Darcy's Highland Fling

by M. A. Sandiford

  Darcy joined his sister and cousin, pondering the letter. It was reassuring that a reason had been given for leaving earlier than planned. But his fears for her safety remained. If only he could follow her immediately. But this was unthinkable, with his sister so obviously troubled.

  On returning Georgiana to Charlotte Square, Darcy asked for a private word with Lord Dunbar. In the small library he accepted a glass of Madeira while confiding his concern.

  Lord Dunbar puzzled for a moment. ‘I’m sorry Miss Darcy has been unhappy. I noticed she seemed quiet, but having only just met her, put this down to shyness. As to James, he has certainly been in a surly mood. In my opinion he works far longer than necessary, and so tires himself out, as well as having little time for his friends.’

  Darcy chose his words carefully. ‘There has been no reservation, concerning his friendship with my sister?’

  Lord Dunbar frowned. ‘Why? From James’s perspective Miss Darcy would represent a match made in heaven. I should expect any reservation to originate from your side.’

  Darcy sighed. ‘Then I am at a loss.’

  ‘Are you sure Miss Darcy’s affections are unchanged?’ Lord Dunbar smiled. ‘I know her too recently to venture an opinion, but as we say in Scotland, a woman’s mind is like the wind in a winter’s night.’

  Darcy shook his head. ‘I see no evidence of change, at least in my sister. Indeed, I would count constancy as one of her virtues.’

  ‘Then we are in the presence of mystery,’ Lord Dunbar said. ‘We can only hope that by God’s grace, all will resolve itself in time.’

  18

  May 1814, Kingstown, St Vincent

  The villa was modest, but enjoyed a secluded hillside plot with a view of the sea beyond palms and rooftops which glowed in the evening sunlight. Seated on the veranda next to his cousin John Thorne, Charles Bingley pointed to a British frigate entering the bay—a further reinforcement, perhaps, against the French, always angling to regain their former territories.

  Their manservant served a jug of rum and orange, the dark skin of his arms contrasting with the startling white of his uniform and gloves. Silently he poured two glasses before leaving them alone. Bingley savoured his first sip, a highlight of every day. Their business at the market was done; he had a ball in the assembly room to look forward to later in the evening. It was a time to reflect on the life he had left behind, on people and places he might never see again.

  He had joined John Thorne in Liverpool after the fateful visit to Dublin two years before. With the sugar trade booming, he saw just the outlet he needed in the expansion of the business. In the Caribbean, British and French sailors were skirmishing in a remote echo of the wars in Europe, with the Royal Navy in the ascendancy. Traders were quitting St Vincent after a volcano erupted in the north of the island, showering the plantations with debris, but his cousin saw this as an opportunity to move into the vacancy, gambling that production would soon return to normal. Eagerly they sought investors to share the risk, Bingley’s contacts in London proving invaluable.

  The first year had been hard. Arriving at Kingstown he had been overwhelmed by its exotic wildlife and lively society, but a darker side soon revealed itself—not the wars he had feared, nor a further eruption, but disease, and most dreadfully yellow fever, which was killing sailors and soldiers by the thousands. Before long, both of them were in bed with the typical symptoms of fatigue, muscle pain, vomiting, but these abated in a week, and they had been fortunate enough to escape the second phase that was the real danger.

  As the plantations recovered, their business flourished. The work centred on Kingstown: here they haggled with plantation owners, arranged warehousing and shipping, negotiated with the Lieutenant-Governor, and wrote to investors and customers back in Britain. Once or twice they ventured inland to view conditions at the plantations, still run by slave-owners even though the British parliament had forbidden the trade in slaves a few years earlier.

  The Assembly Hall was converted from French Colonial style, and situated near the harbour. Attendance varied as regiments came and went, and included local merchants and administrators as well as officers and their wives and daughters. Decor, music, gowns, uniforms, all bowed to London fashion. As he entered, Bingley was reminded of Meryton, and thoughts of Jane Bennet distracted him until firmly set aside as a daydream that could lead only to bitterness.

  But he found agreeable girls here too, and the habit of cheerful conversation re-awoke as he danced the first set with Miss Cecily Carter, a planter’s daughter whom he had met at concerts and soirées. Their banter had settled into a pattern: he flattered, she teased, both realising that nothing would come of it. Passing down the line he noticed a pretty raven-haired lady whose silken gown had an arresting tartan pattern, and kept his eye on her as she sat beside an officer in army regimentals.

  Bingley approached and introduced himself.

  ‘Lieutenant Shawcross.’ The officer bowed. ‘My wife, Henrietta.’

  ‘You are new to the island?’ Bingley asked him.

  ‘I grew up here, but have been away many years. My wife, as you see, hails from Scotland.’

  Bingley smiled at Mrs Shawcross. ‘Might I request the second set, madam, if you are free?’

  ‘Delighted, sir, but could ye hold till the third? I am breathless and would prefer tae rest just now.’

  ‘Why not keep Mrs Shawcross company?’ the lieutenant suggested. ‘I promised the next to my captain’s niece.’

  ‘Ye’re verra kind,’ Mrs Shawcross said as Bingley took over her husband’s chair. ‘I’ve nae been well, tae tell the truth. The food disagrees wi’ me. But on the mend now.’

  ‘Your gown is splendid,’ Bingley said.

  ‘Och, tis a wee bit extravagant for my taste, but my husband likes it, and it reminds me of home. Twas a gift from my friend Mrs Bailey, who came tae live with us but was English like yerself.’

  ‘You must miss your family, being so far away.’

  ‘Aye, but we correspond.’ Mrs Shawcross drew a letter from her reticule. ‘This just came from my sister Isobel, wi’ the usual stories of revelling and feuding. She was always quarrelling wi’ my sister-in-law Morag, and then wi’ Mrs Bailey, for no reason except she was Sassenach.’ She snorted. ‘Which was hardly Lizzy’s fault. Ye canna choose where ye’re born after all. And now Issy is up in arms because Lizzy inherited part of the estate after her husband died, and likely as not plans tae sell tae the Marquis of Stafford, who already owns all the land tae the west and wants tae swallow us up too.’ She smiled. ‘But I’ll be boring ye wi’ our family infighting! How about yerself?’

  ‘Nothing so interesting! I was left enough from my father to buy an estate and live the life of a country gentleman, but lost heart for the enterprise and decided instead to re-enter the family business.’ He paused. ‘I have heard of the Marquis, however. I had a friend named Mr Darcy who went to school with Stafford’s son.’

  ‘Darcy!’ Mrs Shawcross checked her letter. ‘Tha’s verra strange because Issy mentions a man of that same name who has been helping Mrs Bailey sort out her estate.’ She read aloud. ‘And Hector says he’s English too, from Derbyshire, and a friend of the Staffords, so we can all guess how that will turn out!’

  Bingley felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. Darcy, from Derbyshire! He struggled to regain his composure. ‘What was Mrs Bailey’s maiden name?’

  ‘I canna recall.’ She squinted across the dance floor. ‘We called her Elizabeth, or Lizzy, and she told me once that the initials EB on her handkerchiefs came from her maiden name, which also began wi’ B.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Bennet?’

  She gasped. ‘That was it! But how …’

  They continued talking, so engrossed that they missed the first dance of their set.

  At the villa, having left the ball early, Bingley paced his study in turmoil. There could be no question of mistaken identity. His former friend had always been fascinated by Jane’s
sister, she of the ready wit and bewitching eyes. He was sure something had passed between them at Rosings, although Darcy, true to type, had kept him in the dark. Why had Darcy gone to Edinburgh? What motive could he possibly have, except to renew his advances? Yet this was the man who had joined with Caroline in separating him from Jane! True, they had painted her as a fortune hunter whose affection was feigned, but he knew their real objection lay in her family connections …

  Yet now, with the Bennets destitute and disgraced beyond any comparison with their former status, the master of Pemberley saw no obstacle to pursuing the woman of his dreams. The hypocrisy was breath-taking. And this man had once been his best friend!

  Bingley poured himself a large brandy and sank into an armchair, seeking the solace of oblivion.

  19

  In afternoon sunshine Elizabeth enjoyed the formal gardens of Dunrobin Castle. Their host, the Marchioness of Stafford, had gone ahead with Major Mackay, while Brodie conferred with her ladyship’s factor Mr Young. This left Elizabeth with the other Mackays, Robert and Morag, whose friendliness had become strained after their disagreement over Laramore.

  Dunrobin stood on a hill that rose steeply from a bay midway between Inverness and Wick. From inland it was reached by an avenue through woodland; the gardens lay on the slope, with the castle above and the sea below. After five days of travel, exercise was a relief. They had followed General Wade’s military road over the Cairngorms. With every day that passed she was a further forty or fifty miles away from Darcy, a relief in some ways, and yet she was ambivalent …

  Elizabeth fell back, wearying of Morag’s fashion talk, and was joined by William Young.

  ‘Mrs Bailey?’ He slowed down, so that they would not be overheard. ‘I’ve long wished tae express condolences for yer untimely loss. I feel it keenly, having been the last man tae see Mr Bailey alive, at Callach.’

  Elizabeth gasped. ‘I remember now. I believe my husband mentioned your name.’

  ‘Aye, the Stafford estates are so grand they need several factors. Mr Patrick Sellar administers Sutherland to the west, while I have the east including the lands bordering Caithness.’

  He seemed calm, measured, more agreeable than the surly Brodie; she decided to venture a personal question. ‘May I ask how you found Mr Bailey when you met that day? In what frame of mind?’

  ‘I would say normal, ma’am. He said he had nae wish tae make mountains from molehills, and that all our sheep would be returned, if we made good the wall. He was verra interested in how Callach is organised, and we sketched a plan for a large farm on his land. But I couldna convince him. He liked the traditional way of life.’

  ‘He didn’t seem anxious? Or drink heavily? Or act in any way that struck you as odd?’

  ‘No, he was relaxed. I offered wine, but he wanted only tea.’ Young smiled. ‘And was kind tae the maid when her hand shook while she poured. He noticed, ye see, that the lassie was off-colour. Mr Bailey was like that, respectful tae people, nae matter their station.’

  Elizabeth’s eyes moistened. ‘He was. It would relieve me so much to know what happened …’

  As dusk fell, she descended with Robert and Morag Mackay to the sea and, leaving them seated on a low stone wall, walked along the beach. It was steep, forming layers of sand, shingle, and seaweed, and stretched two hundred yards before curving out of sight. Glad to be alone, she recalled Young’s anecdote about Thomas, so characteristic that again she was moved, her grief given a focus.

  No matter their station. Yes, this went to the heart of the man. It explained why he supported the American Declaration of Independence; explained too why he had married her despite family disgrace. She had never met anyone who so transcended the culture into which they had been born. All pretensions of nobility were treated with humorous scepticism. A maid might be wiser than a king, more virtuous than a bishop.

  She rounded a headland, dreamlike as she recalled a night arguing about life after death. His opinion was simple: he did not know, and saw no way of finding out.

  ‘But we have to believe something,’ she had insisted.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘How can we bear it otherwise?’

  ‘Think about our future. Our first child, let us say. Boy or girl? Handsome or plain? Happy or sad?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How can you bear not to know? Imagine something!’ He smiled. ‘We’ll have twins. One little girl, very beautiful. Like you.’

  ‘One little boy with his head in the clouds …’

  ‘Very funny. But it’s a game. We don’t know, so why pretend we do? If I come across a man in the street and don’t know his name, should I make one up?’

  It was no good: she could never beat him. But she had loved trying.

  She sat on a rock, head in hands. Where was he now?

  She didn’t know. Perhaps he knew. Or perhaps not, if death was final.

  She wept, no longer with bitterness, or fear, but from gratitude for having known him, and from love. Of a certain kind.

  She looked out to sea. The sun had gone down, but it was not yet dark.

  Could she build again?

  She thought of Darcy, a man rooted in his country, family, estate—so different from Thomas, who skittered over the surface of life like a water insect. She pictured Darcy’s tall figure, straight nose, the curl of his lip, the eyes that blazed with anger one moment, then softened with admiration the next. She recalled the moment crossing the North Bridge when …

  No. She must stop obsessively imagining what might have happened. How it would have felt to kiss him.

  True, Darcy was a handsome man, and she knew how grossly she had misjudged him. But this did not mean that she liked him, or saw him as a suitable partner.

  Then why keep imagining …

  Elizabeth levered herself off the rock. She had important things to think about. Whether she could trust the Mackays. Laramore. How best to provide for her family. The episode in the carriage meant nothing. They had drunk too much ale.

  She strode back towards the castle, dodging the waves as they broke one by one over the sand.

  20

  Georgiana stumbled through the coda of a duet. At her side Margaret finished the treble part with a flourish.

  ‘Sorry.’ Georgiana sighed. ‘Shall we try again?’

  ‘I think I’ll return to my book.’

  ‘Oh.’ Georgiana paused. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  After an awkward silence, Margaret rose. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  Left alone, Georgiana was close to tears. First James, now Margaret: as every day passed they became more distant. She had confided in William, who offered sympathy but no advice. It was not as if the family rejected her, as she had feared. On the contrary, Lord and Lady Dunbar remained welcoming, as did Alistair, whose compliments bordered on embarrassing.

  She resumed playing, more for distraction than pleasure, and was recovering her concentration when the lank figure of Alistair Inglis appeared in the doorway. He occupied a chair at the far end of the music room, and waited in silence for her to finish before applauding.

  ‘Bravo, Miss Darcy. Will you play another?’

  She thumbed through a volume of Scarlatti sonatas which she had spent an afternoon fingering. They were challenging, with fast arpeggios that she might fluff. She took a deep breath, wishing he would leave her alone, but as she launched into a movement he came to her side.

  ‘May I turn the pages?’

  She muttered her thanks, and played a series of wrong notes as he leaned across, so near that she felt his breath on her cheek.

  ‘Pray continue,’ he urged. ‘It is exquisite.’

  ‘I cannot.’ She reddened, not wishing to point out that he had skipped a page. ‘I feel a headache coming. I had better go to my room and rest.’

  She stood up, but he remained beside the seat, blocking her path.

  ‘Must you leave?’

  Sh
e backed to the other side of the grand piano, seeking another route, but he moved to intercept her.

  ‘Miss Darcy, there is something I want to say. We have become good friends, have we not?’

  She stared at him. ‘Yes, ah, I hope so. Your family has been most hospitable …’

  ‘Then must we delay longer?’ He stepped forward, and took both her hands. ‘Let us seal our understanding in the traditional manner.’

  To her astonishment he leaned forward, seeking her lips. She recoiled, and as his arms came around her, cried out instinctively—only to realise with a stab of fear that by raising the alarm she might be caught in a compromising embrace. Desperately she tried to back away, but already there was a sound at the door, and she recognised James’s voice.

  ‘Alistair!’ James closed the door softly and approached. ‘What is happening here?’

  With a snarl, Alistair released Georgiana and span to face his brother. ‘By what right do you invade my privacy and spoil a precious moment …’

  ‘Is that so, Miss Darcy?’ James asked gently. ‘Did I interrupt a precious moment?’

  ‘No!’ she hissed. ‘Mr Inglis accosted me as I was trying to walk out.’

  James turned to Alistair. ‘You had better leave.’

  ‘Interfering fool!’

  Alistair grabbed James’s shoulders and tried to frogmarch him from the room, but James broke free and they struggled for an advantageous grip. In horror Georgiana edged towards the door, keeping an anxious eye on the fight. With their arms locked, neither could land a blow. James had managed to hook his opponent’s ankle, trying to throw him, but Alistair was heavier, and after hovering in a tangle of legs they veered out of control and both fell, James’s head landing with a terrifying thud on the edge of the piano stool. Alistair looked set to continue, but the rumpus brought others to the scene—a servant, then Lord Dunbar—and after a final glare at James, still lying stunned beneath the piano, Alistair stalked off.