Darcy's Highland Fling

by M. A. Sandiford

  Colonel Fitzwilliam handed over the envelope. ‘You might prefer to peruse it on your own. But the gist I can give you now. A proposal of marriage has been accepted. I have explained that as co-guardian, my permission must be postponed until I have conferred with you. So here I am.’

  ‘Unwilling to discuss such a sensitive matter by post?’

  ‘Frankly, Darce, I was kicking my heels in Edinburgh. I have long wished to join you at this frontier of Perfidious Albion.’

  ‘Certainly not lacking in perfidy. But what is your view on the match? I assume we are referring to Mr James Inglis.’

  Colonel Fitzwilliam sipped ale, taking his time. ‘Of his affection I have no doubt. They are charming together. As to his means …’ He shrugged. ‘We know the situation. But Georgie has not an avaricious bone in her body, and if we refused, she would be heartbroken.’

  Darcy nodded. ‘Once I would have disagreed.’

  ‘Before encountering the lovely Elizabeth?’

  ‘Before losing her.’

  Colonel Fitzwilliam raised his eyebrows. ‘And have you found her again?’

  Darcy lowered his voice. ‘Between you and me, cuz, it seems I have.’

  At dinner Elizabeth floated uneasily on a tide of cordiality from the Mackays. Hector had a new spring in his step: tomorrow he and Brodie would tour Mulkirk, Portstroma and other coastal villages, seeking plots suitable for crofts. Morag beamed at her, all friendliness again. As usual there were guests: not just Colonel Fitzwilliam, but Lieutenant Maxwell, and the minister from a kirk a mile inland, with his wife and daughter. In deference to Elizabeth’s wishes, the plans for selling Laramore were not mentioned; but the Mackays’ excitement spread to the entire gathering. Isobel, however, was absent, preferring the solace of her room.

  For dessert they were served ices, accompanied by a sweet wine, and Elizabeth smiled as Hector Mackay rose for the inevitable toasts. Flora first as usual, then the minister’s wife and daughter, herself, Morag, and finally poor Issy, who supposedly had a headache.

  ‘Not forgetting our esteemed visitor Colonel Fitzwilliam.’ The major raised his glass anew. ‘And the brave men of the 52nd Foot.’

  ‘Tae the colonel and the 52nd Foot!’

  Colonel Fitzwilliam stood up. ‘To the 78th Highlanders and the glorious siege of Antwerp!’

  ‘Tae the Highlanders!’

  Elizabeth smiled, pretending to drink, as Hector called over a servant and whispered instructions.

  ‘Friends!’ Hector rapped the table. ‘Shall we welcome our guest with dancing?’ He turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam. ‘If you have the energy, sir, after your journey.’

  The colonel was incisive. ‘For dancing, always.’

  ‘Musicians will be here in a half-hour.’

  Elizabeth whispered to Darcy, ‘Time to don the kilt.’

  Darcy rolled his eyes as men came to clear the hall.

  After the first reel, Elizabeth ran upstairs to find Isobel sitting on her bed reading, a tray of leftovers at her side.

  ‘Weel, Sassenach.’ She dropped Lady of the Lake, which she had borrowed. ‘Sounds like they’re having a fine party tae celebrate yer capitulation.’

  ‘We’re greeting a visitor. Mr Darcy’s cousin.’ Elizabeth sat next to her. ‘Why not come down? We need another lady to make up an eight.’

  ‘I canna bear tae see Hector so satisfied wi’ himself.’

  ‘Is this how a proud Highland lady conducts herself when misfortune strikes? Hides away in defeat?’

  Isobel snorted. ‘I ken what ye’re trying tae do, Lizzy. Tease the pitiable lassie out of her sulk. Weel, ye can save yer breath. I’ll be doon when I want and nae before.’

  Elizabeth parted Isobel’s hair, revealing a face rigid in rebellion. ‘Splash water in your eyes. Put a nice dress on.’

  ‘Tae make the acquaintance of some English dandy?’

  ‘To make up the set. Never mind Mr Darcy’s cousin. You look such a fright that he won’t be interested in you anyway.’

  Isobel waved her hand. ‘Away, Sassenach. Should I by some chance decide tae come doon, ’twill have nothing tae do wi’ yer pathetic attempts tae rouse me. If I want tae mourn, it’s nae yer business nor anyone else’s.’

  Elizabeth returned to the hall, just in time to join a reel for a group of six. The minister and his wife preferred to spectate, leaving only the daughter, plus Elizabeth and Morag: Flora was too stiff to keep up. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam sat this one out, leaving the floor to the Highland officers in their regimentals and kilts. Elizabeth enjoyed watching Darcy in his Mackay tartan as she concentrated on the steps; the colonel had put on regimentals, but kept his usual cream breeches.

  The door opened; Isobel entered. Circling on Lieutenant Maxwell’s arm Elizabeth glimpsed lustrous hair, white gown, tartan bodice: the girl’s loveliness took the breath away. It certainly had this effect on Colonel Fitzwilliam, who rose to his feet transfixed …

  While Isobel returned his gaze!

  Elizabeth had heard of the phrase coup de foudre, meaning literally a thunderbolt; never before had she encountered such an event outside novels. Frustratingly she had to spin, but on next facing them she saw Isobel and the colonel with eyes still locked as Darcy performed the introduction.

  The reel over, Elizabeth returned to her seat. With a bow to the colonel Isobel strode imperiously across the hall and sat next to her.

  ‘Weel, I’m here. Satisfied?’

  Elizabeth smiled. ‘You’ve been introduced to Colonel Fitzwilliam, I see.’

  ‘Aye, I’ve met yer English puppy. Nae so bad. Has he seen action?’

  ‘Yes, most recently in the Peninsular War. He’s been off-duty since returning from Orthez.’

  ‘I see the resemblance tae Mr Darcy in the features.’

  ‘Yes, the Fitzwilliam men are usually endowed with a straight nose, strong chin, curled lip.’

  ‘He’s nae handsome exactly, but rugged and charming at the same time …’ She sighed. ‘Sassenach though.’

  ‘Now you’re ridiculous, Issy. You’ve managed to overcome your prejudice and accept me as your friend.’

  ‘Only for ye tae betray me, ye English snake.’

  Their eyes met, and they both burst out laughing.

  In the late evening, after sunset, Darcy relaxed in the library with Colonel Fitzwilliam and the Mackay brothers. Lieutenant Maxwell and the minister’s family had left; the women were all in the drawing room. A decanter of port circulated, from which he poured half a glass.

  ‘I’ve been discussing the Canadian resettlements with the other officers,’ Hector Mackay said. ‘They do present a remarkable opportunity. The Hudson’s Bay Company has granted the Earl of Selkirk an area five times the size of Scotland in the Red River Valley.’

  ‘Is this land arable?’ Darcy queried. ‘So far north, I imagine it’s snowbound for much of the year.’

  ‘In such a large region, parts must be habitable,’ Robert Mackay said. ‘Our tenants are hardy folk, remember, used to harsh winters.’

  ‘I spoke to an officer from the Royal Scots at the New Club.’ Colonel Fitzwilliam puffed on his cigar. ‘Just returned from Canada after two years with the 1st Regiment of Foot.’ He looked at the Mackay brothers. ‘Perhaps you know Captain Ferguson? He had heard preoccupying reports from the Red River. It seems the Scottish settlers were abandoned at Hudson Bay, and had to trek hundreds of miles across Manitoba to reach their allotments. Many died, and the survivors have ended up in the middle of a quarrel between the fur companies.’

  Darcy nodded, grateful for this information: otherwise he could easily have been misled by the Mackays. ‘So we should hold off, at least until the settlement is better organised.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Colonel Fitzwilliam looked round to ensure he had their attention. ‘There is an alternative. For some years, Highlanders have been settling an area beside the St Lawrence, upriver from Montreal, called Glengarry. The land there is fertile, the climate comparable with S
cotland, but with warmer summers.’

  Darcy frowned. ‘It adjoins New York colony. Is there not a danger of incursion from the United States?’

  ‘There has been.’ Colonel Fitzwilliam smiled. ‘Captain Ferguson’s regiment was sent for exactly that reason. Espying the British army occupied in Europe, fighting the Corsican, President Madison imagined that he could expand north of the border. But he reckoned without Major General Brock, who united his own forces with local regulars and Shawnee Indians, and gave the Americans a bloody nose at Niagara. They tried again last year at Montreal, and were pushed back in disarray. The war is now petering out, and with Napoleon beaten, the general view is that the border is secure. Government policy now is to encourage more immigration, so that the local population can defend itself.’

  Darcy leaned forward, excited as the outline of a solution became clear. ‘It seems a fine opportunity.’

  ‘There is a cost issue.’ Colonel Fitzwilliam frowned, as if trying to recall the details. ‘Settlers are granted a small amount of land, but to thrive they need money to buy more. The expense of the voyage is considerable.’

  ‘Then I doubt many villagers in Laramore could afford it,’ Hector Mackay said.

  ‘Unless subsidised,’ Darcy said. ‘Perhaps by the government, perhaps by ourselves. I can write to Lord Bathurst, Secretary of State for War and the Colonies, to find out whether help might be forthcoming from that quarter.’

  Robert Mackay looked at his brother. ‘It would ease the strain on Strathmaran, Hector.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The major smiled. ‘Gentlemen, I believe we have a plan.’

  35

  July 1814, two weeks later

  Elizabeth sat opposite Robert and Morag Mackay as their barouche approached Croidale. The morning was summery, the breeze gentle: a good day for riding in an open carriage, and her first visit to Laramore since Darcy’s narrow escape. Predictably that gentleman had opposed the trip: he was taking his cousin fishing, and feared leaving her alone. But Captain Robert was eager to revisit the village, and with Munro close at hand this was deemed sufficient security.

  Elizabeth pointed to the stream where Darcy had been ambushed. ‘They led him through the copse. We saw his horse tethered and reached the clearing just in time.’

  Morag’s eyebrows rose. ‘I wouldnae have the courage.’

  ‘Not even to save me?’ Robert smiled.

  She slapped his wrist. ‘Ye’d nae need my help, being a soldier.’

  ‘It was Issy’s doing,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I couldn’t have arrived in time alone.’

  Morag wrinkled her nose. ‘The lassie’s nae exactly refined but she never lacked for daring.’

  They fell silent again, Robert paying close attention to Croidale, another village they would have to clear.

  It had been a period of intensive letter-writing, Elizabeth reflected. She had received a detailed report from Graham Ross on the burning of Achness, and condensed it into an appeal to the Marchioness of Stafford. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam had written to Georgiana to approve her engagement to James. Letters had gone to Lord Bathurst and the Member of Parliament for Caithness. Colonel Fitzwilliam was quizzing army friends who had served near Glengarry. For her part, Elizabeth longed to inform her family of her improving fortunes, but again she held off: the situation was still delicate. She felt like a tightrope walker inches from safety, determined to concentrate to the end.

  Apart from politicking, all Strathmaran was agog with the romance, if that was what it was, between their visitor and Flora Campbell Mackay’s youngest daughter. It was as if Isobel were trying to forestall her attraction to an English colonel by submitting him to a battery of trials. She invited him to elaborate on his regiment’s heroism in the Peninsular War. He refused. She pretended to favour local officers. He ignored her. She indulged every unladylike activity in her repertoire: riding astride, fishing, shooting, stalking, fencing with foils. He remained unshaken.

  It was a curious game, yet at times Elizabeth overheard serious conversations in which the couple confided their experiences and aspirations. Isobel had grown up among soldiers and knew the realities of war. Colonel Fitzwilliam had criss-crossed Europe and learned to appreciate different customs. They would be together now at the salmon pool, Darcy serving as chaperone, but allowing them privacy to talk.

  Elizabeth feared it was a mirage. Could such a zealous Highland lady share her life with an English gentleman? Where would they reside? Surely not in London, or Derbyshire, where Isobel would invite ridicule every time she opened her mouth. Strathmaran pleased Colonel Fitzwilliam as a place to visit, but his life and work lay elsewhere.

  Mrs Kirdy was enjoying her role looking after MacFarlane, who had begun sounding out opinion on the Canada option.

  ‘I’d be content tae go with Lachlan,’ Mrs Kirdy said. Her eldest son would enjoy the adventure, and the opportunities for soldiering. ‘But Iain’s nae interested. Wants tae stay where he is, and mind the sheep.’

  Elizabeth nodded: it was hard to imagine Iain separated from the moors. MacFarlane reported general scepticism. Few wished to move to smaller plots on the coast; all the same, Scotland was the devil they knew, and only the boldest were tempted by the alternative.

  At the Gibsons, Elizabeth was pleased to find Graham Ross and Kirstin Keir thriving. The little girl was speaking again, attending school, and had attached herself to Mrs Gibson. Ross was in correspondence with two educated tenants from Lake Naver, who were collecting testimony in the hope of prosecuting Sellar, the Stafford’s factor, for the cruelty of the evictions.

  Alone with Mrs Gibson, busy in the kitchen, Elizabeth asked the schoolmaster’s wife what she would do if they had to leave Laramore.

  ‘We could stay with Donald’s family in Glasgow until they find him another post.’ Claire Gibson was dark, wiry, unflappable, pious; she liked to say that when God shuts one door, He opens another.

  ‘Mr Ross will join you, I imagine.’

  ‘Aye, the lassie too.’ Mrs Gibson sighed. ‘We’re puzzled what to do with her, Mrs Bailey. Graham might keep Kirstin if he had a wife. But as matters stand he sees no alternative to the Poor House. Unless …’

  ‘Yes?’

  Mrs Gibson came closer, lowering her voice. ‘I’ve half a mind to keep Kirstin myself. Donald and I have been married three years, praying for a bairn. Such things are not pre-ordained, I ken that. God gives us what we need, not what we ask. But He has brought us Kirstin, and considering all, she has been happy here.’

  ‘Have you discussed this with Mr Gibson?’

  ‘Donald says he’ll accept my choice.’ She smiled. ‘But I ken what he really thinks.’

  Elizabeth smiled back: at least this episode might end better than she had hoped.

  On returning to Strathmaran Elizabeth found Darcy and his cousin in the library, pouring over an atlas.

  ‘Successful fishing?’ she asked.

  Darcy came to meet her. ‘Indeed, but what may interest you more is a letter arrived from London.’ He drew a sheet from his coat pocket.

  Elizabeth found an armchair where she could read in comfort. The paper was thick, of high quality, embossed in a government stamp:

  Dear Mr Darcy

  After consulting colleagues including Mr Peel, who sends best regards, I can inform you that His Majesty’s Government accedes to your request on behalf of the owner of Laramore, on the following terms. Up to 20 families may be resettled in the region of Upper Canada known as Kenyon, north of Charlottenburg, subject to deposits of 15 pounds for each male of 16 years or more (2 guineas for each wife), accompanied by certificates of good character. In return, every family will receive free passage from Glasgow, 100 acres, and assistance in the form of food rations and equipment upon arrival. Crossings to Quebec will be arranged for Spring 1815; families wishing to take up the offer should send deposits and certificates to the address below by end of 1814.

  Bathurst

  (Department for War and the Colonies
)

  ‘This is wonderful!’ Elizabeth said. ‘Do you know these men personally? Robert Peel for instance?’

  ‘Harrow,’ Darcy said. ‘An aloof boy, sensitive to any hint of criticism. Brilliant scholar.’

  She took his arm. ‘You must have got on famously with Mr Peel, having such a similar disposition.’

  Colonel Fitzwilliam chortled. ‘Aloof, yes, but not so adept in Greek, eh Darce?’ He pointed to the map. ‘Here, Mrs Bailey. Come and look.’

  Elizabeth watched as he traced the route down the St Lawrence river to Montreal. ‘So it lies in the Province of Quebec?’ She leaned closer as his finger came to rest on Charlottenburg, north of the river. ‘I don’t see Kenyon.’

  ‘The atlas is out-of-date,’ Darcy said. ‘The province is now divided into Lower Canada, mostly French speaking, and Upper Canada, mostly English.’

  ‘How helpful of them to call the upper part Lower, and the lower part Upper.’

  ‘Refers to the river, not the map,’ Colonel Fitzwilliam smiled. He pencilled a faint rectangle around the top half of Charlottenburg, 20 miles from the St Lawrence. ‘This is Kenyon, also named only recently.’

  Elizabeth pointed to a neighbouring corridor labelled Saint Régis. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A Mohawk settlement.’ Colonel Fitzwilliam glanced at Darcy. ‘My sources say it’s nothing to worry about. The natives have been friendly for generations and fought on our side against the Americans.’

  ‘It might scare the villagers.’ Elizabeth returned to her seat, shaken. Was she helping the people of Laramore, or sending them into even greater perils than they faced in Scotland?

  The men were meeting to discuss the news from London: Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Hector Mackay, Robert. Elizabeth spotted Isobel playing with a white terrier near the estuary beach, and ran over to join her.

  ‘Was there ever a more stupid breed?’ Isobel threw a stick, which the tiny dog chased and sniffed, but refused to retrieve. It returned wagging its tail and sat, cocking its head, as if it had done something clever. ‘Ye’re a useless bundle of fluff, Whisky,’ she said. ‘I should have called ye Sassenach.’