Chapter 3
The post-chaise turned into the drive just past noon. Elizabeth, arranging accounts in the morning room, heard the wheels upon gravel before she saw the equipage. Mrs Bennet flew to the window.
“He is here! Lizzy, fetch Jane at once. Your hair! Oh, where is Hill? The tea things are not prepared. Was she able to source some more tea leaves? We are not ready!”
“Mama, Jane has gone to church with Lady Lucas. As for our visitor, he inherits a house, not a bride. We need not perform.”
Mrs Bennet's hands fluttered to her cap. “Do not be pert. First impressions matter greatly when—”
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Hill's measured tread, then another, heavier. A man's voice carried through the partly open door, rich with a lilt Elizabeth had not anticipated.
“Aye, a bonnie house. Near a fortnight from Skye is no small journey, but the roads improved south of Northampton. We changed horses at Carlisle. Decent stock there.”
Elizabeth stilled. Warmth, not the cold formality she had braced for. Laughter followed, genuine and unforced.
“No need for ceremony. There has been a death. I shall not stand on propriety.”
Mrs Bennet's mouth opened. Closed. She gripped Elizabeth's arm.
The door swung wide. Hill entered, her expression neutral as always. “Mr Malcolm MacKinnon, madam.”
The gentleman who followed was broad-shouldered and tall — that much she registered at once.
Auburn hair, tied back but showing a tendency to curl.
A pale seam of old scar ran from beneath his left ear to the point of his jaw, faded almost to the colour of his skin; she caught herself looking at it and made herself stop.
His hands, weathered and strong, bore no rings.
When he bowed, the movement was easy rather than studied.
“Mrs Bennet. Miss Bennet.” His grey-green eyes were direct.
“I am deeply sorry for your loss. I wish I had reached you sooner. The letter took near a fortnight to Skye. Mail to the islands is uncertain. It depends on the weather, the ferry crossings. Ten days at best. A fortnight when the seas are rough.”
Plain speech. No elaborate condolences. Elizabeth had braced for flowery sentiment or, worse, Mr Collins's brand of unctuous sympathy. This was neither.
Mrs Bennet found her tongue. “You are very kind, sir. We understood you might be delayed, the distance being so considerable.”
“Aye, the Scottish Highlands are a fair way from Hertfordshire.” MacKinnon glanced about the room. Not assessing, Elizabeth noted. Appreciating. “Mr Bennet kept a fine house. I can see he was a careful steward.”
“He was.” Elizabeth's voice came out sharper than she intended. “He loved Longbourn. Every inch of it.”
MacKinnon's gaze settled on her. “Then the loss is doubly felt. I am sorry.”
Silence stretched. Mrs Bennet twisted her handkerchief. Elizabeth refused to look away first.
“I have the estate books ready for your review, Mr MacKinnon. Whenever you wish to examine them.”
His brows rose slightly. “You have been managing the accounts?”
“Someone had to. My uncle, Mr Philips, is a solicitor in Meryton. He has handled the legal matters. I have seen to the household and the tenants.”
“Then you are the one I need to speak with.” He said it as though managing an estate was perfectly ordinary for a woman of one and twenty. “I shall want to review everything. The books, the land, the tenancies. Cannot make sound decisions without understanding what I inherit.”
Mrs Bennet roused herself. “You must be fatigued from your journey, sir. We have prepared one of the empty cottages for your use. It is small, but suitable. Now, some refreshment. Hill, the tea things!”
MacKinnon inclined his head. “I would be grateful, Mrs Bennet. Been on the road since dawn. Fair parched, I am.”
Hill departed. Jane was summoned. Kitty and Lydia, blessedly, were with Mary in Meryton.
Tea arrived with commendable speed. MacKinnon sat, accepted a cup, and ate cold meat and bread with the appetite of a man who had travelled hard. He answered Mrs Bennet's questions about his journey with good humour.
“And your family, Mr MacKinnon?” Mrs Bennet's tone was carefully casual. “Will anyone be joining you at Longbourn?”
“No family, Mrs Bennet. My wife died six years past. Our daughter, Moira, lives with my great-aunt.” He delivered the information plainly.
No bid for sympathy. “My housekeeper remained in Skye. She is too old for such a journey, and I would not ask it of her. The woman has been with my family since I was in leading strings.”
Mrs Bennet's expression shifted. Elizabeth recognised the look. A widower in possession of Longbourn. She set down her teacup with deliberate care.
“Perhaps, Mr MacKinnon, you would like to see the estate books now. You mentioned being eager to review them.”
“Aye, that I am. If you are willing to walk me through them, Miss Bennet?”
“I shall accompany you both.” Mrs Bennet rose. “It would not be proper otherwise.”
“Naturally, Mama.” Elizabeth stood. “Though I have been managing the accounts for weeks without a chaperone.”
“That was necessity,” Mrs Bennet insisted. “This is different.”
MacKinnon's mouth quirked. “I would welcome Mrs Bennet's presence. I have no wish to cause discomfort.”
The study still smelled of leather and pipe smoke. Elizabeth's throat tightened as she crossed the threshold. Papa's chair. Papa's desk. Papa's books. The afternoon light slanted through the window, illuminating dust motes that danced above the ledgers she had arranged that morning.
MacKinnon settled into the chair without hesitation. Ran his hand along the desk's edge. “A fine piece. Oak?”
“Yes. Papa inherited it from his father.” Elizabeth took the seat opposite and straightened her skirts. “One of the oldest pieces in the house.”
“Built to last, then.” He smiled slightly. “Like the estate itself, I expect.”
Mrs Bennet positioned herself by the window. Close enough to observe propriety, yet far enough to suggest she would not involve herself in the details. She extracted her embroidery from her pocket and settled with an air of determined vigilance.
The pages crackled as Elizabeth opened the first ledger.
Papa's handwriting marched across the columns, precise and careful.
Her own hand, less elegant but equally neat, filled the more recent entries.
“The estate generates approximately two thousand per annum. The majority comes from tenant rents, with additional income from timber sales and—”
“Please explain it to me in more detail,” MacKinnon interrupted, as he leaned forwards. “Start with the farms. How many tenants? What do they produce? What are the rents, and are any in arrears?”
She had expected cursory interest. Perhaps a few obvious questions before dismissing her. Instead, his first query concerned crop rotation.
“The larger farms rotate wheat and barley with turnips and clover,” Elizabeth explained. “Mr Hendricks holds two hundred acres and follows a four-year cycle. His soil is in good heart. The Abbotts are less systematic. Their yields have dropped these past two years.”
“Poor management, or bad luck?”
“Misfortune. Their eldest son was killed at Waterloo. The second son has consumption. They are down to hired labour, and it shows in the harvest.”
MacKinnon made a note. “What are the rents?”
“Hendricks pays one hundred and twenty pounds per annum. The Abbotts, eighty. Three smaller holdings at forty pounds each.”
“And arrears?”
“The Abbotts owe two quarters. I did not press them.” She met his gaze. “They are good people in difficult circumstances.”
“Quite right.” He turned the page. “What about drainage? The land hereabouts looks flat. Surely there are issues after heavy rain.”
“The south pasture floods in winter. Papa had planned to install tile drainage but never managed it. The expense was considerable.”
“How much?”
She told him. He made another note, his expression thoughtful.
They continued thus for more than an hour.
MacKinnon asked about timber sales, the state of the cottages, repairs needed before winter.
Which tenants were reliable, which required supervision.
Whether the mill pond was properly maintained.
If poaching was a problem. In the corner where she sat, Mrs Bennet began to yawn.
Hill, who had remained near the door throughout — ostensibly to attend to any household need, but in truth standing sentinel — shifted slightly and cleared her throat.
Mrs Bennet straightened at once, her embroidery needle resuming its dutiful motion.
“The deer from Netherfield wander onto our land,” Elizabeth said. “Mr Bingley leased the estate last autumn. He has departed now, but he does not mind if our tenants take one occasionally. It helps with the winter provisions.”
“This is quite generous of him.”
“He is a generous man.” Her voice caught slightly as she remembered how pale and drawn Jane had been after Bingley's abrupt departure last November.
MacKinnon glanced up. “You know him well?”
“He was a friend. Briefly.” She turned the page with more force than necessary. “Shall we review the household accounts? I have those as well.”
The household accounts were equally detailed. Coal, candles, wages for the staff. Repairs to the roof. A new stove for the kitchen. MacKinnon examined each entry, asked questions, made notes in a clear, firm hand.
“Your father kept meticulous records,” he said finally, sitting back. “And you have maintained the same standard since his death. No small accomplishment, Miss Bennet.”
“Thank you.”
He closed the last ledger. Tapped his fingers on the leather binding. The rhythmic sound filled the silence. Outside, the light was fading. Soon Hill would come to light the lamps.
“I shall speak plainly, if I may,” MacKinnon said.
Elizabeth's spine straightened. “I prefer plain speech.”
“This estate should be yours by rights. The entail is an injustice, and I shall not pretend otherwise.”
Her chin lifted. “The law is the law, Mr MacKinnon.”