Chapter 9
Elizabeth could tell Moira was worried about something as they sat in the morning room at Longbourn the day after she accepted Mr MacKinnon’s offer.
The little girl sat on a straight-backed chair near the window, her small hands folded in her lap with unnatural stillness.
Moira had been at Longbourn for nearly a week now, and despite how quickly she had attached herself to Elizabeth, she remained as wary as a fox in unfamiliar territory.
Elizabeth pushed away the household accounts spread before her.
“You need not sit so formally, dear Moira,” Elizabeth said. “You may move about as you please.”
The child's jaw tightened. “Dinnae ken where to go.”
Elizabeth set down her pen, noticing that Moira had resorted to her heavy Gaelic accent again as she normally did when she was upset. The ink had begun to blot anyway. “This is your home too now, Moira. After all, your Papa is the rightful heir to Longbourn. You are not a visitor.”
“Doesnae feel like home.”
“No.” Elizabeth closed the account book. “I suppose it would not. But perhaps, in time...”
“Everyone stares.” The words came out hard, defensive. “Your sisters. The servants. Even Mrs Hill looks at me like I'm something strange.”
Elizabeth rose and crossed to the window seat, settling at a careful distance from the child. Close enough to offer comfort, yet far enough to respect Moira's evident need for space. “My younger sisters mean no harm. They are curious, that is all.”
“They ask questions.” Moira's fingers twisted in the dark wool of her gown, more suited to Highland winters than Hertfordshire Novembers. “About Da. About why I was sent for. About my ma.” Her voice dropped on the last word.
“And you need not answer if you do not wish to. You may tell them I said so.”
Moira looked at her sidelong, testing the sincerity of the offer. Before she could respond, the parlour door flew open.
“Lizzy! Where is Lizzy? Mrs Hill, you must fetch her at once! Oh, my nerves, my poor nerves cannot bear another hour of this! And... oh, I cannot breathe!”
Elizabeth exchanged a look with Moira. “Brace yourself.” Her mother had spent the night with her sister, Mrs Phillips, and thus had not yet heard the news of the engagement. Although it seemed, she had now.
Mrs Bennet burst into the room like a ship in full sail, her black bombazine rustling, her cap ribbons flying.
“There you are! And dear little Moira... how well you look, child, quite the proper young lady. Lizzy, I saw Mr MacKinnon in the village and he told me the news! Oh, your Papa would have been delighted.”
She seized Elizabeth's hands. Tears streamed down her cheeks, whether of joy or distress, Elizabeth could not determine.
“Mama, please sit before you make yourself ill.”
“Ill? I am the happiest woman in England! Or I would be, if only I could stop thinking of your poor dear father, barely two months in his grave, and here we are planning weddings! Weddings, Lizzy! Is it too soon?”
“Mama...”
“But what choice do we have? Oh, my heart!” Mrs Bennet pressed a hand to her bosom.
Elizabeth guided her mother to the sofa. “Mama, you must calm yourself.”
“Calm? How can I be calm when my daughter is to be married? When we are to be saved from destitution? When Longbourn will remain ours after all?” Mrs Bennet's voice rose to a pitch that made Moira flinch.
“But people will understand, surely they must! Necessity softens all expectations, does it not? A quiet ceremony, very modest, nothing improper... oh, but what will we serve at the wedding breakfast? We cannot afford...”
“Mama.” Elizabeth spoke more firmly. “We will manage everything appropriately. You need not distress yourself. In January, it shall be near three months since Papa’s death.”
“Six months is the proper time for children to mourn a parent, a year for a widow,” she corrected.
“Yes, but when there is a pressing need such as this, three months is acceptable.”
Her mother sighed. “I shall have to wear black; it is too soon even for lavender hues.”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth said and nodded.
Mrs Bennet clutched at her hand. “Your dear father would have wished to see you married. He would have given you away with such pride. And now...” Her voice broke entirely.
Elizabeth felt her own throat tighten. She had not allowed herself to think of that, of walking down the aisle without her father's arm to steady her. “I know, Mama.”
They sat thus for a moment, grief and joy tangled together in the impossible knot of their circumstances. Then Mrs Bennet rallied, dabbing at her face with her handkerchief.
“But we must not dwell on sorrow. Your father would want you settled and safe. And Mr MacKinnon is so very handsome, and a laird besides! How fortunate we are, how very fortunate, even in our distress. Lady Lucas will be green with envy when she hears. Her Charlotte got nothing but a parson and a parsonage, whilst my Lizzy...”
“Mama, perhaps we might discuss the arrangements later. When you are calmer.”
“Calmer? I shall never be calm again! There is so much to be done, so many preparations...” Mrs Bennet rose abruptly, seized by fresh purpose.
“I must consult with Mrs Hill about the menu. And we must write to your Aunt Gardiner. And Jane must help me determine what you shall wear, for we cannot afford new, but perhaps your best gown with some alterations... Lizzy, come, come. We must assemble the household. There is much to prepare.”
A few moments later, Elizabeth found herself in the parlour once more, this time with the entire family assembled. The sound of a carriage on the drive drew everyone's attention. Mrs Bennet flew to the window.
“It is him! Mr MacKinnon is back from the village! Oh, my nerves, I am not prepared. Kitty, straighten your cap! Lydia, stop fidgeting! Mary, do try to look pleasant!”
Within moments, Malcolm entered the parlour. He cut a fine figure in his dark coat, his weathered face composed.
“Mrs Bennet. Miss Bennet. Ladies.” His gaze lingered on Elizabeth. “I hope I am not intruding upon a conversation.”
“Intruding!” Mrs Bennet clasped her hands together. “Oh, Mr MacKinnon, you could never intrude! We are delighted, absolutely delighted! We have spoken of nothing else since yesterday!”
Malcolm crossed to Elizabeth, reaching into his coat pocket. “Then I hope you will permit me to make it official.”
He withdrew a small velvet box. The room fell silent as he opened it.
Inside lay a ring, a cairngorm stone set in Scottish silver, the smoky quartz catching the afternoon light. No delicate gold band, no fashionable diamonds. This spoke of mountains and mist, of a world far removed from Hertfordshire drawing rooms.
“It belonged to my mother,” Malcolm said quietly.
“I packed it with the valuables I brought with me. She wore it all her life, and her mother before her. In the Highlands, such rings pass from mother to daughter, or in this case, to the woman who will become mistress of our home.” He lifted the ring from its velvet bed. “Will you accept it, Elizabeth?”
She extended her hand. It trembled slightly.
Malcolm slipped the ring onto her finger. It fitted as though it had been made for her hand, the silver cool against her skin. He raised her fingers to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
“You honour me,” he said.
“The honour is mine, sir.”
The formal words felt strange in her mouth. She looked down at the ring, at the way the stone seemed to shift colour in the light. Beautiful. Foreign. A symbol of a life she could not yet imagine.
Mrs Bennet descended upon them in a flurry of exclamations. “Oh, how exquisite! How unusual! I have never seen such a stone! Is it a Scottish tradition? How romantic! Let me see, Lizzy, let me see properly!”
Elizabeth extended her hand, allowing her mother and sisters to admire the ring. Kitty and Lydia cooed over it. Mary observed that the modesty of the setting was most appropriate for a woman in mourning.
Malcolm stood beside Elizabeth, his hand resting lightly at the small of her back. The touch made her aware of how little distance remained between her old life and her new one.
“I must speak to practical matters,” he said, addressing the room.
“Much as I would prefer a longer courtship given Mr Bennet’s recent demise, circumstances do not permit it.
I must return to Strathaird before winter makes the roads impassable.
After mid-January, travel to the Highlands becomes treacherous, sometimes impossible. ”
Mrs Bennet's hand flew to her throat. “How soon, then?”
“I propose we marry in early January,” replied Malcolm. “That allows time for proper arrangements whilst still ensuring we can make the journey north before the worst weather sets in.”
“Mr MacKinnon, I know you mentioned January and I already informed Mama, but still… it’s very soon, is it not?” Elizabeth said tentatively.
Malcolm's gaze found hers, gentle but firm. “I know it is not ideal, my dear. But we must be practical. The estate in Skye requires my attention, and I would not leave you here whilst I travel north alone. You will be my wife. Your place is with me.”
The words settled over her like a mantle she had not chosen.
“Of course,” Elizabeth said. “I understand the necessity. But we must maintain proper mourning decorum. The wedding should be a simple affair.”
“Naturally.” Malcolm smiled. “I would expect nothing less from a woman of your good sense. We shall arrange everything appropriately. A quiet Anglican ceremony properly witnessed. Though I hope you will permit me to include a small Highland tradition. A Gaelic blessing, perhaps, after the formal vows. And tartan ribbons in your bouquet, if you would allow it.”
Elizabeth nodded, her mind already sketching the details.
“You will find the Highlands beautiful,” Malcolm said. “Different from Hertfordshire, certainly, but beautiful in their own way. The sea, the mountains... there is nothing quite like it.”
“I am sure I shall adjust.”