‘Yes.’
‘Lizzy, I’m so relieved that you and Jane have found happiness. I was afraid …’ She coloured. ‘You know.’
‘Don’t be hard on yourself, dear. You were just fifteen, and the main fault, everyone understands, lay with another.’
Lydia swallowed, then, as if forcing the words out, muttered, ‘I’m sorry.’
Elizabeth touched her hand, but said nothing.
‘If only I had known what would happen,’ Lydia continued. ‘I was so ignorant, so thoughtless.’
‘Others were at fault too,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I claim my share of blame, as does Mr Darcy.’ She smiled. ‘Mind you, he claims responsibility for everything.’
‘You have done so well …’ Lydia sighed. ‘They say Pemberley is delightful.’
‘You must visit. We can tour the park.’
‘Really?’ Her face brightened. ‘That would be so fine! Will Mrs Inglis be living there?’
‘Sometimes.’ Elizabeth smiled. ‘It seems you’ve made a friend.’
‘Perhaps.’ Lydia pressed her lips together. ‘But please don’t ask what we were talking about. We agreed it would be secret.’
Elizabeth nodded, struggling to hide her amusement at the notion of Lydia keeping a confidence.
The guests had gone. Elizabeth was in Jane’s chamber, perhaps initiating her into the mysteries of the wedding night. Darcy sat in Bingley’s study—a room the master of Netherfield seldom used. He was adding to a letter for the Fitzwilliams when the door opened softly and Georgiana joined him.
‘It has been a lovely day, William.’
They found comfortable chairs and he offered brandy, which she refused. ‘My head is spinning already. I was so moved by Miss Lydia’s …’ She blinked. ‘Her story.’
‘We noticed you went out together.’
Georgiana paused, frowning. ‘William, I fear you will be cross, but I ought to say. I have told Lydia. That I tried to do what she did.’ Her voice trembled. ‘Elope. With George Wickham.’
Darcy flinched. ‘Dearest, was that wise? Of course I’m sympathetic. But can we rely on Miss Lydia’s discretion?’
‘It was a risk.’ She faced him, with that vein of determination that had grown in the last years. ‘But have you not taken chances too? Helping Mrs Bailey, as was? Venturing to the Highlands, where you were almost killed?’
‘I skated on thin ice, certainly. But I believed the potential benefit worth it.’
‘As did I.’ She looked away a moment. ‘William, my confession released her. She cried in my arms. And then she told me. What he had done to her.’
Darcy stared at her. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m not going to repeat it, to you or anyone else.’ She smiled. ‘I have enlisted Miss Lydia in a club of which I am a founder member. The rules demand absolute truthfulness and confidentiality. Our motto is Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno.’ She met his eye. ‘Latin, I am informed.’
‘Thank you, honeysuckle. I’d guessed that.’
‘But apart from the club rules, I would be too embarrassed. William, I would never have believed a man could treat a woman thus. I can only be grateful that fortune saved me from her fate, and led me to a gentleman of a very different sort.’
Darcy fell silent. He wondered whether, by protecting his sister from indelicate realities, he had rendered her more vulnerable to predators such as Wickham. ‘You are brave and selfless, Georgie. I can only admire you.’
‘I did it for myself too.’ Her eyes moistened. ‘I wanted some good to come from the mistake I made.’
‘I understand.’ Darcy sighed, recognising that his sister was not the only person to whom this applied.
A new day. Love had been consummated with emotional intensity and sensual delight. Elizabeth walked alone towards Longbourn church, enjoying the warm colours of the autumn leaves. Their party had visited for morning coffee followed by a tour of the estate, a matter of some interest to Darcy, now the owner. But Elizabeth had not joined them, electing to stay with her mother, before embarking on one of the solitary rambles that had once been a solace of her life.
The churchyard was deserted except for a gardener sweeping up leaves. She went to the grave, noticing with pleasure that it had been neatly kept, the grass trimmed, the flowers fresh. She kneeled on the dry turf and spoke to her father, as she had when he was alive. Told him of foibles that had amused her. Told him that he should not torment himself over his failure with Lydia. Yes, he had been imprudent to let the wild girl go to Brighton. But he had combed the length and breadth of London trying to redeem his error, sacrificing his own health, and ultimately his life. Nobody could have done more.
She spoke aloud but softly, in case someone passed by. Assured him all was well. They were not destitute. They had regained Longbourn. Jane was married to the man she loved. Mary and Kitty had matured through responsibility. Lydia was safely home, emerging from her trauma. Mrs Bennet was buoyant, with two daughters married and her reputation not merely restored, but enhanced.
Rest in peace, dear father. You need not fear for us now. Watch over us, and laugh now and then at our silliness.
She strolled back, reflecting on those terrible months, just two years before. Only Thomas had kept them afloat; now he was gone too. Murdered, by persons unknown, for reasons she could only guess. She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
I will never know.
But she was wrong about that.
Epilogue
June 1838, Glengarry, Canada
The road to Moose Creek was flat and, for long stretches, dead straight. Elizabeth Darcy sat next to Graham Ross in a horse-and-buggy, open except for a top that could be pulled over if it rained.
She had left Darcy in Maran, where he was to take a tour of local businesses: logging at Dunvegan, weaving, cheese-making. Later there would be a reception that she too should attend. She had not seen the town centre yet. The Rosses, who had provided hospitality, lived just outside: he still rode in every day to the school. Kirstin, now a striking woman of thirty, had married a lumberjack and produced a brood of strapping boys. She had grown up as the Gibsons’ adopted daughter—their only child, in fact. Mr Gibson had sadly died in a smallpox outbreak, leaving Claire Gibson on her own. But another door had opened, as she liked to say: a year later she had become Mrs Ross, and now had children of her own.
Elizabeth had been invited to Kirdy Ranch, a mixed farm situated on the Indian settlement. The Kirdys were not alone in taking up this opportunity: for the use of the land, they paid rent to the St Régis Indians in cash and grain. Elizabeth knew that her friend Mrs Kirdy had died; so, more recently, had Iain, and Lachlan had moved away. But Annag and Mairi lived there with their menfolk, and Iain’s widow Jean had asked specially to meet her.
As they rattled past fields of Indian corn, Ross asked after the Mackays. Flora had died just a few years earlier, in her eighties, but her offspring thrived. Hector had outraged Isobel by finally selling Strathmaran to the Staffords (the redoubtable Marchioness had outlived her husband and acquired the additional title of Duchess of Sutherland), and purchasing an estate in the Lowlands—a move much to Morag’s liking.
Isobel and Colonel Fitzwilliam had remained ten years in Canada. After the Royal Scots battalion moved on he organised a Glengarry militia, while exploiting his London contacts for investors in a logging enterprise. Through Isobel he gained the trust of a community that had virtually been transplanted from the Highlands, preserving the Gaelic language, the pipes and games—a whole way of life. But their fortune made, the Fitzwilliams succumbed to the homing instinct, took an estate in Perthshire, and became frequent visitors at Pemberley and Darcy House, along with their lively sons and daughters.
Darcy had changed little, Elizabeth thought, although with greying hair he was even more distinguished. It had been a wonderful marriage, lively as well as loving. They had known sorrow from a stillbirth, but were blessed with fine sons, William and Charles, and handsome daughters
Anne and Flora. All four had remained behind, the boys at Cambridge University, the girls with their beloved Aunt Jane. Elizabeth’s other sisters, benefitting from their prestigious in-laws, had followed her to the altar, Mary marrying the rector at Longbourn to their mother’s triumphant delight. Sadly Mrs Bennet had died the very next year—at least with her life’s work accomplished.
They had planned an expedition to Canada on learning of a venture by the engineer Brunel to cross from Bristol to New York in two weeks, in a steamship named the SS Great Western. To Bristol they went, only to learn that the ship had been damaged by fire while rounding the coast from London. The delay was only one day, but almost all other passengers cancelled, so that they spent a jolly 15 days with just five companions plus the crew. Of course they still had to reach Canada, but in little more than a week they had crossed New York state, enjoying an exciting railroad ride from the Hudson to the Mohawk River.
Ross’s buggy was inside the Indian reservation, yet little had changed. More fields of corn; more grazing land. A rider passed and Elizabeth recognised a Mohawk, his hair plucked except for a square tuft at the back; he wore ornaments on his ears and around his neck, but dressed otherwise in European style. Ross returned the man’s nod while branching to a large open gate signed Kirdy Ranch, with a wooden homestead beyond.
People ran out to greet them. Annag and Mairi shared a large house facing a barn. Beyond lay corrals where men worked with horses and cattle. An older woman came up, and when the fuss had died down, introduced herself.
‘Jean Kirdy. Will ye please come in, ma’am?’ Her hand shook as she pointed to a smaller house. The children, as if forewarned, dispersed noisily in all directions.
In a private room Elizabeth accepted a glass of lemonade as Mrs Kirdy drew a sheaf of papers from a locked drawer.
‘Iain died three years ago, ma’am. We wed the year after he came. I was a Campbell, from Charlottenburg. I’ve nae tae complain of. A guid husband and father. At the end, when he knew he was dying, he wanted the minister, for a confession. But the minister said he should confess tae the person he’d wronged. So he asked me tae write it doon.’
Elizabeth shivered. ‘And I was that person?’
‘Aye.’ Jean Kirdy reddened. ‘I wrote it oot, Mrs Darcy. And could have had yer address, from the schoolmaster. But I feared fer my bairns. Tae know that their father …’
She burst into tears, and Elizabeth moved to comfort her. ‘I understand. But you’re telling me now.’
‘I wanted tae meet ye first, talk face tae face. I beg ye, Mrs Darcy. I’ll tell ye everything. Give ye the papers. But can we keep it tae ourselves?’
‘You mean, not inform the authorities?’ Elizabeth considered. ‘May I read it first, Mrs Kirdy? It’s hard to give such a promise in good faith without knowing the details.’
Jean Kirdy hesitated, then as if forcing herself, thrust the papers forward.
Statement by Iain Kirdy of Kirdy Ranch, Kenyon
In 1813, when I lived in Laramore, I knew the factor at Strathmaran. We talked of improving yield from the sheep, by using new breeds …
Elizabeth skipped ahead, searching for revelations about Thomas:
… but after Mr Bailey married, Mr Brodie said that if he died, and his wife inherited, she would have to sell to Major Mackay. He’d heard of an accident in Rith when a man had been thrown from his horse and hit a wall. He promised that if something similar happened to Mr Bailey, the whole estate would become a big farm under his management, and I could be tacksman for a portion with 10,000 sheep. I told McEwan and Reid, offering them a share. We made plans in the cottage of a blind woman, my kin, who spoke only Gaelic. I knew Mr Bailey was visiting Callach one night. As he rode back, McEwan asked him to help an injured friend and led him into the gorse, where Reid felled him. I came over and finished him off with a rock …
Elizabeth looked up. ‘Did Major Mackay know of this?’
Mrs Kirdy shook her head. ‘Iain said the laird trusted Brodie, and assumed it was an accident.’
Elizabeth sighed, and read on.
Mrs Bailey inherited, but a year later Brodie approached me again in a mad rage. An Englishman was helping her keep Laramore. We had to get him out of the way too, so that she was forced to sell …
Shaken, Elizabeth recalled the attack. Why had she not suspected Iain? It seemed obvious once said. As before, he had been the lookout. Fired his shotgun as Darcy approached, to alert his conspirators. Fired it again as a warning when Isobel galloped into view. Made sure McEwan and Reid escaped without incriminating him.
She shivered. How close Darcy had come to meeting the same fate as Thomas. Except for Isobel’s daring, Iain or his friends would surely have killed him.
With moist eyes she looked back at the confession. It was a relief to know, at last. She assumed she had the full story now. The remaining sheet would probably express remorse, plead for forgiveness …
But there was more.
They had returned to the Rosses for lunch. In their bedroom a grim-faced Darcy read the confession while Elizabeth changed her dress.
‘So he killed Brodie,’ he said.
‘Yes. The factor feared they might have mentioned his own name, Brodie, in front of Sibyl. He kept urging Iain to smother her with a cushion, in case she said too much.’
‘But Iain refused. She was his kin.’
‘Yes, until finally Brodie lost patience. It isn’t in the report, but Iain told Jean. Brodie withdrew his promise to let Iain be his tacksman. But he was foolish to provoke a stronger man while alone on the moors. Iain feared Brodie would find another way to silence Sibyl. So he killed Brodie, and set it up as an accident, like the others.’
Darcy sighed. ‘We should have guessed.’
‘I didn’t see Iain’s motive. And I should have, because Morag warned me. We didn’t appreciate the huge difference the sheep farm would make to their livelihoods.’
Darcy nodded. ‘I believe murder is addictive. Having killed Thomas, they needed to kill me to justify the crime already committed, and assumed their ruse would work a second time.’ He winced. ‘As it would have done, but for you and Isobel.’
Elizabeth sat on the bed, shivering. She had pushed the significance of Jean Kirdy’s revelation to the back of her mind; now, alone, she felt its force. It was not simply the solution to a puzzle. She could at last picture vividly how Thomas had died, and so be with him, at least in imagination, on that fateful evening. A man once central to her life. Humorous, scholarly, devoted to her. So gentle that he never hunted or fished. Innocently he had stopped to help. A brutal blow, and a mind and personality had been destroyed. It was as if part-way through a novel, in mid-sentence, the text ended, making nonsense of the whole. He could not have suffered for more than a few seconds. But what absurdity and injustice in such a conclusion.
What would it be like to do this to another person? It had never occurred to her that Iain might be a murderer. Determined, yes, but slow, unimaginative. Perhaps he was suggestible. At the time he had followed Brodie’s lead; later, he had been guided by Jean, and become a better man.
Above all, his crime had been a stupid one. In purely selfish terms he had taken an immense risk, for uncertain benefit, and put himself in the power of a fiend. A kind, civilised man had been destroyed by an act of senseless greed. What kind of world allowed such waste? Thomas’s scepticism flooded back, and she felt very close to him.
They had talked often of the innocent suffering that so often resulted from crime, war, disease, and she knew his conclusion. Yes, one could sometimes explain how these tragedies came about, but there did not have to be a purpose. A good man like Mr Gibson could die of smallpox through sheer ill luck. To seek meaning was pointless. One could only strive to recover, as she and Darcy had vowed, years ago, in Alison Napier’s drawing room.
Pulling herself together, Elizabeth splashed water on her red eyes, and straightened her hair. Luncheon awaited, followed by a reception at Maran Town Hall,
which might attract attendees from families she had known. It had been delightful to meet Annag and Mairi again. She would not bring their family into disrepute by publicising what she now knew.
A grand open carriage had come to take them to the reception—a flamboyant gesture, Elizabeth thought. Four dray horses pulled them along Croidale Avenue, a name reminding her that villagers down the Maran had joined those from Laramore. Nearing the centre they heard the drone of bagpipes above the clamour of a busy thoroughfare. They were accompanied by one of the selectmen who ran the council, Mr Buchanan, and his wife.
They turned into the main road, and Elizabeth was hit by a roar of cheering and clapping that drowned even the piper. She stared in utter astonishment. For a hundred yards leading to the town hall, the verges were lined with families in their Sunday best, waving tam o’shanters, tartan shawls, and placards, which she realised must depict herself, perhaps woodcut from the drawing by Annag that had hung over the Kirdy’s fireplace in Laramore.
She turned to Buchanan. ‘This is for us?’
He smiled at her surprise. ‘You are famous here, Mrs Darcy. Some 300 emigrated, not just from Laramore but neighbouring villages. Their bairns have married and had sons and daughters of their own. From their parents, from school, they have learned of the villages they came from, and the English lady who fought to preserve their community and send it to this land of promise.’
She waved, overwhelmed. There must be thousands now, proud of their town and its traditions. They had the kirk, the games, the pipes, the dances; they spoke Gaelic. Of course it was not mostly her doing. Darcy had paid for their passage. The Fitzwilliams had guided them. Most of all, the settlers had looked after themselves.
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