Chapter 13
Elizabeth sat with Moira beside the mahogany writing table, watching as the child bent over the slate with determined concentration.
“There, precisely so. Now attempt the word again,” Elizabeth murmured, guiding Moira's small fingers as they traced the letters with careful precision. “Do remember that the letter 'g' must extend beneath the line.”
Moira's tongue appeared at the corner of her mouth in concentrated effort. As she surreptitiously studied the little girl, Elizabeth’s mind drifted to the heated exchange she had witnessed between Mrs Fraser and Mrs Douglas just days prior.
“Moira, dearest,” Elizabeth began carefully, settling herself more comfortably in her chair. “Tell me about your early years in Scotland. What do you remember of your life before coming to England?”
The child's hand grew still upon the slate, her eyes taking on that distant quality which appeared whenever memories of Scotland surfaced. “There is not much to tell, Miss Elizabeth. Mama died when I was very small. I remember her singing to me in Gaelic, but the words have grown fuzzy, ye see.”
Elizabeth felt her heart contract with sympathy. “That must have been very difficult for such a young child. And afterwards? Did you remain with your papa?”
“For a little time.” Moira's voice grew smaller, more uncertain. “But Papa was... different after Mama passed. He would sit by the window for hours, staring at the hills. Mrs Douglas said he was grieving, but it seemed like something more than sadness.”
“More than sadness?”
Moira nodded gravely. “Sometimes I would find him weeping, but when I asked what troubled him, he would say it was nothing a little girl should worry about. Then Papa decided I should go to live with Great-Aunt Fraser in Edinburgh. He said she could provide things he could not.”
Elizabeth felt a stirring of sadness for the little girl.
Before she could pursue these troubling questions further, the sound of approaching footsteps in the passage caught her attention.
Mrs Douglas appeared in the doorway, her weathered face bearing an expression of barely concealed agitation that immediately set Elizabeth on alert.
“Begging your pardon, Miss Elizabeth,” Mrs Douglas said, her Scottish accent thicker than usual, as it tended to become when she was distressed. “Might I have a word with young Moira about her luncheon preferences?”
Elizabeth sensed undercurrents in the older woman's manner that had nothing to do with meal planning.
The previous evening's overheard argument had left her with more questions than answers, and Mrs Douglas's obvious discomfort suggested there were conversations happening beneath the surface of Longbourn's daily routine.
“Of course, Mrs Douglas. Moira, perhaps you might accompany Mrs Douglas to discuss your meal.”
The child gathered her slate obediently, but as they prepared to leave, Elizabeth found herself speaking with calculated casualness.
“Mrs Douglas, I wonder if I might speak with you privately later today? There are... household matters I should like to discuss.”
Mrs Douglas's shrewd eyes met Elizabeth's for a long moment. Something flickered in their depths. Wariness, perhaps, or recognition that Elizabeth had begun to suspect more than was comfortable. The silence stretched between them like a taut rope.
“Aye, miss,” Mrs Douglas replied eventually, her voice carefully neutral. “I'll be in the stillroom this afternoon, sorting the winter herbs. If you've need of me.”
The sharp crunch of boots upon gravel interrupted their exchange before Elizabeth could respond.
Through the window, she observed Malcolm approaching the house with swift, agitated strides that bore little resemblance to his usual measured pace.
One gloved hand clutched a letter, his knuckles white with tension even from this distance.
“Papa!” Moira broke free from Mrs Douglas and moved toward the window, though something in her father's countenance made her halt before reaching the door. Even at her young age, she had learned to read the signs of adult distress with uncomfortable accuracy.
Malcolm entered the drawing room like a man pursued by demons.
His usual gentle demeanour had vanished entirely, replaced by an almost wild agitation that made Elizabeth's breath catch in her throat.
The transformation was so complete that for a moment she wondered if this could truly be the same man who had proposed marriage with such tender consideration.
“Good morning, little sparrow,” he managed, though his voice sounded strained nearly to breaking. “Your letters progress well, I trust?”
“Aye, Miss Elizabeth says I write almost as well as a lady now,” Moira replied, studying her father's face with that uncanny perception that seemed both gift and burden. “Papa, you look unwell. Has something happened?”
Malcolm's jaw worked silently for a moment, as though he were struggling to find words that would not alarm his daughter. “Nothing for you to worry about, dear one. Perhaps you might continue your practice upstairs? I would speak with Miss Elizabeth.”
“But Papa, I have not finished my letters, ye see, and Miss Elizabeth said we might work on reading and…”
“Upstairs! This instant!” The words burst forth with startling vehemence, causing both Moira and Elizabeth to recoil in shock. The child's small face crumpled as though she had been struck, her eyes filling with tears she was too proud to shed.
Malcolm's expression shifted immediately to one of horrified regret. He knelt before his daughter, reaching for her hands with trembling fingers. “Forgive me, little sparrow. Papa spoke harshly when he ought not. You have done nothing wrong, nothing at all.”
Moira gathered her slate and chalk with evident reluctance. She paused at the threshold, her eyes lingering on the letter in his hand. “When ye receive letters, ye always become angry. I do not understand why they make you shout.”
Malcolm's countenance grew ashen. “Nay, child. I shall not shout again.”
When the sound of Moira's footsteps had faded in the passage above, Elizabeth found herself alone with a man who seemed barely in control of his own emotions. The contrast with his usual composure was so stark that she felt as though she were looking at a stranger.
“Troubling news from Scotland?” Elizabeth ventured, her voice carefully gentle.
Malcolm moved to the window, his shoulders rigid beneath his coat. “Business correspondence. Nothing that need concern you.”
Elizabeth waited in silence, having learned that patience often succeeded where direct questioning failed. The quality of Malcolm's silence spoke more eloquently than words, filled as it was with tension and barely suppressed fear.
“Some matters,” Malcolm said at length, his voice hollow, “resist burial despite one's best efforts. The past has a way of reaching forward to claim what it believes it is owed.”
“And this concerns Moira's safety?”
“Moira need never know of such things.” His hands trembled slightly as he folded the letter, though whether from anger or fear Elizabeth could not determine. “She is innocent of any wrongdoing.”
Elizabeth moved closer, studying the rigid line of his shoulders. “Mr MacKinnon, if there is danger threatening our household…”
“No harm shall touch this dwelling,” he interrupted, turning to meet her gaze with fierce intensity. “Upon my honour, Elizabeth. Whatever else may come to pass, I will not permit the past to poison the future I am trying to build.”
His choice of words struck her as oddly ominous. Whatever else may come to pass. What did he anticipate? What shadows from Scotland were reaching across the border to threaten their peaceful existence?
Before Elizabeth could frame another question, her mother's voice rang forth from the entrance hall with that particular pitch that signalled domestic crisis of the highest order.
“Lizzy! Where has Lizzy disappeared to? The flowers will not order themselves, and the dressmaker requires immediate consultation about the sleeve length, and Mrs Long has taken it upon herself to suggest alterations to the wedding breakfast menu that I find absolutely insufferable!”
Elizabeth pressed her eyes closed momentarily. The wedding date approached with mounting dread rather than anticipated joy, each passing day bringing fresh evidence that gratitude and wounded pride formed inadequate foundations for matrimony.
“Your mother experiences considerable anxiety regarding the wedding arrangements,” Malcolm observed, a ghost of his customary gentle humour attempting to resurface.
“Anxiety fails to encompass the full extent of her condition,” Elizabeth replied with manufactured lightness. “She has transformed wedding preparation into military strategy of the most complex and exhausting order.”
Malcolm turned from the window to study her features with uncomfortable intensity. “Elizabeth, if doubts plague you concerning our arrangement, if this engagement has grown distasteful or burdensome, you need only speak the words. I would not hold you to promises made under duress.”
Such gentle consideration nearly undid her composure entirely.
How might she explain that her uncertainty arose not from any deficiency in his character, but from the growing conviction that safety and comfort, however appealing, might prove insufficient foundations for a lifetime's happiness?
He possessed every admirable quality, displayed every consideration a woman could desire.
Yet when she attempted to envision their future together, the prospect appeared strangely lacking in warmth and colour, not unlike a watercolour painting left too long in harsh sunlight.
“You are exceedingly kind,” she replied with careful precision. “I confess myself somewhat overwhelmed by the scope of Mama's enthusiasms.”