Darcy's Highland Fling

by M. A. Sandiford

  At dinner, seated opposite Darcy, Elizabeth admired as he conversed affably enough with visitors, showing no semblance of the pride that had made him unpopular in Hertfordshire. The atmosphere was cautious at first, but as dishes piled up—broth, lobster, haggis, neeps and tatties—accompanied by jugs of ale and wine, tongues loosened, and the newcomers became the object of open interest.

  ‘So Mr Darcy,’ Isobel sang, with a glance at Elizabeth, ‘I’m wondering what could possibly stir a fine English gentleman such as yerself tae hazard the wild outer reaches of Scotland tae visit folk like us. Ye must have a verra pressing reason. Could it be that ye want tae see the heather in full bloom?’

  This provoked a glare from Hector, but ribald laughter from most of the guests.

  ‘No,’ an officer said, ‘twill be the whisky.’

  ‘Or the salmon fishing upriver.’

  ‘A longing to wear tartan.’

  ‘Or eat haggis.’

  Darcy looked suspiciously at his plate, which held a mince of sheep offal with oatmeal and onion alongside mashed potato and swede. ‘As to that, I defer judgement.’

  Elizabeth feared the Highlanders would be offended, but their roar of contempt was good-natured.

  ‘Could it be on accoont of a lassie?’ someone said.

  ‘There’s nae lassies here worth a second look. Twill be the sound o’ the pipes,’ said another.

  ‘Aye, ’twill be that.’

  Darcy met Elizabeth’s eye with a resigned shrug, but the ribbing ended with the arrival of clootie dumplings served with custard. The crumbly puddings were accompanied by bottles of stronger drink—rum and brandy as well as whisky, and before long Hector Mackay, at head of table, jumped to his feet.

  ‘A toast to our honoured visitor from England!’

  Glasses were raised to cries of Fàilte and Slàinte mhath, which Elizabeth recognised as Welcome and Good Health. Of course one toast would not be enough, and Lieutenant Sinclair rose to add his pennyworth.

  ‘Long life to the Lady of Laramore!’

  ‘Tae Lizzy!’

  ‘Slàinte gu soírraidh!’

  ‘May ye aye be jist as happy, as we wiss ye noo tae be.’

  ‘May ye learn tae stay on a horse.’ This from Isobel.

  Elizabeth coloured and nodded her thanks, but now it was MacFarlane’s turn, then Flora’s, followed by Anna and Morag. Finally, after the other women had been saluted, Brodie proposed a toast to the laird’s verra fine sister Miss Isobel, met with ironic jeers which Elizabeth found upsetting. Her new friend was grudgingly admired but not popular.

  Dancing was organised in sets of three or four couples that formed spontaneously as the next dance was called—usually some variation of the reel. In a corner, the piper was joined by accordionists and fiddlers; tables had been cleared except for a row at the side to sustain those in need of further refreshment. The gentlemen held back until she had danced the first with Darcy; then they were both much in demand. She observed as the other ladies sought his eye, realising that to them he was not only distinguished and handsome, but exotic in his English mannerisms. Sitting a dance out, she tried to remain calm as he partnered Isobel; it could not be denied that they made a fine couple.

  The next was the Highland fling, which according to tradition derived from a sword dance that soldiers would perform to celebrate a successful battle. Darcy took a seat at her side.

  ‘I never saw you dance so often,’ she smiled.

  ‘I felt it was my duty, since the event is partly in my honour. But the fling is too intricate.’

  The piper began, this time solo, and the men pranced on the balls of their feet in complicated hops and turns which must have required much practice. An ensign who had drunk too much whisky overbalanced and had to be caught by spectators, to general hilarity, but both Hector and Robert completed the steps with impressive balance. Elizabeth noticed that Darcy was attending carefully, as if planning to try himself one day. But she sensed also that he was on edge from the strain of approaching strangers and making conversation, not to mention the noise and constant pressure to drink.

  ‘I need fresh air,’ she said quietly. ‘Would you like to come outside and view the sunset?’

  They climbed a cliff overlooking the mouth of the Maran and the bay curving round to Portstroma, where the sky glowed orange-red. The air was balmy; she had not even needed a wrap. No rough seas that night: the herring fishers should return safe. Behind, the drone of the pipes faded to a murmur.

  ‘Peace,’ she said. ‘I never tire of the austere loveliness of this place.’

  ‘I hope our retreat will not attract disfavour.’

  ‘Because the céilidh is in your honour? I don’t think so. You have made every effort to join in pursuits that must be tiresome for you.’

  ‘A far cry from Almack’s’ he smiled. ‘But they are generous, hospitable, genuine people: I would not have them different, except quieter and less given to drinking toasts.’

  ‘You fear a repetition of our—indiscretion?’ she asked saucily. ‘But tonight I only pretended to imbibe.’

  She flinched as he gave her a smouldering look, perhaps recalling that moment when they had almost kissed. Eventually he remarked, ‘We are again unchaperoned.’

  ‘Come sir, the Mackays think we are practically engaged.’

  He blinked. ‘I wish …’

  She waited a few seconds, sensible of his embarrassment. ‘I’m so thankful that you have come to my aid, Mr Darcy. But I beg you not to expect too much from me.’

  ‘You are still … grieving for your husband?’

  Elizabeth looked out to sea. Yes, she daydreamed of conversations with Thomas, as if trying through recollection to keep him alive. But the struggle was in vain, for his voice, his face, were already fading in her memory.

  ‘One cannot mourn for ever.’

  Darcy nodded, and they resumed walking along the cliff path. Eventually he continued:

  ‘Mrs Bailey, you have warned me several times that you have changed, through meeting your husband’s circle. You imply light-heartedly that you are a free-thinker, a non-conformist. Is that really true?’

  She smiled. ‘Would it matter, if I were?’

  ‘No.’ He did not hesitate. ‘I would welcome your, ah, friendship if you worshipped, shall we say, Poseidon. I am merely curious.’

  She considered. ‘It’s interesting that you should cite a belief in pagan gods. Thomas never adhered to any such dogma, nor did he press me to. What made him unusual was precisely the absence of fixed belief, except on questions that admitted proof. He was gently-spoken. Never bullied, never insisted. But as we talked I came to realise how much I have always assumed, merely through imitation of others.’

  ‘Doubting Thomas?’ Darcy smiled.

  ‘I used to call him that!’ She found a mound, with a view of the sea, and they sat side by side. ‘He was fond of an epigram by the Scottish surgeon John Hunter: Don’t think, TRY. There are things we know, and things we don’t know. We know which mushrooms are poisonous because we tried tasting them—or at least our forefathers did. But the nature of God, the origin of the world, the destiny of the soul after death? Calvinists say God pre-selects some people for eternal damnation. How do they know? They don’t! Someone just made it up.’

  ‘So your husband would accept nothing on faith.’

  ‘He thought it a close cousin of insanity.’ She laughed. ‘We saw a stranger pass once and he said, That man hails from Glasgow, so I asked, Why, and he said, No reason, I hold it as a matter of faith.’

  Darcy smiled, studying her. ‘You enjoyed his company, I think.’

  ‘Yes, but with misgivings, because for Thomas discussions were just a game. He was maddeningly impractical. I realise now that he had no idea how to manage an estate, or control his finances. Mr Kirdy did his best, but Thomas overspent, ignored advice, borrowed from Hector, and would probably have gone bankrupt had he lived. All this he concealed from me. He said not to worry, he
had it all under control. In my grief I try to be lenient, but he had flaws aplenty.’

  ‘Irresponsibility?’

  ‘Bordering on madness!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I loved him as one loves a gifted child. But believe me, he was no paragon.’

  30

  Monday 13th June 1814, Loch Naver

  Graham Ross climbed from Achness to a forested slope that fell to the loch. He looked down at the village, now two-thirds empty: most tenants had undertaken the 15-mile trek to Bettyhill where the factor had promised them lots for crofting. With so few families left there was little point continuing school, but he felt he owed the community his best effort, and had read an adventure story to a row of diverse children, from a strapping lad named Angus McKenzie to seven-year-old Kirstin Keir, whose widowed mother had delayed taking up her option of a plot on the coast.

  He gained the hilltop and took in the view down the loch, which curved west like a worm three miles long. In his pocket were an apple and hunk of bread. Finding a mound to sit and eat, he wondered what would befall him next. He had come just over a year ago, sent by the Society for the Propagation of Christian Knowledge. The work felt like a mission, and he loved it, for here he was needed, he made a difference. But the village could not long endure. Eviction notices had been issued earlier in the year; legally they could be enforced at any time. He could return to his family in Glasgow. Or visit his friend Donald Gibson, who ran the school in a village near Strathmaran, an estate on the edge of Caithness.

  At the far end of the loch, smoke rose into the cloudless sky. After a week of fine weather the heather would be dry: he wondered whether a fire had started accidentally. He stood up to get a better view and saw several distinct plumes in the vicinity of a village called Kilbreck.

  Not heather. Cottages.

  He discarded his half-eaten apple and ran downhill.

  By early evening the men reached Achness. Four sheriffs, a posse of 20, Sellar himself directing operations. Ross had warned the villagers, most of whom had begun to bundle their possessions and strip timbers from their cottages. Others waited. They had always lived here. It could be a false alarm.

  A court order was read out—in English. Ross did his best to render it in Gaelic. The villagers were in violation of the law. They should have left already. They had been given due warning. In an hour their cottages would be torched.

  There was shouting from a nearby field where the villagers grazed their cattle. Sellar’s men were driving the animals into the village, then burning the grass so that the land could no longer be used as pasture. Ross went to the village hall that served as his classroom. He had selected books and equipment and piled them up outside: whether they were worth carting to Bettyhill was another matter. The thatch on the McKenzie’s cottage was lit: he watched the family of five standing near a mound of clothing.

  A desperate wailing drew his attention, and he ran to the end cottage where Mrs Keir lived with Kirstin. One of the sheriffs had come to investigate, and was remonstrating with outraged villagers. Two neighbours stumbled out carrying a woman so covered in debris that she was unrecognisable.

  ‘What happened?’ Ross asked the sheriff.

  ‘Fell through the roof.’ He grimaced. ‘Trying tae take off the timbers.’

  ‘Have you brought a physician?’

  ‘Are ye joking? We’ve come tae burn the place doon, nae cure the sick.’

  Ross noticed Kirstin looking on in shock as a neighbour cleared her mother’s face, revealing the neck bent at an unnatural angle. Another woman pushed through, felt for a pulse, and shook her head.

  Angrily, Ross ran to look for the factor, who was supervising the burning of the village hall.

  ‘Mr Sellar, can you come? A woman has fallen after trying to take timber from her roof, and is either dead or seriously hurt. I’m Mr Ross. The schoolmaster.’

  ‘You’re still here?’ Sellar stared at him. ‘I’d have credited a man of your education with more sense.’

  ‘I assume you’re in authority here? We must attend to this poor woman, and make sure there are no further accidents. Can you proceed more calmly? Give these poor people more time?’

  ‘They were given fair warning. It’s not my fault if they took no notice. Now please move on, sir. A sheriff will attend to the woman. I have work to do.’

  Ross threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘I work for a Glasgow Christian Society. This incident will be reported.’

  ‘Many have threatened me before you, and lived to regret it.’

  Ross gave up, and ran back to the Mrs Keir’s cottage. Looking inside, he saw the hole with mangled timber, turf and straw. He guessed she had overbalanced while trying to pull away the timber, tangled her legs in the thatch, and fallen through head-first, landing on her neck.

  A man grasped his arm. ‘Oot. We’re burning it doon.’

  There was no point resisting. He found Kirstin beside her mother’s body, which had been moved away from the cottage and covered with a plaid. The little girl recognised him and ran over, clutching a rag doll.

  ‘Do ye know the lassie?’ the sheriff asked.

  ‘I’m her schoolmaster.’

  ‘Where’s her father?’

  Ross lowered his voice. ‘He, ah, died. So far as I know there are no kin in the area.’ He glanced at the body. ‘Are you sure …’

  ‘Try yerself if ye want.’

  Unobtrusively, Ross felt under the plaid for the wrist, and confirmed there was no pulse. A glimpse of the face revealed closed eyelids, with no flicker of movement. He sighed and returned to the sheriff. ‘What will you do with the body?’

  He shrugged. ‘Have it buried in Bettyhill or some toon along the way.’

  ‘Will you take Kirstin too?’

  He hesitated. ‘We’ve another village tae clear afore we head back. Can anyone here look after her?’

  ‘I know her as well as anyone.’

  ‘Wee lassie.’ He ruffled her hair. ‘She’s seen enough fer one day, I’m thinking.’

  ‘What should I do with her?’

  ‘Take her tae any town wi’ a Poor House.’

  Before Ross could reply the sheriff had left to join his men. The Keir’s cottage was aflame: soon nothing would be left except a stone shell.

  Sellar’s men had gone. Ross sat Kirstin upon the cart as he loaded clothing and books from the manse, now the only dwelling left standing. He had lodged there with the minister and his family, long gone to Bettyhill. Villagers were recovering any valuables they could find, and rounding up livestock. Tenants would drive cattle and sheep along the River Naver to the coast, to take up their crofts. The cottars and tinkers might join them, hoping for work on the boats, or doing odd jobs. Some wandered around the remains of their cottages, perhaps assessing whether they could be made habitable again.

  Angus McKenzie approached carrying a sack. ‘Have ye room fer this, sir?’

  ‘Are you going downriver?’

  ‘Aye, tae Bettyhill.’

  Ross piled up his own bundles to make room. ‘Leave space for Kirstin.’

  He packed all the food he could find. The sooner they set off the better: there were villages down the Naver that might provide shelter. Kirstin had accepted milk and an oatcake, but said not a word since witnessing her mother’s accident. On reaching Bettyhill he could ask among the crofters for relatives of the Keirs—a cousin, perhaps. Failing that, it would have to be the Poor House.

  The McKenzies were ready. Ross secured Kirstin between two soft bundles in the centre of the cart, and led his horse along the trail to the river.

  31

  Rising early, Darcy toured the walled garden where the Mackays grew vegetables and fruit. The weather since the céilidh had been miserable, gales blowing for two days, but his spirits had been raised by excellent news from Edinburgh. Miraculously, Alistair Inglis had changed his story, before departing with his father to their estate at Dunbar. Georgiana was able to visit Charlotte Square when she pleased, her friends
hips with James and Margaret thriving as before. Her letter hinted that she knew what lay behind Alistair’s volte-face, although she did not reveal it.

  Elizabeth had been thrilled by the news, and like himself, perceived its significance straight away. Lord Dunbar had admitted, in effect, that his own son and heir had committed gross impropriety: first by the manner of his proposal; even more, by lying. The lapse had been kept private, but Darcy knew, so obviating any pretensions the Inglises might claim to superior rectitude. There could surely be no question now of Darcy’s reputation being tarnished by association with the Bennets.

  In the breakfast room, Elizabeth and Captain Robert Mackay were in conversation with the Sinclairs, still visiting after the céilidh. Lieutenant Sinclair beckoned him to join them.

  ‘Good morning, sir! Finally we have sunshine, not to mention a full river. I can show you the salmon pool that I mentioned.’

  ‘That would be entertaining.’ He helped himself from the buffet and sat beside Elizabeth.

  ‘But ye’ll be back by mid-afternoon.’ Anna waggled a finger at her husband. ‘Hamish will be here wi’ the carriage at three.’

  Sinclair turned to Elizabeth. ‘Why not come too? We could bring a picnic.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ she said. ‘It’s so peaceful, especially when the fish decline to bite. But I should call at Laramore and see how Mr MacFarlane is getting on.’

  ‘Munro will be free,’ Lieutenant Sinclair said.

  Darcy spotted Hector Mackay in the passage, in whispered conference with Niall Brodie. He asked Elizabeth, ‘Would you prefer me to accompany you?’

  ‘No need. Enjoy your fishing.’

  ‘I’d like to see Laramore. I could ride over later in the afternoon.’

  ‘Simply follow the river,’ Robert Mackay said. ‘Half an hour at a canter.’

  Hector Mackay entered and sat beside his brother. ‘We must keep an eye open for itinerants. Mr Brodie has reports of more evictions in Strathnaver.’ A pointed glance at Elizabeth. ‘The Marchioness’s estate, you may recall.’