Chapter 22
The morning of Hamish’s departure dawned morose. Elizabeth stood on the gravel drive with Jane and her mother, watching the servants load the last of the trunks onto the hired post-chaise that would carry the Scottish party northward.
Mrs Fraser emerged from the house first, her black travelling cloak billowing in the December wind.
She swept past the assembled Bennets without so much as a nod, her thin lips pressed into a line of disapproval as she allowed the footman to hand her into the carriage.
Not a word of farewell nor a syllable of apology.
She settled herself against the squabs and fixed her gaze forward, as though the very sight of Longbourn offended her.
Mrs Douglas followed, but she paused before Elizabeth and offered a small, sad smile.
“I am glad the truth emerged before the wedding, Miss Elizabeth,” she said quietly, her Scots accent softening the words. “It would have been far worse to discover it afterward. You deserved honesty, and I am sorry we could not give it to you sooner.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “I thank you for your kindness, Mrs Douglas. You were always courteous to me.”
“I wished I could have been more.” Mrs Douglas glanced toward the carriage where Mrs Fraser sat rigid and unyielding. “Some secrets are not ours to tell, however much we might wish otherwise.” She pressed Elizabeth's hand briefly before making her way to the second vehicle.
The front door opened again, and Hamish emerged with Moira's small hand clasped in his own.
The child's face was blotched and swollen from weeping, her eyes red-rimmed beneath the brim of her travelling bonnet.
She had not stopped crying since the previous evening, when she had finally been told they were leaving Longbourn and would not return.
Kitty, Mary, and Lydia had gathered in the entrance hall, but at the sight of Hamish, all three turned their backs and retreated into the house without a word. The door closed behind them with pointed finality.
Elizabeth, her mother, and Jane remained on the drive, with Hill lurking behind them.
Hamish approached them slowly, Moira trailing beside him like a wraith. He stopped before Mrs Bennet and bowed his head.
“Mrs Bennet, I cannot express how deeply I regret the pain I have caused your family. I know my apologies are insufficient, but I offer them nonetheless.”
Up until then, Mrs Bennet had been containing herself with visible effort, but at his words the dam burst.
“Regret? You speak to me of regret?” Her voice climbed higher with every syllable.
“Do you comprehend what you have done to us by compelling us to break off the match mere days before the wedding?
To my daughter? The neighbours have already begun their whispers.
Lady Lucas sent her footman with a card this morning, declining to call.
Mrs Long crossed the street to avoid speaking with Hill at the butcher's shop. We are disgraced! And for what? Because you could not be content with your own name and station?”
“Mama,” Jane murmured, placing a gentle hand on her mother's arm.
Mrs Bennet shook her off. “Do not Mama me, Jane.
I have every right to speak my mind. I defied mourning conventions for this match.
I endured the censure of the neighbourhood, the pointed remarks, the raised eyebrows.
I did it all believing I was securing Elizabeth's future, and now I learn it was built upon lies from the very foundation.”
She drew a shuddering breath. “There will be talk of breach of promise, mark my words. Though the law only permits men to be sued for such things, you may be certain the gossips will not trouble themselves with legal distinctions. They will say Elizabeth was jilted. They will say she was found wanting.”
“Mama.” Elizabeth's voice cut through the tirade. “That is enough. What is done is done.”
Mrs Bennet fell silent, though her bosom continued to heave.
Hamish stood before them, his face grey. Then, to Elizabeth's astonishment, he dropped to one knee upon the frozen gravel.
“Miss Elizabeth. I beg you to reconsider. Marry me still. I will make my true name known before God and man. I will publish notices in the Edinburgh and London Gazettes. I will petition the minister of Strathaird to enter the change in the parish register, so I may be known henceforth as Hamish McLeod, called MacKinnon. I will do whatever the law and the kirk require. I will confess to the courts, make whatever restitution is demanded of me.” His voice cracked.
“But please. Do not let my past destroy what we might still build together. Please allow me to make this right.”
Elizabeth looked down at him, at this man she had nearly married, whose grey-green eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“Mr McLeod.” She spoke gently but with firmness.
“I do not doubt the sincerity of your remorse.
Nor do I doubt that you came to care for me genuinely.
But you have been another man for ten years.
Ten years of answering to a dead friend's name, of constructing a life upon deception. How am I to know which parts of you are real and which are merely the role you have been playing?”
“All of it was real,” he said urgently. “My feelings for you, my admiration for your wit and strength, my hope that we might build something honest together...”
“But it was not honest.” Elizabeth shook her head.
“That is precisely the difficulty. Even your proposal to me was made under a false name. The settlement papers bear a signature that is not legally yours. Every moment of our courtship was conducted under pretences I knew nothing of. How could I trust anything built upon such a foundation?”
Hamish bowed his head. After a long moment, he rose to his feet, brushing the gravel from his knee.
“I understand.” His voice emerged hoarse. “I had hoped... but I understand.”
A small sob escaped from beside him. Moira had been standing silently throughout the exchange, her face hidden beneath her bonnet brim. Now she pulled free of her father's hand and flung herself at Elizabeth, wrapping her thin arms around Elizabeth's waist.
“Please do not send us away!” The words came out muffled against Elizabeth's pelisse.
“Please, Miss Elizabeth. I shall be so good. I shall practise my French every day, just as Miss Darcy taught me. I shall never complain or make trouble. Only please let us stay. I even speak like an English girl now.”
Elizabeth knelt down to bring herself level with the child, taking Moira's small, cold hands in her own.
“Moira. Dear Moira. This is not about you. You have done nothing wrong.”
“Then why must we go?” Moira's voice rose. “Ye said you would be my new mama. Ye promised you would teach me to dance properly and read me stories and never let anyone hurt me. Ye promised!”
“I know.” Elizabeth's voice caught. “I know I did.”
“Then ye lied too!” Moira snatched her hands away, her small face contorted. “Ye are no better than Papa. Ye made promises you never meant to keep. Ye never really loved us at all!”
Before Elizabeth could respond, Mrs Douglas appeared at Moira's side and gently took the child's arm.
“Come now, mo chridhe,” she murmured, steering Moira toward the waiting carriage. “That is enough. Miss Elizabeth cares for you a great deal, but sometimes caring is not sufficient. You will understand when you are older.”
“I shall never understand!” Moira's voice rose as Mrs Douglas lifted her into the vehicle. “I hate her! I hate all of them!”
The carriage door closed, muffling the child's sobs. From within, Mrs Fraser's sharp voice issued a reprimand in rapid Gaelic. Elizabeth remained kneeling on the gravel, her eyes stinging, an ache spreading through her chest that she had not anticipated.
Jane's hand descended upon her shoulder. “Lizzy. Come inside. You will catch your death.”
“Presently.” Elizabeth rose unsteadily.
Hamish had been standing apart, watching. Now he approached once more, his expression hesitant.
“Miss Elizabeth. Might I speak with you privately? Just for a moment. There is something I must give you before I go.”
Elizabeth glanced at her mother and Jane, then nodded. They walked a short distance along the drive, far enough that their words would not carry to the others, though still within sight of her mother.
Hamish reached into his coat and withdrew a thick folded packet, creased and worn at the edges, its red seal broken.
“I must give you this,” he said quietly.
Elizabeth stared at the packet. She recognised it at once, having seen him thrust it into a drawer when she entered his study several days past.
“What is it?”
“A letter addressed to you.” Hamish's gaze dropped. “It arrived above a fortnight since. I intercepted it before you could receive it.”
Elizabeth took it. The direction was written in a close, angular hand she had known at once, though she had not seen it since April.
“I had no right to keep it from you,” Hamish continued, barely above a whisper.
“I told myself I was protecting what we had, but that was merely another lie. You deserved to read it. You deserved to make your choice with all the facts before you. I have been carrying it since we were exposed. I meant to burn it. But I found that I could not — that whatever else I have done, this one act of restitution was still within my power. When a man has nothing left, it matters more than one might think to do the last right thing.”
He paused, and when he spoke again, his words came haltingly.
“I understand he is currently residing at Netherfield. I am not sure if you are meant to know this. I only know because I saw him last night, riding out with Mr Bingley on the estate. I had gone for a walk to clear my … It is of no importance. He is there. If that should be of any help to you.”
Darcy was here? At Netherfield?