel obliged to ensure her safety.
After instructing his driver to wait near the bridge, Darcy offered Elizabeth an arm as they climbed towards the castle, eventually turning into a steep dark alley called Liberton’s Wynd.
‘Nearly there!’ Dalglish called out cheerfully.
‘Where are you taking us?’ Darcy asked.
‘John Dowie’s. Tis best in town for a glass of ale and a bite of supper.’
‘I trust this is a respectable establishment?’
Elizabeth sighed, as if finding his misgivings tiresome. ‘You must get used to Edinburgh society, Mr Darcy. It’s normal here to mix with a wide range of people.’
‘Aye, Dowie’s is favoured by writers and artists as well as high-born gentlemen like yerself,’ Dalglish added, reverting to dialect. ‘Rabbie Burns was once a patron. Mr Walter Scott looks in.’
The alley widened and they reached steps leading to a series of windowless rooms.
‘We won’t go far in.’ Dalglish yelled. ‘Second chamber is best.’
Darcy peered through the smoky half-light at a table, laden with food and bottles of ale, where men, and women too, were busily slurping oysters and filling their glasses while talking vivaciously. Most, he guessed, were professional men, perhaps lawyers, or publishers, or academics. The rooms seemed clean and well-appointed.
Elizabeth looked up at him with a smile. ‘Shall we venture a little further?’
The next room was darker but less crowded, and Dalglish found space at the back of a long table.
He pointed. ‘Have a seat, Mrs Bailey.’
‘I’ll stand, thank you.’
‘What’s your tipple?’
‘Everyone drinks ale here.’
Dalglish took two bottles from a waiter and up-ended them into a jug, from which he poured three glasses of syrupy liquid.
‘Take care, ma’am, it’s fearful strong.’ He called out after the waiter. ‘Plate of oysters! And rizzared haddock if ye have it!’
Elizabeth smiled at Darcy, as if daring him to join in. He sensed a desperate gaiety. Just two years ago she had lost her father and first home; now she had lost her husband too, and the security he had provided for her family. She must be weary of grief, he thought.
He drank ale, and nearly choked.
‘It’s a devilish brew,’ Elizabeth laughed. ‘They say you should lick your lips afterwards lest they glue together.’
‘You’ve been here before?’
‘One of Thomas’s haunts. We met Mr Scott here once; he works in the courts nearby. I was so impressed that I bought Lady of the Lake the next day.’
The waiter returned bearing dishes heaped with sun-dried haddock, and oysters. ‘Fresh from the sea th’day!’
‘Aha!’ Elizabeth set down her glass, already half empty. ‘This will test our mettle, Mr Darcy.’ She eased an oyster from its shell with a small fork, and added lemon and salt.
‘Tha’s fine, lassie,’ a man called from the other side of the table. ‘Now tip the wee beastie down yer throat.’
Darcy threw a stern glance at the man, who merely raised his glass. ‘A toast to yer wife, sir!’
Elizabeth laughed ironically. ‘Well, husband? Shall I partake of this slippery mouthful of delight?’
Darcy coloured: the whole company was watching. He forced a smile as Elizabeth boldly swallowed, to cries of Bravo and a round of applause.
‘Your turn, sir!’ someone shouted.
Familiar with oysters, Darcy followed her lead to fresh applause, then pushed the plate forward so that all could reach.
‘A toast tae the kind gentleman as weel!’
‘And another toast tae th’lassie for wedding him!’
‘Are ye from these parts, sir?’ a man asked.
He opted for simplicity. ‘London.’
‘Ye’re verra welcome, and yer wife too.’
Dalglish met Darcy’s eye with a shrug: there seemed no point correcting this misconception.
‘Another bottle o’ this fine liquor!’ The man opposite refilled all the glasses within reach. ‘Yer guid health!’
Darcy took a modest sip, intensely aware of Elizabeth at his side. He looked down at her rosy smiling face. ‘Do you need to sit?’
She shook her head. ‘I can lean on the table.’
‘Drink up!’ Another man went round with the jug. ‘I had ye down as a three-bottle man, sir.’
‘Three bottles of this?’ Darcy asked, pointing.
‘Claret! Wi’ yer supper!’
‘More like half a bottle,’ he muttered, to cries of disapproval. But at this moment a fiddler started up in the next room, and with a whoop, a couple took to the floor.
‘Come on sir, dance a reel wi’ yer bonnie wife,’ a man said. ‘Ye ought tae manage weel enough on half a bottle.’
Elizabeth whispered, ‘Did you not express once a great inclination to dance a reel?’
He recalled the drawing room at Netherfield, where he had issued just this invitation. ‘An inclination you did not share.’
‘We are in Scotland now.’
He frowned, wondering how much of Dowie’s ale she had drunk.
‘Well?’ she pressed.
Darcy sighed, unsure whether she was taunting him, or merely eager to forget her worries and enjoy herself. Two couples had already formed up, so to general acclaim they made a group of six. He was not familiar with the local version, nor was Elizabeth, but they soon picked it up: turning in pairs, crossing, turning again, finally spinning in a single large circle before restarting.
Back at the table, Dalglish had ordered a jug of claret and a plate of minced lamb collops, stacking empty bottles and plates on a shelf to keep track of what to pay later. Elizabeth, flagging after the dance, retired to a divan. The collops, served with thin toast and mashed potato, made an excellent supper, and Dalglish kept refilling their glasses. On the tiny dance floor, reels had given way to a Highland fling performed by three kilted
men standing in a row. More candles had been lit, imparting a glow to the warm chamber; by now it would be dusk outside.
His head swam, but at his side Elizabeth was alert, enjoying the dancing.
Dalglish had left, having conceded after an argument over the bill. Darcy and Elizabeth walked up the Wynd, so narrow that dormers overhanging the alley almost touched. Ahead, two women leaned out of opposing windows on the second floor in a furious shouting match. Elizabeth, tired now, hung to his arm with both hands as she struggled up the hill. She stopped and pointed.
‘Those women will never agree. They’re arguing from different premises.’
She smiled innocently, until he saw the joke and burst out laughing.
‘How can you be so astute after so much ale?’
‘Not original, I’m afraid. I heard it from Thomas, who probably heard it from someone else.’
They walked down the High Street, Elizabeth shivering in the cool air, and still unsteady. At the back of his mind Darcy worried about impropriety, but in a different culture, so far from home, he felt curiously liberated. Of course he had drunk a lot as well—far more than he usually allowed himself.
They gained the bridge, where Burgess was enjoying a saucer of hot saloop from a nearby stall. As the carriage pulled away, Darcy recalled Elizabeth’s joke, and could not help laughing again.
She tapped his sleeve. ‘What is it now?’
‘Arguing from different premises.’
She took his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. Shocked, but intoxicated by the brush of her hair and a faint scent of rosewater, he felt for her hand.
She flinched, and drew back a little. ‘What must you think of me! I thought for a moment …’
‘That I was Thomas Bailey?’
‘Well, my husband anyway.’ She grinned. ‘Which you are, according to the patrons of John Dowie’s.’
He looked at her, their faces just inches apart, as the carriage trundled over the dimly lit bridge. Nobody could see; nobody would know them, anyway. Instinctively he leaned closer, and she moistened her lips as if preparing to receive a kiss.
A beam of light slanted through the carriage window. They had reached Princes Street. Elizabeth jumped away, trembling, straightened her hair, and sat rigidly, refusing to meet his eye.
‘Mrs Bailey …’ Darcy hardly knew where to start.
‘I’m sorry.’
Her voice was pinched, matter-of-fact. He imagined what she might be feeling. Disgust? Shame? His throat constricted as he replied, ‘I don’t think we were seen …’
‘I certainly hope not. Please let us speak of it no more. I was confused after drinking too much ale.’
Disconsolate, he was silent until they reached Heriot Row and she politely bid him farewell.
11
Darcy surfaced from disturbed sleep with the feeling of a world out of joint. A bad dream, perhaps—but as reality flooded back, anxiety again gripped him. What had he done? How could he possibly restore normality?
In the hall he found a letter, which he tore open in the expectation of a note from Elizabeth—perhaps a refusal to meet again. But in his haste he had missed the London postmark, for the hand was Georgiana’s.
He adjourned to the morning room, fighting a foreboding that his sister also had troubles, but the opening paragraphs were reassuringly gossipy. She was overjoyed to have Colonel Fitzwilliam back in London. She was best friends with Miss Margaret Inglis, the young lady he had danced with at Almack’s. Two young men were in the picture too: Margaret’s brother James, and Mr Augustus Phipps, the cabinet minister’s son. Darcy forced himself to concentrate. These were friendships Georgiana took seriously. Mr Phipps was heir to a grand estate. Even more prestigious were Mr Inglis’s connections, from his uncle Sir John Sinclair to his father Lord Dunbar. He was clearly a pleasant, gifted and conscientious young man.
But second son. He would receive Georgiana’s substantial dowry, but what could he offer in return?
Reading on, Darcy received another surprise. Georgiana wished to join him in Edinburgh. Margaret Inglis, with Lady Dunbar’s approval, had invited her to stay at their town house in Charlotte Square, just a few hundred yards away at the far end of George Street. If he agreed, they could leave at the end of the month. Colonel Fitzwilliam had no other commitments and was keen to join them …
Cursing his throbbing head, Darcy studied the final paragraphs again. He had sought in Edinburgh a haven where he could repair his relationship with Elizabeth in privacy. Instead he had found her enmeshed in a complex social network—Napiers, Mackays, the Literati club. Now they were to be joined by his sister and cousin, not to mention the Inglis family, perhaps Sinclairs as well.
He sipped coffee, seeing his hopes recede. There was no cocoon of intimacy wherein he could seek a way to Elizabeth’s heart. Georgiana was visiting a highly respectable family, into which she hoped to marry. If he wished to continue seeing Elizabeth he had to provide a satisfactory account of their relationship—always assuming, of course, that she would consent to further meetings after the disaster of yesterday evening.
He sighed. Who knew what she felt now, in the sober light of day. For his part, once his head was clearer, he would have to call on Lord Dunbar.
Crossing the garden in Charlotte Square, Darcy reached a fashionable terrace of town houses. He had planned only to leave a card, but it transpired that his lordship had no other visitor and would receive him in the library.
It was a small room that evoked solidity and tradition, traits also evident in its owner’s conservative dress and courtly manner.
‘Mr Darcy! A pleasure, sir.’ Lord Dunbar spoke English rather than Scots dialect, but in a clipped Edinburgh accent. He offered an armchair, cigars, Madeira wine.
‘Thank you. A small glass.’
‘Your reputation precedes you. My daughter Margaret acclaims your prowess on the dance floor.’
‘There she exaggerates. But she impressed me as an astute young woman. You must be proud of her.’
He looked away, frowning. ‘Indeed, although I fear her liveliness of mind might lead her astray. On that point I believe Fordyce strikes the right note in Sermons to Young Women. A wife’s duty is to create a domestic atmosphere in which her husband feels at ease, not to challenge him with her own dazzling wit.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘But in time, I trust, the sharp edges will soften, and she will learn to appreciate the wisdom of humility.’
‘My sister has told me of their duets.’ Darcy hesitated. ‘You have been informed, I hope, of the planned visit.’
‘My wife’s letter came yesterday, but since she did not include your address, your call is opportune.’ Lord Dunbar tapped his cigar on a silver ashtray. ‘Are you comfortable with this venture?’
‘Georgiana will be accompanied by my cousin, her co-guardian, who has my full trust.’
‘I am also content, and we have room provided Miss Darcy shares with Margaret.’ Lord Dunbar regarded him thoughtfully. ‘My son James speaks highly of your sister.’
‘And she of him.’
He sighed. ‘I understand your concern. James is a gifted young man, but like his sister, too intellectually curious for his own good. I have tried to interest him in the army or the church, but to no avail. It is the tree of knowledge that draws him—and its dangerous fruit.’
Darcy frowned, puzzled that Dunbar should downplay his own children. ‘Surely his work on the Encyclopaedia is a valuable resource for scholars?’
‘Perhaps.’ Lord Dunbar looked unconvinced. ‘My eldest son Alistair is arriving soon; I imagine he too will be delighted to meet Margaret’s new friend.’ He sipped Madeira. ‘So, Mr Darcy, what brings you to our city?’
Having feared just this question, Darcy tried to answer in a relaxed tone. ‘I came to assist a family acquaintance, now widowed, whom I knew in Hertfordshire and Kent. Her name might be familiar. Mrs Bailey.’
Dunbar squinted into the distance. ‘I recall a man of that name died in s
trange circumstances last year.’
‘Just so.’ Darcy outlined the events following Thomas Bailey’s death.
‘I see.’ Lord Dunbar sighed. ‘I can only applaud your generosity. Has Mrs Bailey no close relative able to advise her?’
‘Unfortunately not.’ On impulse, Darcy decided to go a step further; the Bennets’ history was likely to come out sooner or later in any case. He saw Lord Dunbar’s brow crease in disapproval at such evidence of family weakness.
‘You have my gratitude, sir,’ Lord Dunbar said. ‘For your honesty and trust. You believe, plainly, that in spite of all that has happened, Mrs Bailey is a woman of exemplary moral character, deserving of your help. I hope to have the pleasure of meeting her.’ A thought seemed to strike him, and he rose to retrieve two cards from his desk. ‘In which regard, these invitations might interest you. The Marchioness of Stafford is hosting a ball this Wednesday at the Assembly Rooms. Since she was unaware that my family is away, I have spares. Would you like to come? And perhaps invite Mrs Bailey?’
Darcy jumped at the opportunity: the Marquis was a man of immense wealth, and their balls were grand affairs. Only as he left did he recall that Elizabeth might never wish to see him again, let alone agree to accompany him to a ball.
The question could not be left unresolved. He would have to call on her.
The Napiers were visiting friends; Susanna and Charlotte remained upstairs with the nursemaid. Elizabeth sat alone in the drawing room absent-mindedly embroidering a fine muslin handkerchief and wishing her head would clear. On the mantelpiece the clock showed ten to two.
It had been a strange night. Again and again she had imagined the journey back across the North Bridge, trying to make it end differently. If only she had not unthinkingly leaned her head on Darcy’s shoulder …
What must he think of her now?
A second voice took her side. Yes, she had drunk too much ale and acted inappropriately. But what of Darcy? His intentions could not have been plainer. He had tried to kiss her. A woman who had rejected his proposal, and was now a widow in mourning. A phrase from his letter came to mind: that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly, betrayed by your mother, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father. Ha! Where stand your high-minded pretensions now, Mr Darcy?
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