With Margaret holding her hand Georgiana trembled as a grave-looking Darcy entered the drawing room. He sat beside her on the divan, and waited while Margaret got up to leave them in privacy.
‘William, I’m so sorry.’ Georgiana was unable to control her tears.
‘What happened?’ he asked softly.
She told him, in fits and starts, disturbed by the disapproving frown on his face. ‘And then James came to my aid, but now he is most terribly injured …’
Darcy squeezed her hand. ‘The physician has found no reason for alarm. James is concussed, but recovering fast. After resting he should escape with nothing worse than a sore head.’ He paused. ‘But are you sure of this? I had a word with Lord Dunbar, who thinks James misconstrued Alistair’s intentions and over-reacted.’
Georgiana stared at him. ‘Of course I’m sure! I recall his precise words: Let us seal our understanding in the traditional manner. After which he tried to kiss me, and would have succeeded had James not intervened.’
‘That leaves little room for doubt.’ Darcy sighed. ‘You cannot stay here, Georgie. You must return to our rooms in St Andrew’s Square tonight.’
‘May I see James before I go?’
‘I will ask.’
‘This misunderstanding is most unfortunate,’ Lord Dunbar said. ‘I hope Miss Darcy is not distressed.’
Darcy kept half an eye on Alistair Inglis, seated at his father’s side in the library. He looked pale but defiant.
‘I have spoken to Georgiana,’ Darcy replied. ‘I believe her account has been confirmed by James.’
Lord Dunbar shook his head. ‘He arrived only at the end of the episode, after Miss Darcy took fright and cried out. In any case, his memory will have been confused by concussion.’
Darcy looked at Alistair. ‘Is it not best to make a clean breast?’ he said gently. ‘We are none of us perfect.’
The young man held his gaze stubbornly for a few seconds, then looked away.
‘Alistair has given his word,’ Lord Dunbar said stiffly.
Facing a brick wall, Darcy felt anger as well as frustration. Yes, Alistair might have misread the signs, rather as he himself had erred at Hunsford. But to deny what he had done, and impute a fabrication to Georgiana, was unforgivable.
‘In that case, regrettably, my sister can no longer remain a guest in your house.’
Alistair looked up petulantly. ‘You are calling me a liar, sir?’
‘That is not for me to say. I leave it to your conscience. What I can say is that my sister is invariably truthful.’ He turned to Lord Dunbar. ‘Miss Darcy is also anxious about James’s condition and asks whether she can see him before leaving.’
Alistair bridled. ‘And invent more lies about me? Do not let them confer, father!’
Almost imperceptibly Lord Dunbar raised his fingers, as if signalling his son to remain silent. ‘Better let James rest. I will send a message tomorrow, when with God’s grace he should be recovered.’
Darcy nodded. There was nothing to be done except retreat to St Andrew’s Square, and comfort Georgiana as best he could.
21
Monday 30th May 1814, Strathmaran
Elizabeth rested, in her old room, before dinner. Helped by clement weather and long evenings their carriages had reached Wick in just two days from Dunrobin, and gained Strathmaran by late afternoon. She was tired, anxious over Laramore, fearful of her reception. But the wild beauty of the coast still took her breath away; to be back in the Highlands gave hope, a sense that life was worth living.
At Larraig, visiting the Sinclairs, they had heard the sad news that her factor Mr Kirdy had passed away. Affectionately she recalled Mrs Kirdy, with her traditional remedies, cheerful daughters, and brawny sons Lachlan and Iain. Tomorrow she would meet them by Laramore’s kirk for the funeral, catch up on news with Mr Gibson, walk around the village and sample opinion.
At dinner, Hector sat at the head of the table in place of his mother, still abed but on the mend. Otherwise the pattern was much as before, except that Morag, once her best friend, paid her little attention, while Isobel seemed out of sorts with everyone.
‘Weel Mrs Bailey, I hear ye’ve been busy in Edinburgh with yer English beau, and Thomas nae a year in his grave,’ Isobel said. ‘A friend of the Staffords, no less. With such grand connections I wonder ye condescend to visit humble folk like us.’
Elizabeth remained silent as Major Mackay muttered, ‘Mind yer manners, Issy.’
‘Och, I’m so sorry.’ Isobel said to Elizabeth. ‘Do I offend ye, Mrs Bailey?’
‘No,’ Elizabeth replied coldly. ‘Your incivility upset me when I first came, but now I am merely bored.’
Isobel flinched, for once speechless, and Captain Robert took the opportunity to talk of Larraig Water, where the fishing was reported to be excellent this year.
Next day the Strathmaran party set out along the cart track to Laramore, where the funeral feast would begin in mid-morning. Outside Kirdy’s house, the crowd stirred as Elizabeth came into view, and lined her path to the door with murmurings of Fàilte Bhean Elisaid, which she recognised as a welcome. Hector Mackay held back, supervising the unloading of food and drink while letting her enter first; Elizabeth sensed the villagers were wary of him, although not hostile.
In the hall, Mrs Kirdy bustled to meet her: she looked tired, but in control.
‘I’m sorry,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Mr Kirdy was a fine man and served my husband with honesty and efficiency.’
‘Thank ye, m’leddie. Tis a blessing ye could be here for his sending-off. Will I take ye tae the parlour, where he is laid out?’
Mrs Kirdy led past a mirror which had been turned to the wall—a precaution, Elizabeth recalled, to avoid confusing the ghost of the deceased as it made its way out of the house. In the parlour the curtain was drawn, and men still sat in vigil beside the open coffin. The atmosphere was dank and putrid, and Elizabeth struggled not to gag as she bowed in respect. She recognised the sons, Lachlan and Iain, large powerful men who rose and accepted her condolences in solemn silence.
‘Pray take some refreshment.’ Mrs Kirdy led her out, perhaps spotting her discomfort, and poured a small glass of wine. ‘The vigil will soon be over and we’ll away for the feast. May I ask, Mrs Bailey, if ye have time …’ She coloured.
‘Go ahead.’
‘We’re worried over th’hoose. Ye’ll be putting in a new factor, I’m thinking. There’s some say Mr Brodie will be taking over …’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘I’ve employed a single man named Mr MacFarlane who should arrive next week. He won’t need a house as big as this. Could you stay on and let him have a room?’
Mrs Kirdy sighed. ‘Aye, m’leddie, and t’would be my pleasure tae cook and clean for him if he’ll be wanting it.’
‘You have space?’
‘If Annag and Mairi share. Iain beds in the village near the run-rigs.’
‘Would your sons be interested in helping the new factor, so that they can learn the role?’
Mrs Kirdy frowned. ‘I can ask, ye ken, but Lachlan has always been set on the regiment, and Iain the sheep.’
Outside, Elizabeth was met by Mr Gibson and the minister, a stout ungainly man whose gait reminded her of Mr Collins. She found him dour and humourless, but mercifully not so obsequious as the new master of Longbourn. Gibson, as usual, received her warmly, and reassured her that life had continued much as usual, except for an undercurrent of unease as some moorland around Laramore reverted to the Mackays, with rumours that the village itself would follow when she was minded to sell.
They reached a barn, stocked with casks of whisky, ale and wine, where the men were to partake of the ‘feast’ which so far as she could see consisted mostly of drink; there Elizabeth left them and joined Mrs Gibson and the other women in the village hall, which did double duty as a schoolroom. Morag, she noticed, stayed aloof, talking with the minister’s wife; Isobel mixed with the villagers, speaking fluent Gaelic. Drink
was plentiful here too, with appetising odours from the kitchen. Desks had been lined up, and as the women took their seats, Elizabeth found herself again a focus of attention.
A mother sitting opposite acted as spokeswoman. She was proud, and tough-looking, with a little girl squirming on her knee and a boy standing at her side. After stilted introductions, she asked in Gaelic whether Mackay’s factor would replace Kirdy—apparently a general expectation. Elizabeth explained her plan, and while Mrs Gibson translated, the hall buzzed with conversations she could not follow at all.
‘What are they saying?’ she whispered.
Mrs Gibson leaned across. ‘They are surprised, and relieved. They wonder whether it can last.’
Elizabeth answered some further questions as best she could. Yes, it was worth planting crops and laying in food for the winter. There would be no sudden changes. But as she spoke, she saw how flimsy were her promises, how brief the reprieve. Once or twice she noticed Isobel, seated among the villagers, listening with a puzzled frown and for once saying nothing.
The feast seemed to go on for ever, and when the women were well lubricated with ale and mulled wine, the atmosphere became surprisingly cheerful. Annag and Mairi sat beside her with a group of friends, mostly girls as yet unmarried, and quizzed her on fashions, balls, and other attractions of city life that they never expected to experience at first hand. On learning that she had often been to London they were even more agog. Among the younger villagers, most spoke halting English, suggesting that Mr Gibson’s labours had born fruit.
As more and more women approached, Elizabeth was moved by their relaxed friendliness. She sensed that her earlier efforts on their behalf had been noticed. They also found her fascinating, exotic, this English lady from a world they could scarcely imagine, who had condescended to live at Strathmaran and visit their cottages.
It was time to pay last respects. The women quietened as they trooped back to Kirdy’s house, joining a line of men many of whom could hardly stay upright. Children too filed into the parlour and rested tiny hands on the dead man’s chest so as to appease his ghost, which might otherwise return to haunt them. The coffin was sealed, eight men raised it, and the procession to the kirk began.
The walk was just a few hundred paces, but with most of the men reeling from drink, the coffin was set down so that another team could take over. Elizabeth noticed Hector and Robert Mackay lending their support as the procession passed the village hall, with a piper in Highland regimentals leading the way. At the kirkyard gate only the men followed the coffin to the burial site, except for Mrs Kirdy and her daughters. The other women went to the barn to prepare for further feasting—this time to be accompanied by dancing.
Towards evening, Captain Robert and Morag took one of the carriages back to Strathmaran. Hector Mackay and his factor Niall Brodie inspected the land he had acquired in the settlement, while Elizabeth set off with Mr Gibson to visit tenants who had not been able to attend. The dancing had been disorderly, one man after another shouting out toasts to Kirdy and his family, with a great deal more whisky drunk. In a way it was shocking; on the other hand, they were celebrating the life of a well-liked man, and justified their excesses by the desire to give him a decent send-off. Thomas’s funeral had been far more subdued, presumably because of the violent and unexplained manner of his death.
Near the copse at the end of the village she came to the dark smoky cottage where Sibyl Kirdy sat in the same rocking chair smoking her pipe, this time accompanied by Kirdy’s son Iain and two cottars who helped him manage the sheep. She had never had a conversation with Iain, a taciturn weather-beaten goliath who seemed sculpted for life on the moor; nor did she have one now, for he rose on seeing her, and left with a nod and a grunt, the other men following him.
Elizabeth sat in the wicker chair next to Sibyl, recalling the occasion nearly a year before when the soothsayer had delivered her chilling and prescient warning. She managed a greeting in Gaelic before relying on Gibson to translate answers to her questions. Yes, Sibyl was well cared for. She wanted to remain in Laramore. Folk were generous. She had all she needed.
With trepidation, Elizabeth allowed another exploration of her palm, but this time there was no urgent warning, merely an observation that deaths came in threes. Her father, Elizabeth thought. Thomas. Now Mr Kirdy, who had run her estate. But people died all the time: one could always highlight a series of three—or if one waited long enough, four or five.
Back in the village centre, the groom Munro was waiting with the carriage, and she was joined by Hector Mackay, Brodie, and Isobel. She noticed for the first time that Isobel not only ignored Brodie entirely, but scarcely exchanged a word with Hector, her own brother. It seemed that she, Elizabeth, was not the only target of the girl’s ire.
Or perhaps they were all simply tired. With no conversation to distract her, Elizabeth daydreamed of events in Edinburgh and Meryton, the people she had left behind. Were her sisters well? Her mother? Had Darcy resolved Georgiana’s romantic quandary? Was Mr MacFarlane on his way to take over as factor?
She dozed intermittently as they followed the river to Strathmaran.
22
Darcy walked across North Bridge, eager to return to his rooms, where he had left Colonel Fitzwilliam to look after Georgiana. After her schism with the Inglises Georgiana had become feverish; the physician diagnosed ague, and recommended rest with application of a cold flannel. The crisis was now over, but she recovered slowly, preferring to remain in bed.
Darcy had visited Dalglish’s office in the Canongate to meet Mr MacFarlane. The new factor was small, fortyish, and fox-like with his red thatch of hair and thin wily face: first impressions were unprepossessing. But on closer acquaintance, Darcy approved of Dalglish’s choice. MacFarlane was plain-speaking and experienced. He was to leave next day, and hoped to reach Laramore within a week.
News from Charlotte Square had been reassuring at least on one point: James Inglis was up and about, showing no ill effects from his injury. But messages from Lord Dunbar had been brief and formal, with no evidence of a change of heart.
As he entered the New Town, Darcy pondered what he should do if, as seemed likely, they had arrived at an impasse with Georgiana’s former friends. One option was to return to Pemberley, once she was fully recovered; but to leave Elizabeth at the mercy of the Mackays was unbearable. His instinct was to go after her, however uncertain his reception. To retreat would represent a double defeat: his own dreams abandoned, and Georgiana’s too.
Reaching St Andrew’s Square Darcy discovered two callers: Lord Dunbar was taking a post-prandial drink with Colonel Fitzwilliam in the drawing room, while Margaret had gone to Georgiana’s bedside. In hope of progress he joined Lord Dunbar, leaving his cousin free to keep an appointment at the New Club.
After refreshing Lord Dunbar’s glass, and pouring one for himself, Darcy thanked his guest for the visit. ‘It will lift my sister’s spirits to see her friend again.’
‘We are relieved to find her on the mend.’
‘I trust James is also well?’
‘The swelling is reduced.’ Lord Dunbar sipped port. ‘But he is distressed, declining even the solace of work. I wish there were a way of ending this rift, over what is in essence a misunderstanding.’
‘What do you propose?’
‘If …’ Lord Dunbar lowered his voice. ‘If Miss Darcy felt able to moderate her version of events, matters could still be smoothed over.’
‘That would be up to her.’ Darcy spread his arms. ‘For my part, I believe facts should be faced, whether palatable or not. I have no reason to doubt that your son is a well-meaning young man who erred on this occasion through inexperience. Nor would I wish to embarrass both young people by public accusations. I would just like to see facts acknowledged, and have confidence that Mr Inglis understands his error, and will treat Georgiana appropriately in future.’
‘Always assuming that Miss Darcy’s perceptions correspond to the facts, whil
e Alistair’s do not. But no court of law would accept such an imbalance. We have two contrasting viewpoints and no witness except James, whose memories are fogged by concussion. I am not asking Miss Darcy to change her story, only that she admits a degree of uncertainty.’
Darcy was silent a moment, pondering Lord Dunbar’s legal analogy. ‘In court, your son would have to swear on the Holy Book to tell the whole truth.’
Lord Dunbar flinched. ‘And what, pray, do you imply by that?’
‘I would be curious …’ Darcy caught himself. ‘Excuse me. It would be impertinent to suggest any such course of action.’
Lord Dunbar was not entirely mollified. ‘And what of Miss Darcy? Remember, I have not disputed her honesty.’
Darcy sighed. ‘In her position I would not change my account unless I felt genuine doubt. But it is her decision, not mine. I will ask her.’
‘Can you not relent, Georgie?’ Margaret pleaded. ‘Would it not be better for all of us?’
Georgiana sat up, leaning against the pillow. ‘Do you believe Alistair?’
‘Are you mad? Of course I believe you. Alistair has always been a bully, full of his own importance. It would be just like him to dragoon you into an engagement. Or even a flirtation if he thought you beneath him.’ Margaret hung her head. ‘I should have stayed near you.’
‘Did I distress you in some way?’ Georgiana blinked back tears. ‘Before, everything was fine; then we reached Edinburgh, and you were like ice.’
‘We thought …’ Margaret swallowed.
‘Thought what?’
‘That you were after Alistair.’ She threw up her hands. ‘You were so friendly to him. Always together.’
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