Darcy's Highland Fling

by M. A. Sandiford

  He smiled. ‘Which is why I suggested, earlier, that you could accept a temporary loan.’

  Elizabeth shivered. It was tempting, and yet so unwise to become dependent on him.

  ‘I could not possibly impose in such a way.’

  ‘It will be a business deal. You can issue a promissory note to repay me, let us say, at the end of the year, including a share of income from the estate. Meanwhile we will hope for higher bids from your purchasers.’

  ‘No.’ Elizabeth buttered a scone, searching for further arguments. ‘We have to consider the tenants, who would be forced out if Mr Brodie or the Staffords got their way.’

  ‘True.’ He studied her a moment. ‘As a landowner myself, I share your sense of duty. But your association with these people is of short duration. You have to determine where your strongest loyalties lie.’

  Elizabeth hesitated, reminded of a passage that Thomas had urged her to read. ‘There’s a book called A Theory of Moral Sentiments, by Adam Smith, who lived just a few hundred yards away. Do you know it?’

  ‘Only sketchily, although I acquired it for the library at Pemberley.’

  ‘I confess I found it shocking at first. Most books on morality are prescriptive. But Smith enquires how we actually feel, and has a chilling example. He imagines a civilised Englishman who learns of an earthquake in China causing millions of deaths. After expressing sincere regret, this man shrugs his shoulders, retires to bed, and sleeps soundly. But suppose that instead, he learned from his doctor that on the next day, his little finger was to be amputated! Now how well does he sleep?’

  Darcy nodded. ‘The same would apply if the finger belonged to his wife or son. It is human nature to favour those closest to us.’

  ‘What if human nature is flawed?’

  ‘I see it as a practical issue. It is hubris to imagine you or I can save humanity. If we are forever anxious for the welfare of people we will never meet, we succeed only in neglecting our friends and families.’

  ‘So it is an error to interpret one’s responsibilities too broadly?’ Elizabeth asked teasingly.

  He laughed. ‘I am impaled on my own sword.’

  ‘Speaking of family, have further plans been made for Miss Darcy’s visit?’

  ‘I had a tête-à-tête with Lord Dunbar yesterday, at his club. All is arranged, and Georgiana will soon be on her way, accompanied by Colonel Fitzwilliam, Lady Dunbar, and her party.’ He eyed her with the hint of a smile. ‘His lordship, incidentally, was most impressed by your conduct at the ball.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Delightful was mentioned. Also charming.’

  ‘I was aiming only at respectable.’

  ‘What did you make of him?’

  Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. ‘Agreeable enough, but I would not wish to patronise by listing virtues of which, I suspect, he is already well aware.’

  He suppressed a smile. ‘I’m relieved not to be your only victim.’

  She waved this away. ‘The Inglises are a worthy family, and it is exciting that Miss Darcy has befriended them.’ She paused. ‘Or have you misgivings?’

  Darcy fell silent, and she wondered whether this question was too intimate, but after reflecting he said, ‘I met Mr James Inglis briefly at Almack’s. By all accounts he is an amiable and intelligent young man.’ He frowned. ‘He has certainly won Georgiana’s approval.’

  ‘It would be a momentous step for her.’

  ‘And I fear not a wise one.’ He sighed. ‘My sister has always been modest and sweet-natured. Before deciding in favour of Mr Inglis, I would like her to understand her own value, as a personable and lovely woman who brings a considerable dowry. I must confess a wish that this, ah, attachment had not come so early.’

  ‘And supposing that Mr James had been the heir, and not a younger son, what then?’

  ‘I would still prefer to know him better.’ Darcy raised his palms. ‘I grant the importance of love and companionship. But marriage means more. It will affect her social standing and access to the good things of life.’

  Elizabeth looked away, imagining a possible dispute if Darcy disapproved of Georgiana’s choice, for as guardian he could refuse permission. ‘You were willing to make an exception in your own case.’

  She regretted this remark as pain shadowed his countenance. ‘Only with the strongest inducement.’

  She felt a shaft of guilt, realising how deeply her rejection must have scarred him. ‘With luck all will end well. You will get to know Mr Inglis, confer with your cousin, observe the couple together.’

  He nodded. ‘You may think me severe, but what I fear most is leniency. I will be tempted to consent against my better judgement, so as to preserve my sister’s regard.’

  Elizabeth finished her coffee as she pondered the responsibility of acting in loco parentis. She had always been struck by a tenderness in Darcy’s tone as he spoke of his sister, which contrasted with his usual solemnity. Following the trauma just three years ago, Georgiana had gained sufficient confidence to tackle a London season and attract worthy admirers. Darcy had nurtured her, but allowed her to choose her own friends when she was ready. For all his flaws, he would make an ideal father.

  They talked more generally of their lives since their last meeting in Kent. Elizabeth was surprised how readily he confided in her—a disposition she had noticed too in his letter after Hunsford. He did not press her over the loan, but at the back of her mind, the sands began to shift. Yes, such dependence was an anathema. But it would grant her precious time.

  And meanwhile, she was finding his company far more rewarding than she could have imagined.

  14

  Darcy surveyed the remains of the Nor’ Loch as their carriage crossed the bridge. At his side, Elizabeth threw him an anxious glance, perhaps recalling that on this very spot, under cover of darkness, they had almost lost their heads to a paroxysm of desire. He pressed his lips together, as if to underline the self-discipline maintained ever since.

  ‘Are you certain about this?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘We can still withdraw if you have second thoughts.’

  Darcy sighed: he had finally persuaded her to accept a loan, but she remained uneasy. ‘Remember that I am running no risk, since you will always have the option of selling.’

  ‘Morag has been pestering me all week.’

  ‘To accompany her on excursions to Princes Street?’

  ‘To sell Laramore to the Mackays. She remains friendly—for now. But they are all eyeing me. They fear I will favour the Staffords.’

  ‘What of Captain Robert Mackay? He struck me as an affable sort of man.’

  ‘He avoids confrontation, but is guided by Hector, and even more by Morag, who thinks the Highland traditions are an anachronism.’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘Maybe she’s right and I’ve gone soft in the head.’

  The meeting had been scheduled for 4pm at the office of Mackay’s lawyer Mr Turnbull. This was located in Anchor Close, an alley descending from the High Street so steeply that in places the cobbles gave way to steps.

  Elizabeth took Darcy’s arm, daunted by the claustrophobic high walls and dank atmosphere. ‘It’s like a tunnel. Worse even than the descent to John Dowie’s.’

  Dark openings appeared on either side and she heard a clatter of footsteps …

  For a moment Elizabeth froze. A shadow loomed out of the void, taking corporeal form as something grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to the ground. In terrified confusion she glimpsed Darcy struggling with two other men. She screamed as hands reeking of tobacco and drink tore off her shawl, then twisted her arms back to remove her spencer. Fingers probed the laces of her bonnet. As she tried to wriggle free, her right hand found a loose cobble; instinctively she slammed it against the only part of his anatomy that she could see—his left boot. With a roar the man cuffed her cheek, just as a redcoat in tartan breeches ran towards them from the High Street, drawing his sword. In a flash, her assailant had gone, and she saw Darcy, minus hat and neck-cloth, bend
ing over her in alarm.

  ‘Dearest Elizabeth …’ He put aside the cobble, which she was clutching, and helped her to her feet. The officer, who had chased after the thieves, returned empty-handed; with a gasp she recognised Hector Mackay.

  ‘Mrs Bailey!’ He came close, looking shocked. ‘Are you unharmed?’

  Feeling curiously invulnerable after surviving the attack, Elizabeth unfastened her damaged bonnet. ‘I’m fine, but they took my shawl and my jacket. Your intervention was most welcome, Major.’

  Gently, Darcy examined her face. ‘You have scratches under the chin and a red weal on your cheek.’

  She grinned, surprised by her own insouciance. ‘I wager his toes came off the worse.’

  ‘How about yourself, sir?’ Mackay asked.

  Darcy shook himself. ‘A few bruises, I imagine. I was hoping to hang on to one, but his friend tripped me and they both got away.’

  Hector Mackay pointed down the alley. ‘The office is just a few yards further down, Mrs Bailey. The maid will help you clean up and bring you a glass of wine.’

  Elizabeth sat opposite Darcy in the parlour that Mackay’s lawyer used as a waiting room. They were alone, Darcy having requested time to recover. After protesting at first, Elizabeth was grateful for his foresight: her initial display of bravura had given way to trembling shock at the ferocity of the attack.

  She touched her face, now swelling, and smiled. ‘You were right. A few quiet minutes beside the fire were what I needed.’

  ‘I had another reason.’ He leaned forward. ‘Has it occurred to you that the assailants might have been paid to lay an ambush specifically for us?’

  She frowned. ‘If so, how did they know we could be found at ten to four in Anchor Close? Unless …’

  Darcy nodded. ‘Unless they were in the employ of Major Mackay, who knew of the meeting.’

  ‘But the major came to our aid!’

  ‘True. It does not add up.’ Darcy paused. ‘Or could he have hoped to place us in his debt, so that we would be more likely to make concessions?’

  Elizabeth fell silent, thinking this over. Eventually she said, very quietly, ‘There is something I haven’t told you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  She related Hector Mackay’s proposal of marriage as a way of uniting the two estates.

  ‘I’m sorry. I should have confided in you before.’

  ‘You very properly respected the major’s right to privacy. But if he aimed to scare his rival back to England, why set his ruffians on you too?’ Darcy sighed. ‘I suspect we were simply unlucky.’

  Mr Turnbull was elderly with a shiny bald pate winged by silver tufts, pince-nez spectacles, and a genial easy-going manner which, according to Dalglish, hid a sharp practical brain. The parties sat in a circle around his desk: Dalglish, Mackay, and Darcy at Elizabeth’s side.

  ‘Welcome!’ Turnbull regarded Elizabeth with concern. ‘Are you sure you wish to continue, Mrs Bailey?’

  ‘I am recovered, thank you.’

  ‘We have sent a message to the constable with a list of the items taken.’ Turnbull shrugged. ‘To be frank, nothing will come of it. Such attacks are common since clothing is easily marketable. I’m relieved you were not badly hurt.’

  ‘We thank Major Mackay for that,’ Elizabeth said.

  Turnbull turned to Dalglish. ‘Shall we proceed with our business?’

  ‘Mr Darcy has signed this bill of exchange.’ Dalglish handed a document to Mackay, who passed it to Turnbull. ‘It directs his bank in London to repay in full the debt incurred by the late Mr Bailey.’

  Hector Mackay looked at his lawyer. ‘Well?’

  Turnbull delicately shrugged. ‘Perfectly in order.’

  ‘Can it be revoked?’

  ‘No.’

  Mackay frowned at Dalglish. ‘I’m not happy with this, sir. During negotiations over Mr Bailey’s estate, no mention was made of a benefactor. I agreed to the terms on the assumption that Laramore would be sold.’

  ‘No such promise was given,’ Dalglish said.

  ‘It was assumed. We knew that Mrs Bailey had no other source of funds.’ He turned to Turnbull. ‘I would like to re-open negotiations.’

  ‘You cannot,’ Dalglish insisted. ‘The settlement leaving Mrs Bailey part of Laramore has been signed by all interested parties including yourself.’

  Turnbull coughed. ‘True, but the terms can still be, ah, contested, at great inconvenience and cost to all concerned. Are you certain, Mrs Bailey, Mr Darcy, that this is a path you wish to tread?’

  Elizabeth frowned at Darcy, who covered a sheet with his hand so that only she could see it, and wrote: BLUFF. He folded the paper over and said to Mackay, ‘If you wish to contest I will pay Mrs Bailey’s expenses. I am confident however that the court will award costs against you for wasting its time.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Mackay demanded of Turnbull.

  Another delicate shrug. ‘It is a possible outcome.’

  Mackay chewed his lip in silence, then turned to Elizabeth.

  ‘I would like to speak with you in private.’

  She looked at Dalglish, who shook his head and said to Mackay, ‘I will accompany my client.’

  Mackay looked pleadingly at Elizabeth. ‘Five minutes? Alone?’

  She sighed. ‘Where?’

  Turnbull pointed. ‘Use the parlour. I’m expecting no more clients.’

  Darcy frowned. ‘You’re sure …’

  She nodded calmly. ‘I will call if I need advice.’

  The parlour fire had gone out, but the embers held some warmth. Hector Mackay sat opposite her, hand supporting chin in a gesture that hid his scar.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ he said softly. ‘What is it that you want?’

  ‘Must I answer that?’

  ‘No.’ He spoke as if resigned. ‘Never mind the lawyers. I’m asking you as a friend of my family.’

  ‘All right.’ She paused, searching for the right words. ‘I am mourning my husband, who cared for Laramore and its people. I realise I have no roots there, but from loyalty to Thomas feel a responsibility for the tenants. For all I know, your plans for the estate may be in their best interests. But I would like to hear their opinions first.’

  ‘You’re not waiting to sell to the Staffords?’

  She glared at him. ‘You have no right to ask that!’

  His features contorted. Eventually he mastered himself and continued, ‘You’ll be up again to visit the village?’

  ‘I hope so, in the early summer. I can find lodging in Thurso or Callach.’

  He flinched. ‘Will you not stay in Strathmaran?’

  ‘I’d love to, but under the circumstances …’

  He leaned forward. ‘Circumstances? We’ve not always seen eye to eye, but I think of you as family. You are welcome at Strathmaran, now or at any time.’ He regarded her quizzically. ‘Will Mr Darcy come too?’

  ‘He has commitments in Edinburgh.’

  He waited, obviously hoping for more. ‘Fine. Fine. So you’ll visit Strathmaran, speak to your tenants, and then?’

  ‘I will reconsider my options.’

  ‘Including selling? To me?’

  ‘That is an option. Not the only one.’

  He took a deep breath, then forced a smile.

  ‘You’re a bonnie fighter, Mrs Bailey.’

  She laughed. ‘Are you sure it raises no problem for me to stay at Strathmaran?’

  ‘None whatever. I insist.’

  ‘Then I am grateful for your hospitality.’

  As they returned to the office, Elizabeth pondered his shocked reaction when she had suggested the possibility of staying at Callach—now owned by the Marquis of Stafford, and the estate Thomas had visited just prior to his death.

  15

  April 1814, Livingston, Scotland

  The journey was almost over. By midday tomorrow they would reach Edinburgh, to be reunited with William and introduced to the mystery lady. Georgiana trembled, her excitement tinged
with fear. This must be a formidable woman, to have received such attention from her brother. But how did matters stand between them? William’s letters gave little away, except that he seemed to have regained his interest in life. Colonel Fitzwilliam was equally in the dark.

  The inn had a comfortable drawing room where they had adjourned after supper. Margaret was in a whispered conversation with her mother, while Colonel Fitzwilliam, well-supplied with brandy and cigars, entertained James with tales of military derring-do. Georgiana observed the pianoforte, which she had tried earlier and found more or less in tune. Her fingers, long idle, trilled on the arm of the divan. Surely nobody would object? She sat at the instrument and quietly played The Bluebells of Scotland, an air she had learned from Margaret. A patter of applause encouraged her to try a Mozart slow movement.

  As she played the final chords, James pulled up a chair.

  ‘Bravo, Miss Darcy. That was—not bad.’

  She snorted. ‘I played the right notes.’

  ‘In the right order?’

  She stifled a laugh. ‘Most people would rather hear me play than read your boring encyclopaedia.’

  ‘On the contrary, in a few years all the best families in London will have our fifth edition in their libraries.’

  ‘Only to impress visitors.’

  He sighed, suddenly serious. ‘Now you sound like my father.’

  ‘Surely he appreciates the value of your work?’

  ‘He would have preferred a different career, but I was never keen on the army.’

  She fell silent a moment. ‘I hope your father likes me. And your brother. I so want to make a good impression.’

  ‘Everyone likes you.’

  She held up a palm. ‘Compliments are unnecessary, sir. You have already pronounced me not bad.’

  He smiled. ‘What would our relations say if they overheard our conversation?’

  ‘That we are both silly.’

  ‘Give us another piece. With notes in the right order.’

  She waved him away and carried on playing.