Chapter 7 #2
Elizabeth stared into the flames. “If I agree to Malcolm’s proposal, I will be gaining a daughter. The full realisation of suddenly being thrust into motherhood had not quite come home to me until now.”
“She is a striking child.”
“She is a fortress. All walls and battlements.” Elizabeth shook her head slowly.
“And I cannot blame her for it. She has lost her mother, been raised by a great-aunt whilst her father pursued business elsewhere, and now she is brought to a strange country to meet the woman who will take her mother's place. I would build walls too.”
“You would scale them,” Jane said. “You have never been one for walls, Lizzy.”
“Perhaps.” Elizabeth pulled her shawl tighter against the evening chill.
“But this is different. If I marry Malcolm, I become responsible for her. Not merely as a figure in her household, but as... as a mother. Or something like one.” She paused.
The word sat strangely upon her tongue. “I confess I am nervous, Jane. What do I know of raising a child?”
“You know how to listen. You know how to see people as they truly are, not as you wish them to be. And you know how it feels to lose a father. That is no small thing.”
Elizabeth turned this over in her mind. She thought of Moira's watchful eyes, her careful English overlaying a Gaelic heart, her fierce protection of a father who had been more absent than present in her young life.
She thought of the way the girl had said “Father is many things,” and wondered what complications lay beneath those words.
“If I accept Malcolm,” she said slowly, “I am not merely accepting a husband and a home. I am accepting a ready-made family. A child who needs...” She paused, uncertain how to finish.
“Who needs someone to see her,” Jane supplied. “Someone to be patient with her walls until she is ready to lower them.”
“Yes.” Elizabeth met her sister's eyes. “Can I be that person, Jane? Can I be a mother to a child who did not choose me, and who has every reason to resent my presence in her father's life?”
Jane reached across and took Elizabeth's hand. “You are already asking the right questions. A woman who did not care would not trouble herself with such doubts.”
Elizabeth squeezed her sister's fingers.
“I watched her at dinner. The way she held herself, so careful and contained. And I thought...” She swallowed against a sudden tightness in her throat.
“I thought that she reminded me of myself at that age. After Papa first grew distant with Mama. When I learned that the world was not always kind, and that the people meant to protect you could not always be relied upon.”
“Then perhaps you understand her better than you suppose.”
“Perhaps.” Elizabeth released Jane's hand and rose, moving to the window.
The night lay dark beyond the glass, the garden invisible.
“I only know that when I consider this marriage, I can no longer think only of myself, or even of our family. There is a child involved now. A real child, with fears and hopes and a heart that has already been wounded once. Whatever I decide, I must decide with her in mind.”
Jane joined her at the window. “That is exactly what a mother would say.”
Elizabeth made no reply. But she stood with her sister in the quiet darkness, and allowed herself, for the first time, to imagine what it might mean to have a daughter.
The following afternoon found Elizabeth in her father's study.
Her study now, though she still could not bring herself to think of it as such.
A knock interrupted her review of the tenant ledgers, and she looked up to find Moira standing in the doorway, her expression caught between defiance and uncertainty.
“Mrs Douglas is sleeping,” the girl announced. “And Great-Aunt Fraser is writing letters. Father has gone to speak with your steward about something dull.”
“I see.” Elizabeth set down her pen. “And what would you prefer to do?”
Moira hesitated. The defiance wavered, revealing something younger and less certain beneath. “I dinnae ken. At home I would walk to the shore. But there's no shore here. There's no sea at all.”
“No,” Elizabeth agreed. “Only fields and lanes and one rather disappointing stream. I could show you my favourite walking paths, if you like. The grounds are not so fine as Scotland, I imagine, but they have their charms.”
“I dinnae need minding,” Moira said quickly. “I'm not a bairn.”
“I did not suggest you were. I merely offered company for my own sake. These ledgers make for tedious work, and I confess I welcome any excuse to abandon them.” Elizabeth allowed the silence to stretch until Moira shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
“But if you prefer solitude, I understand entirely. I often do myself.”
The girl's jaw tightened. “Why are ye marrying my father?”
There it was. Elizabeth had anticipated this question, though she had imagined it would come later, cushioned by the sort of careful preamble adults employed when approaching difficult subjects. Moira, it seemed, had no patience for such conventions.
“You deserve an honest answer,” Elizabeth said.
“Then give me one.” Moira folded her arms. “Everyone speaks in circles. Father says it will be fine. Great-Aunt Fraser says I must be grateful. Mrs Douglas says nothing at all, only sighs. No one tells me the truth of anything.”
Elizabeth rose from the desk and moved to the chair by the window, gesturing for Moira to take the one opposite. After a moment's hesitation, the girl complied, perching upon the edge of the seat as though ready to flee at the first sign of falsehood.
“The truth,” Elizabeth began, “is that my family found ourselves in difficult circumstances after my father died. Your father arrived as the heir to this estate. He might have turned us out entirely, for it was his right to do so, but instead he offered me marriage, which would allow my mother and sisters to remain in their home.”
“So you're marrying him for the house.” Moira's voice was flat.
“I have not yet accepted his offer, Moira,” Elizabeth said gently. “I am still pondering it. I would be lying if I claimed otherwise.”
The hostility in the girl's face remained, but beneath it, Elizabeth glimpsed something else. A flicker of grudging respect, perhaps. “You're not going to tell me you love him, then.”