Darcy's Highland Fling

by M. A. Sandiford

  To Elizabeth’s relief MacFarlane was getting on famously with Mrs Kirdy, who brought fresh pancakes with coffee as they conferred in the privacy of the parlour.

  ‘You’re my second caller today.’ He regarded her, his sharp features alert. ‘Mr Brodie passed through to inspect the moorland beyond the village.’

  ‘Is there some problem?’

  ‘He sought only my opinion of Laramore.’ The thin mouth twitched in the hint of a smile. ‘Which I naturally saved for yourself.’

  Elizabeth took a deep breath. ‘Go on.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘It’s a bonnie enough place, I’ll grant you. The people are healthy, the children educated. They have survived centuries practising small-scale farming, each family making do with a few cows, sheep, chickens. And so they might continue—if the world left them alone.’

  ‘But it will not?’

  ‘You could probably sustain Laramore if you were willing to accept low rents and re-invest in the estate. But it would not benefit you financially.’ He paused. ‘Do you understand what is happening in the wool trade?’

  ‘I’m aware our neighbours are converting their land to sheep farms.’

  ‘The reason lies in the textile industries of Lancashire and Yorkshire. Because of the new machines, production has soared; so has the price of wool. You won’t get similar returns from a village like Laramore. You’d have to charge rents so high that nobody could pay.’

  She bit her lip, pondering the implications. She had to subsidise her family in Meryton. She had to repay Darcy’s loan. ‘So you agree with Mr Dalglish. I should sell.’

  ‘Mr Brodie is eager for you to do so.’

  She sighed. ‘Why is it so important? The Mackays have almost all the moorland now.’

  ‘They need wintering ground for the sheep. You can’t leave flocks on the hills during harsh weather. Mr Brodie wants to clear all the arable land near the river and lay it down to grass. Unfortunately this is precisely the territory inhabited by the villagers.’

  ‘Can you estimate how much the estate will yield for my own use this year?’

  He nodded. ‘But be warned, it will not be much.’

  The day passed pleasantly enough. Isobel spent the morning stalking on the moor with Lachlan Kirdy and another soldier from the Highlanders. They lunched with the Gibsons, who passed on favourable reports of MacFarlane. At the kirk, while Isobel saw the minister’s family, Elizabeth spent half an hour beside Thomas’s tombstone. She had chosen a simple engraving including his dates, 1781-1813, and the inscription WITH GOD …, to which, given his scepticism, she had longed to append MAYBE—but thought better of it. It comforted her to whisper to him and confide her concerns for Laramore, and her uneasiness over accepting Darcy’s help.

  Back at the Kirdys, Annag and Mairi ran out shouting frantically.

  ‘Mrs Bailey, Sibyl wants ye again!’

  Elizabeth sighed. ‘It’s a long trek, and Mr Darcy will be arriving in an hour.’

  ‘She asked verra particular.’

  ‘We could ride.’ Isobel pointed towards a barn where Munro had stabled the horses.

  ‘Oh, very well.’

  Wearily Elizabeth entered the cottage, dark and smoky as ever, and empty except for the old woman in her rocking chair. Behind, Isobel stood ready to translate.

  ‘Have you a problem, Mrs Kirdy?’

  An arm reached out, and she allowed Sibyl Kirdy to explore her hand. The soothsayer rocked back and forth, muttering to herself, then suddenly stiffened, with a horrified expression all too familiar to Elizabeth.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Danger!’ Isobel said. ‘A man verra dear tae ye in peril.’

  Elizabeth swivelled back to face the old woman, who flinched slightly. ‘Ask her what danger. Where.’

  Isobel came closer. ‘She is getting certain impressions. Trees. A wall …’

  Elizabeth watched Sibyl, her mind buzzing as a terrible suspicion took shape. She raised a hand, detecting no reaction, then darted it towards the old woman’s face, halting inches away.

  Isobel gasped. ‘Lizzy!’

  ‘Did you see?’ Elizabeth kept her eyes on the soothsayer. ‘She blinked. Recoiled in fear. I would wager …’ She paused, then said very emphatically, ‘Isobel, there’s a knife in the far corner. Can you fetch it?’

  Isobel stared at Elizabeth open-mouthed, ignoring this instruction, but the fresh look of horror on the old woman’s face was proof enough.

  ‘She understands English!’ Elizabeth hissed. She bent towards Sibyl. ‘That’s how you know things. You see, maybe faintly, but well enough to make out the colour of my hair when I first came. People talk in English in front of you, thinking their conversation private, not realising you understand much of what they say. Later you pretend to divine from second sight what you have actually overheard.’

  Sibyl Kirdy was regarding her now without disguise, quivering with fear. She muttered something in Gaelic.

  ‘English!’ Elizabeth said. ‘Is Mr Darcy in danger? Yes or No? Answer!’

  Sibyl croaked, in Scots dialect, ‘I canna …’

  ‘You know!’ Elizabeth grasped the old woman’s thin wrist. ‘You overheard something. What?’

  ‘Danger. Soon …’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Trees …’

  ‘Never mind trees. In what place?’ In desperation Elizabeth turned to Isobel. ‘The knife!’

  ‘No!’ Sibyl shrieked, then gabbled anxiously in Gaelic.

  ‘She says at the burn just beyond Croidale,’ Isobel said. ‘It’s off the road to Strathmaran, two miles from here.’

  ‘Who is doing this?’ Elizabeth demanded.

  Sibyl blinked, shaking her head.

  Isobel pulled Elizabeth’s arm. ‘Doesnae matter who or what. We need tae reach Mr Darcy first and warn him.’

  They raced to the doorway, as the old woman croaked, ‘Dinna tell …’

  ‘We need a redcoat,’ Elizabeth cried.

  ‘Lachlan might still be at the Kirdys.’ Isobel ran to her horse, leaving Elizabeth cursing her inability to ride at a gallop. After alerting Mrs Kirdy, the daredevil girl would almost certainly race off downriver, taking the whole risk upon herself.

  ‘Wait! I’ll come too!’

  Isobel athletically mounted astride. ‘Ye canna keep up.’

  ‘It will be safer with two of us.’

  ‘Ride wi’ me.’ Isobel vacated the stirrup. ‘Sit across the horse, behind the saddle.’

  Heart thudding, Elizabeth ran to Isobel’s horse. It was hopeless: they would never find Darcy in time. Stupidly she had ignored his warnings, put him in peril, destroyed a good man, and one moreover that she …

  Had come to love.

  The realisation struck with a wrenching pain in the stomach, of a violence that paralysed her. Through a mist of tears she stared up at Isobel.

  ‘My God, what have I done?’

  ‘Will ye stop blabbing, lassie, and get on the horse?’

  Elizabeth mounted, aided by Isobel’s fierce tug on her dress, which ripped as she wheeled a leg over the horse’s back.

  ‘Hold on tae me!’ Isobel shouted.

  Elizabeth wrapped her arms around Isobel’s bodice, shocked by the warmth of the horse, since she was riding not only astride but bareback. A canter through the village brought them to the house, where Mrs Kirdy tended her herb garden.

  ‘M’leddie!’ Mrs Kirdy regarded her with astonishment.

  ‘Is Lachlan here?’

  ‘Gone tae Forslethen.’

  ‘There’s trouble beyond Croidale. Can you get help? Tell Iain. Munro if you can find him.’

  Mrs Kirdy looked bewildered. ‘I’ll try …’

  ‘It’s urgent. I’ll explain later.’ She clutched Isobel again as they regained the path and accelerated to a gallop.

  Darcy rode past Rithgill, counting off the villages one by one: next Croidale, then Laramore. He had returned to Strathmaran with Alexander Sinclair to receive sta
rtling news from the lieutenant’s wife. Their driver Hamish had just arrived from Larraig, bringing post that included a letter from her sister Henrietta, now married and living in the Caribbean. At a ball in St Vincent, this Henrietta had met Mr Bingley, who was assisting a cousin in the sugar trade. Charles had reacted with understandable shock on learning that his erstwhile friend had abandoned the shades of Pemberley to pursue a widow named Elizabeth Bailey, née Bennet. There was no message, either of good will or ill. Merely a remark that Henrietta had found Mr Bingley most charming.

  The news excited him so much that he could think of little else. He had vowed to repair the damage done in the past, and succeeded in gaining Elizabeth’s trust. Now fate had offered another opportunity for redress. He could write to Bingley. Inform him Jane Bennet was still unmarried …

  Surely there was a chance. He longed to discuss it with Elizabeth.

  A shot rang out from the moor. No deer were in view, but he knew that many smaller animals were hunted, such as pheasant. He saw a copse on the near bank of a stream flowing into the Maran. As he passed, a man ran over, frantically waving his hands.

  Darcy halted. ‘Something the matter?’

  ‘Ma friend, sir.’ The man pointed back along the bank. ‘We was repairing the wall, ye ken, and it fell on his foot. I canna shift it.’

  ‘Let’s see if we can manage together.’ Darcy walked his horse to the edge of the copse and tethered it to a branch. The man was stocky, and wore the brown plaid of a farm worker. They ran through trees to a clearing, where a taller man lay beside a low wall. Small stones were scattered around, perhaps loosened in the attempt to free him, but his right leg was trapped by a boulder so large that Darcy wondered whether even two men could lift it. He leaned over, looking for an opening where they might insert a lever, then flinched, his senses suddenly alert.

  There was a noise behind him, as the first man bent to the ground—for what reason?

  The leg, on close inspection, was not trapped. The large rock bridged two small ones, leaving a gap into which the second man could push his foot—or remove it.

  There was a rustle behind him, a suggestion of violent exertion, and instinctively Darcy ducked, just avoiding a stone as it whipped through his hair. In the same movement he span round and drove his fist into his attacker’s midriff. With a grunt the man keeled over while Darcy struggled to regain his balance. A ham-like fist struck his head above the ear and he felt another jolt as he hit the dry stony ground. His limbs were like jelly. Helpless, he awaited the next blow.

  A shotgun fired.

  Footsteps sounded from the copse, accompanied by breathless cries. Women? Children? His senses swirled as he strained to glimpse his attackers. The taller man had turned back towards the trees; his companion was still on his knees, retching.

  At the clearing two women appeared, dishevelled and breathing heavily.

  Elizabeth. And beside her, Major Mackay’s sister.

  He tried to shout a warning, but the last of his strength wilted and he passed out.

  Elizabeth stood taking in the scene as Isobel gripped her shoulders, preventing her from rushing forward.

  She saw Darcy twitch on the ground, and in hatred pointed a finger at the taller of his assailants, as if impaling him.

  ‘I know you.’ Her voice was ice. ‘McEwan, isn’t it? From Laramore.’ She moved her finger to the man doubled up on the ground. ‘And Reid.’

  Fresh footsteps approached and Elizabeth span round, gasping in relief as she recognised Iain Kirdy. The sheep farmer lumbered through, carrying a shotgun in one hand and a hare in the other, and stared open-mouthed into the clearing.

  ‘What the devil …’

  The response of the attackers was immediate. McEwan bolted through the undergrowth towards the stream; Reid staggered to his feet, launched a handful of soil towards the watching group, and followed. By the time the cloud of dust had settled, the fugitives had disappeared.

  Isobel turned to Iain Kirdy. ‘Shall we give chase?’

  Kirdy grunted. ‘We ken weel enough who they are.’ He edged towards the stream, as if to check that the men had really called off their attack, while Elizabeth ran over to Darcy.

  Hardly knowing what she was doing, she kneeled beside him, took his hand, kissed it, smoothed back his hair. He stirred, and his eyes flickered.

  ‘My dearest …’ She leaned over to kiss his brow, then squeezed his hand again, searching desperately for signs of life.

  He blinked and shook his head, as if to clear it.

  Tenderly, Elizabeth framed his face with her hands.

  ‘You are all right?’

  He stiffened. ‘The men …’

  ‘Have gone. Iain Kirdy came to our aid, and they fled.’

  The hint of a smile. ‘I thought I had died and gone to heaven.’

  ‘You are alive and well, and I am not an angel but the silliest woman that ever lived.’ Elizabeth sighed as Isobel joined her, and together they helped Darcy sit up.

  ‘Were ye hit by a rock, sir?’ Isobel asked.

  ‘A fist, I think.’ Gingerly, Darcy probed the right side of his head. ‘But it felt like being sand-bagged.’ He looked at Isobel, then back at Elizabeth. ‘I owe you my life. But how …’

  ‘Explanations can wait.’ Elizabeth hung on to him as Isobel, with a sly glance, left them alone.

  32

  Elizabeth sat close to Darcy as the carriage trundled towards the sanctuary of Strathmaran. They had waited by the roadside until MacFarlane arrived, on horseback, followed minutes later by Munro: Mrs Kirdy had raised the alarm promptly. The factor then rode ahead with Isobel to alert Major Mackay, while Iain Kirdy stomped back to Croidale, where he had left his horse.

  Alone with Darcy, Elizabeth abandoned any pretence of stoicism, and wept in relief—tinged with guilt. She recalled the conversation in Holyrood Park when Darcy had urged caution. She should have listened. Forces were at work here that she did not understand. She recalled her despair on hearing shooting, and her relief when Darcy’s eyes had opened. But he had a better colour now, and his manner was reassuringly normal.

  He said gravely, ‘I should thank you for saving me.’

  ‘Thank Isobel.’

  ‘It was your astuteness that unmasked the soothsayer.’

  ‘I feel so ashamed at threatening that poor old woman.’ She grimaced. ‘But what else could I do? I had to force her to speak.’

  ‘How extraordinary that she has kept up this masquerade for so long.’

  ‘It’s how she earns her living. The villagers come for advice, and leave food in return.’

  ‘We have to consider what lies behind this. These men are cottars, is that right?’

  ‘Yes. They have no land, but help cultivate the run-rigs and mind the animals.’

  ‘Then why attack me? Could they be after my clothing, like the thieves in Edinburgh?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m convinced this is related to Thomas’s death. In his case too, Sibyl must have overheard the plotters. His fall was not accidental, but a pre-meditated murder. And I see only one motive significant enough to explain it.’

  Darcy nodded. ‘To acquire Laramore.’

  ‘Yes. And now, somebody sees that it is through your intervention that I can avoid selling, and wants you out of the picture too.’ Elizabeth frowned. ‘Perhaps that is what Morag meant. She came to my room recently, and warned me, in so many words, that I was playing with fire.’

  ‘The cottars who attacked me could have no means of acquiring an estate; they must be paid assassins. So the question is who benefits.’ Darcy counted on his fingers. ‘One suspect must be our host, Major Mackay, abetted by his brother. Then there are the Staffords …’

  ‘Morag pointed out that Mr Brodie would also benefit, through running an enlarged sheep farm.’

  Darcy paused. ‘What of the attack outside the lawyer’s office in Edinburgh? I’ve been assuming that it was merely bad luck, but what if it were connected?’

>   ‘That would suggest someone with resources, which is certainly true of the Marchioness and her factors. But the major was staying in Edinburgh, and so was Brodie.’ She threw up her hands. ‘I see no way of making progress unless the fugitives are caught. What cannot be denied is that you are in great danger, and on my account.’

  ‘I’m more concerned about the danger to you.’

  ‘But I have not been attacked. Could it be that they are ashamed to kill a woman?’

  ‘More likely, they fear that your property would pass to some unknown male relative. Even so, I’m uneasy about your remaining here.’

  Elizabeth nodded. Darcy was right. She had put them both in peril long enough …

  She faced him. ‘This cannot go on. I must admit my folly, and heed the advice given by yourself, Mr Dalglish, and now Mr MacFarlane. Sell.’

  ‘To the Mackays?’

  ‘Yes. It was their land before.’

  He nodded. ‘But first, we should think about the conditions attached to your offer, so that your tenants will be provided a satisfactory alternative.’

  ‘True, but we cannot wait long.’

  ‘We will take precautions. Avoid going out alone.’

  ‘Agreed.’ She fell silent, recalling her despair during the frantic gallop downriver. How had she come to care so passionately about a man she had disliked? Of course, her prejudices had been removed. For all his haughty reserve, she knew now that Darcy was honest, considerate, honourable. But these attributes hardly explained the intensity of her need.

  Was it possible, she wondered, that she had felt some such connection with Darcy beforehand? She recalled their first meeting at the Meryton assembly. Tolerable! She had laughed off this insult, but had it not lit a spark? Had she not enjoyed needling him, putting him in his place, proving that she did not care what he thought of her? This was not indifference. He was a perfect foil for her impertinent wit: principled, intelligent, handsome, wealthy, the epitome of an ideal husband. What sweet revenge to puncture his dignity, but also what fun. Looking back, it was obvious that he had enjoyed their contests. But by then she had been blinded by hatred. Wickham. Jane.