‘What are you afraid of?’ Margaret said.
‘Spiders. Ugh!’
‘Not mice?’ Georgiana said.
‘Nice furry animals.’ Isobel looked at Margaret. ‘What about yerself?’
‘I don’t like mice or spiders.’
‘What are ye most afraid of?’
Margaret pursed her lips. ‘Marrying, then regretting it.’
‘Guid answer.’ Isobel looked at Georgiana. ‘Weel?’
Georgiana shrugged. ‘I’m afraid of most things.’
‘Och, lassie.’ Isobel lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Do ye ken what happens on yer wedding night?’
Georgiana coloured. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Do ye want tae know, or will it be a surprise?’
They huddled together, whispering.
40
With Darcy at her side, Elizabeth climbed the broad steps to the first floor of a Princes Street fashion emporium. It was a pleasant morning, after two days of rain, and their objective was again the elegant salon with its views across the Nor’ Loch to the Old Town.
Taking a window seat, they ordered coffee and scones. Elizabeth smiled, aglow with a happiness she could not account for. She had feared the anniversary of Thomas’s death, but now it had passed, she felt light-headed, as if a shadow had lifted. New clothes helped: no grey. Most of all, she felt able to embrace the future.
‘You look well,’ Darcy said.
‘You too.’ She breathed deeply. ‘Remember the day you visited me in Edinburgh?’ She counted on her fingers. ‘Only five months ago.’
‘How could I not?’
‘You spoke of putting things right. I was sceptical. Yet we have made such progress, and in unexpected directions.’
Darcy nodded to the waitress who had just unloaded their tray. ‘It seems everyone is getting married except us.’
‘Georgiana and James are charming together.’
Darcy looked reflectively at the loch. ‘She has regained her confidence these last years, especially since befriending Miss Inglis.’
‘I like Margaret,’ Elizabeth said. ‘But a sharp-tongued madam! I suppose you thought the same of me.’
‘There’s a difference: her wit has an edge of bitterness. According to Georgiana, she thinks gentlemen ignore her because she is plain.’
‘Just three days to the wedding.’ Elizabeth spread jam on her scone. ‘Have you decided on a gift?’
Darcy lowered his voice. ‘I would like to commission a portrait of the couple. I’ve written to Thomas Lawrence, the most able practitioner of the genre. Much in demand, even from royalty—but also perpetually short of money, so I hope to arrange sittings by the end of the year.’
‘I cannot compete with that, but I brought a roll of fine plaid from Strathmaran which should yield a bodice for your sister and kilt for James. Will you be adding to your wardrobe for the wedding and ball?’
‘Not now, I have an appointment in the Old Town.’ He paused. ‘With Mr Dalglish as a matter of fact.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Aha! Already you are planning how to dispose of my assets.’
He smiled. ‘A sound suggestion, but untrue. Years ago I acquired a small estate called Sundridge, near Rosings. Its lease is now ending and I have a buyer.’
‘Will Mr Dalglish administer the sale?’
‘No, I’m using local solicitors. I merely wanted him to check the wording of certain documents and witness my signature.’
After concluding his legal business, Darcy met up with his cousin at their rooms in St Andrew’s Square. The colonel too had been busy. His commission with the Royal Scots had come through. He had been fitted with his new regimentals, which he planned to wear for the wedding. Passage had been confirmed on the Caledonia, a merchant vessel leased to the navy as a troop carrier. It would sail from Greenock, reached by catching the overnight post-chaise to Glasgow followed by a schooner down the River Clyde. He had been entrusted with official documents for delivery to the garrison commander in Quebec.
As they talked over a glass of Madeira, Darcy observed how his cousin had been revitalised. Having survived the Peninsular War, he was undaunted by the coming voyage to Canada, and looked forward to more constructive challenges. For years he had sought romance in vain, in between repeated demands to serve on the continent. Now he had a purpose of his own, and a wife not only beautiful but exciting and fiercely loyal.
Darcy too had never felt better. The ghost of Hunsford, which had shadowed him for two years, had been laid. Inner questioning had been superseded by future projects: return to Pemberley, after Georgiana’s wedding; his own marriage; a settlement for the Bennets.
Most gratifying of all, Elizabeth was at ease with him. For months (she admitted) she had resisted her growing attachment, fearing it was driven by the necessity to provide for her family. Perhaps because of this fear, she was reluctant to discuss practical arrangements for her mother and sisters. She realised Darcy would be eager to help, but wanted to dissociate such matters from their betrothal and wedding.
Privately, however, Darcy had pondered how best to secure the Bennets’ future, ideas that he now confided in Colonel Fitzwilliam. His deepest regret was for Jane Bennet. The letter he had dispatched to Bingley would still be crossing the ocean. He longed for a happy outcome there too, but realistically it was a distant hope.
41
A day had passed, then another. Elizabeth sat at the front of St George’s Church, Charlotte Square, opposite rows packed with relatives of the groom: Lord and Lady Dunbar, Alistair, Lady Colquhoun and other Sinclair cousins. Georgiana was represented by just three people, two of whom were to give her away. Elizabeth watched as Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam rose to perform their role.
‘Forasmuch as no man speaketh against this thing …’ Elizabeth noticed variations in the Scottish order of service as the minister read out the vows to James. He must keep her, love her, entreat her in all things. Live in holy conversation with her.
James replied calmly. ‘Even so I take her, before God, and in the presence of this his congregation.’
Georgiana’s turn. She would promise subjection and obedience, as well as holy conversation. Elizabeth wondered how Isobel would have reacted to such a demand: luckily the Highland minister had asked only whether she consented to marry this man. Would she, Elizabeth, feel comfortable making such a vow to Darcy?
Georgiana’s reply came, softly but confidently, and before long the minister intoned the fateful line: ‘God hath knit you together in holy wedlock.’ Marriage was sanctified; a psalm was sung.
Miss Darcy had become Mrs Inglis …
And so, with no risk of compromising the former Miss Darcy’s prospects, Mrs Bailey, née Bennet, could become Mrs Darcy.
A society ball, Elizabeth noted: not a céilidh. Little tartan in evidence. No kilts, no heavy drinking. Comparing it to the Marchioness of Stafford’s ball in the spring, the decorations were less lavish: still, Lady Dunbar had done them proud. Certainly the event of the month for the gentry of Scotland’s capital.
As the first dance was imminent she saw Darcy scanning the hall.
‘Looking for a partner?’
‘No. Earl Leveson-Gower.’
‘The old school chum?
He nodded. ‘Probably back in London now. I thought we might have another chat about his publishing venture.’
‘Another ruse to avoid dancing?’
‘On the contrary, I plan to dance three sets. One with Mrs Fitzwilliam. Two with another lady, if she permits.’
‘Have you asked this lady?’
‘I do so now. First and supper?’
‘Should you not distribute your favours more widely? Lady Dunbar? Alison?’
He sighed, looking round again. Lady Dunbar had already paired up with Colonel Fitzwilliam, while her husband partnered his new daughter-in-law.
After the Cotillion, Elizabeth saw Georgiana in hushed conversation with Lord Dunbar. She edged closer, sensing that G
eorgiana was ill at ease, but the groom’s father turned away.
‘Mrs Bailey, good evening. May I ask whether you are engaged for the reel?’
Behind Lord Dunbar, Alistair Inglis walked tentatively towards Georgiana.
‘Delighted …’ Elizabeth pointed unobtrusively at the possible drama unfolding just a few paces away. ‘Can this be a good idea?’
‘I suggested it, as a favour,’ he whispered.
‘A symbol of forgiveness?’ She observed as Georgiana, flanked by James, accepted with a faint nod. ‘It’s a lot to ask of her.’
‘I believe it will be for the best.’
Elizabeth noticed Darcy also concerned, although he did not intervene—wisely, she thought. It was for James to look after Georgiana now. She kept an eye out during the reel, and was glad to see Georgiana relax as Alistair continued treating her with respect.
The set ended, and as Elizabeth was seeking out Darcy again, a grand lady approached her—one she knew all too well.
Lady Elizabeth Leveson-Gower.
Countess of Sutherland. Marchioness of Stafford. Last met at the castle of Dunrobin, where she had been painting watercolours …
‘Mrs Bailey, a pleasure to see you again. Might I have a word?’ She pointed to a corner at the back of the alcove. ‘In private?’
‘Your ladyship.’ Elizabeth saw two upholstered chairs already occupied, but the Marchioness strode across with determination, and after a whispered request, both seats were liberated.
‘That’s better.’ The Marchioness mopped her brow. ‘I am passing through en route to London and have so much to do. However, I wished to give my best wishes to Lord Dunbar’s son and Mr Darcy’s sister, and also to see you again. Are you well?’
‘Yes, and spending much time at weddings.’
‘Ah!’ Her eyebrows rose. ‘Rumour has it that yet another awaits you.’
‘Rumour is not always reliable, but I live in hope.’
‘I wish you every happiness. But speaking of rumour, I have been informed that you are to sell Laramore to the Mackays. May I ask whether this is so? Of course you are under no pressure to answer.’
Elizabeth hesitated, but saw no reason for concealment. Word must have spread in Caithness and Sutherland; of course the Marchioness would find out. ‘We have an agreement, and provided it is honoured, the sale will be concluded next year.’
She frowned. ‘Strathmaran exceeded my offer?’
‘My purpose was not only to obtain the best price.’
‘I see.’ A pause. ‘Has this to do with your letter?’
Elizabeth shivered. Confronting her ladyship face to face was far more daunting than sending Graham Ross’s report to Dunrobin. ‘I did wish to ensure no repetition of the actions taken, ah, on your behalf.’
The Marchioness nodded. ‘I fear we shall not see eye to eye on this, Mrs Bailey. But may I say that I appreciated the tone of your letter. A woman in my position has to take decisions that are unpopular in some quarters, leading to a great deal of abuse. You were polite and factual. I have made enquiries with Mr Sellar, my factor, and tried to uncover what happened.’
‘May I ask with what outcome?’
‘He denies cruelty. All leases in these villages had expired, with the tenants given adequate notice of translocation. Some disobeyed, leaving the sheriff no alternative but to burn down their cottages. The poor woman who died had had months to prepare by removing her timbers. Unfortunately she left this to the last minute, and in her haste, suffered that unfortunate accident. Where your report has validity lies in the condition of the crofts in Bettyhill. A delay in preparing these plots caused inconvenience to the tenants. However, they have now been assisted in erecting shelters, and by winter all will be well.’
Elizabeth thought awhile. Most of this could be true, but the implication of an orderly application of the law was at odds with the chaos Graham Ross had witnessed.
‘My informant was the schoolteacher, a most moderate and reasonable man. Mr Sellar not only rebuffed him for requesting more time, but showed a heartless lack of concern for the woman who had been fatally injured.’
‘I was told the woman was already dead, so there was nothing Mr Sellar could have done.’
‘Investigated? Seen to the orphaned child? Halted the burning of the other cottages?’
‘Who can say? We have two reports, both I dare say by reasonable men. I have heard that similar clearances are planned for Laramore. Can you be sure that these will run their course with no delays and no accidents?’
‘Villagers will move only when their new homes are ready. They will not have to carry their old timbers. Some are emigrating to Canada.’
‘Yes, on ships that may be rife with disease, or even go down with all hands. How will you feel then—especially when people attack you for sending your tenants on such a perilous journey?’
Elizabeth fell silent, shaken not by the Marchioness’s stature, but her persuasiveness.
‘I am not claiming any kind of moral superiority, your ladyship. I did my best for my tenants, but yes, disaster may always strike. For all I know, you are in precisely that situation. My purpose was simply to inform you of what was being done in your name.’
‘For which I am grateful.’ A conciliatory smile. ‘You’re a good person, Mrs Bailey, and if we have disagreements, I hope we also have mutual respect.’
Elizabeth smiled back. ‘I hope you prosper, your ladyship—and your tenants too.’
The Marchioness’s lips twisted in ironic amusement. ‘Touché! And congratulations, should the rumours mentioned earlier prove true.’
Supper was served in a minor hall often used for the Literati debates. Seated next to Isobel and Darcy, Elizabeth focussed most attention on the friend who would soon be sailing to another continent, perhaps never to return. She realised that despite Isobel’s brash show of confidence, she was awed by such a gathering of Edinburgh high society, and glad of a familiar companion. Dishes came and went as they enjoyed their usual banter, until a glass tinkled and Lord Dunbar stood to speak.
Elizabeth sighed. It would be time for the toasts …
With courtly grandeur, Lord Dunbar raised his glass. ‘To the charming former Miss Darcy, whom I am now proud to call my daughter-in-law Mrs Georgiana Inglis. It is an honour to join our two families, and I am happier for my son than I can possibly express. To the bride!’
Cries rang round the hall, as Georgiana modestly reddened, and the toasting procession continued. Lady Dunbar. Lady Colquhoun. Bridesmaids. Mrs Fitzwilliam. And then herself—upon which Colonel Fitzwilliam leapt to his feet.
‘To Mrs Elizabeth Bailey, whom I hope before long to call my in-law. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to announce the betrothal of Mrs Bailey to my cousin and oldest friend, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.’
Elizabeth glared at Darcy, who had given her no warning, as the colonel waved them to stand up. But she could only beam as a roar of approval washed over them. She was not a stranger here. Inglises, Sinclairs, Napiers, had known her for two years; seen her with Thomas, and now Darcy, at debates, balls and soirées. The warmth of good will overwhelmed her, and she sat down with moist eyes as the toasting continued.
‘Weel, ye’ve landed yer man at last,’ Isobel said with a smirk, ‘after knowing him only three years.’ She pointed at Colonel Fitzwilliam. ‘Took me three weeks, but then ye couldn’t expect an Englishwoman tae match a Highland lassie.’
‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure,’ Elizabeth quoted.
‘Reject in haste, repent at leisure,’ Isobel flashed back.
Elizabeth flinched: this was a hard blow, even by Isobel’s standards. ‘Cruel, but true,’ she conceded.
‘Ye’re honest, Sassenach, I’ll give ye that. I’ll miss ye.’
‘And I’ll miss you. Like a sore tooth.’
They laughed, and Elizabeth returned her attention to the man to whom, apparently, she was now engaged.
It was late evening; darkness had fallen. Afte
r a final gallopade, Georgiana had bid a tearful farewell to Colonel Fitzwilliam before returning to Charlotte Square with her husband. Elizabeth sat beside Darcy, opposite the Fitzwilliams, as Burgess drove them down Candlemaker Row, past Greyfriars Kirk, to the Grassmarket. The carriage rattled over the cobbles, making such a noise that conversation was impossible. At the back, a trunk held the few possessions the Fitzwilliams were to take on their voyage; next to Burgess sat a young lance-corporal of the Royal Scots, engaged to serve as the colonel’s aide.
In the Grassmarket, a convoy of post-chaise carriages awaited, each closed, and drawn by four horses. Runners were hastening to the receiving house with the day’s last bags of mail. Burgess stopped a few yards away, and with the lance-corporal’s help, transferred the trunk to one of the mail carriages. They would travel overnight, avoiding heavy traffic. In Glasgow they would pick up a second soldier before sailing downriver to their ship, for the hazardous six-week crossing to Quebec.
They stood outside, near other passengers, talking as the drivers prepared to leave. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam were speaking of practicalities: supplies for the voyage, arrival times for letters, and the like. Elizabeth faced Isobel, feeling admiration and also gratitude, for it was the laird’s daughter’s decision to accompany the colonel that had solved the riddle of Laramore. For once they did not banter, but talked quietly of their plans.
‘All aboard!’ yelled a driver.
The two couples joined for a final farewell, and Elizabeth tried to memorise the moment, not knowing when, if ever, she would see Isobel and the colonel again.
42
September 1814, Derbyshire
Nearly a week had passed, and the moment long anticipated had arrived. Ahead, a carriage bearing Mr and Mrs James Inglis turned in at the lodge; Elizabeth, seated beside Darcy, watched eagerly as Burgess followed. They climbed through Pemberley Woods for half a mile, until reaching a high point where the trees ended, and she saw the house on the other side of a stream. Large, stately, on rising ground, it was a perfect marriage of nature and design.
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