Darcy's Highland Fling Read online

  Darcy’s Highland Fling

  M. A. Sandiford

  Copyright © 2018 M. A. Sandiford

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1979163723

  ISBN-13: 978-1979163729

  fling /flɪŋ/

  noun

  a venture or gamble

  a Scottish dance

  ……………

  1

  August 1812, Dublin

  Fitzwilliam Darcy circled Phoenix Park, admiring herds of deer that grazed on the semi-wild pasture. He had arrived on foot, his restless mind demanding exertion. Charles Bingley had gone with a friend to view an estate recently come on the market. Brooding alone in their rented town house did not appeal, with the drinks cabinet a constant temptation. No, he must cease regretting past errors, re-assess his predicament, seek a way forward.

  The cause of this agitation was the daughter of a country gentleman with a modest estate in Hertfordshire. She had no dowry to speak of, nor connections. One uncle an attorney, another in trade. Pretty, it was true, with an expressive face that grew on you. A few accomplishments such as playing and singing. Personable, but wilful and impertinent, she had bewitched him through a mixture of wit and outright mockery. Head said no, heart said yes: I must have her. Just a few months ago he had given in and proposed, certain of success, concerned only that love had blinded him …

  And she had turned him down!

  Not only that, she had demolished his character. In her eyes he was a conceited misanthrope. He had ruined Wickham’s career, broken her sister’s heart, insulted her family. He was the last man in the world that she could ever be prevailed upon to marry.

  He winced as he recalled the ugly encounter at Hunsford. That night he had stayed up writing a letter that refuted her accusations. He had heard nothing more, so had no inkling whether she had even read it.

  Rationally it had been a lucky escape. But as months passed, he found it impossible to return to normal life. All had lost its savour. His foolish heart still wanted her, even more now that she had rejected him. At the time he had noticed only her errors, her naive trust in Wickham. But he recognised now that there was some basis for her criticism. He saw too how much he had underestimated her. Yes, he had been aware of a lively wit, but not her deeper qualities of intelligence and integrity.

  In short, his heart had not been blind. Proposing had been the wisest step he had ever taken—except that he had made a hash of it. And now his chance of fulfilment in marriage had gone.

  Unless …

  He stopped walking, gazing at the city spread out below. Unless he managed to repair the damage. Make his confession to Bingley, encourage him to renew his attentions to Jane Bennet. Visit Netherfield again and contrive further meetings with Elizabeth. A long shot, but he had at least to try, or feel the pain of regret for ever.

  Bingley entered brandishing a letter, which he deposited on a side-table as he fell back into an armchair.

  Darcy poured claret. ‘Any luck with Moyglare?’

  ‘Nice manor.’ Bingley sighed. ‘But overpriced. I’m not sure they really want to sell.’

  ‘You could offer whatever you’re willing to pay, to test the waters.’

  Bingley drank half a glass in a single draught. He fingered the letter absent-mindedly. ‘Do you know, Darce, I’m not sure Ireland is such a good idea after all.’

  Darcy smiled, familiar with Bingley’s impulsive changes of heart. ‘News from London?’

  ‘Caroline. I suppose I’d better read it.’

  Darcy wondered whether Bingley was having second thoughts over Netherfield, where the lease would run out soon if not renewed.

  ‘Everyone well?’ he asked.

  Bingley nodded wearily. ‘Much as usual. Louisa claims the Dublin season is so drab that all the best families are moving to London.’ He jumped suddenly as if he had sat on a tack. ‘Good gracious!’

  ‘What is it?’

  Bingley raised a palm as he read frantically to the end of a page. ‘This is dreadful.’ He passed the sheet to Darcy and pointed. ‘Here!’

  Darcy recognised Caroline Bingley’s hand, and also her tone as she complained of some dreary ball or other. But the script became irregular, as if written in haste. A word leapt off the page: Wickham! It was tempting to scan, but he breathed deeply and tried to decipher every word.

  Tuesday morning: A note arrived from the housekeeper at Netherfield with such shocking news of the Bennets! It seems Miss Lydia was permitted to go with the militia to Brighton, and ran off with Mr Wickham! It was hoped they were bound for Gretna, but of course Mr W. had no such intention and they are presumed still hid in London, where Mr Bennet sought them a full month before returning exhausted to Longbourn. What a to-do! Poor Miss Bennet, of whom I am excessively fond. How she and her sisters must be distressed, since of course no respectable man will marry into their family now. Let us be thankful that you heeded the advice Mr Darcy and I gave you last November. Perhaps I may also claim credit as a protective sister …

  Darcy trembled with anger and frustration. Wickham! His nemesis: that smirking apology for a man. First, the near miss with Georgiana; now, any hope of a reconciliation with Elizabeth snuffed out. He regarded Bingley, who paced the carpet as he studied the second sheet.

  ‘I’m sorry, Charles. Have any further steps been taken to find the runaways?’

  Bingley stared at him, frowning. ‘Darce, what can this mean?’ He pointed to the end of the sentence Darcy had been reading. ‘For mercifully withholding from you Miss Bennet’s presence in town. Does she mean Jane Bennet was in London over the winter?’

  Darcy swallowed. ‘I believe so.’

  ‘When did you learn of this?’

  Darcy coloured. He had intended to confess his connivance at a time of his own choosing, but now there was nothing to be done.

  ‘I’m afraid I knew at the time, and like Miss Bingley, thought it safest to keep you in the dark.’

  ‘I see.’ Bingley thrust the other sheet at Darcy, and resumed pacing; Darcy had never seen him so angry. There was no substance in Caroline’s final paragraphs, only a self-congratulatory tone that made him sick. He folded the letter and set it aside.

  ‘Charles, I must return to London immediately and see whether Wickham and Miss Lydia can be found. Perhaps there is still time if they can be persuaded to marry. As to Miss Bennet, I can only beg your forgiveness. I had no right to interfere; even less to deceive you.’

  Bingley went to the window, refusing to meet his eye. He turned abruptly. ‘I should have trusted my own instincts. We could have married, and none of this would have happened. Oh, damnation!’ Shockingly, he drove his fist into a panel on the wall.

  ‘Charles, listen.’ Darcy approached and took his arm. ‘All is not lost. I know a woman in town who has abetted Wickham in the past. With a little monetary inducement she may reveal his whereabouts.’

  ‘What is the point?’ Bingley cried. ‘Can we be sure Jane Bennet cared for me anyway? Perhaps she was guided by her fortune-hunting mother—just as you feared. No, it is hopeless. I must put her out of my mind …’ He turned away, disconsolate.

  ‘No!’ Impulsively, Darcy decided to confess all. ‘When I met Miss Elizabeth at Rosings in the spring, we quarrelled over this very point. She explained that her sister’s feelings, although modestly expressed, ran deep, and that she held you in the highest esteem.’

  For a moment Bingley perked up; then his face clouded over. ‘And this you withheld from me as well.’

  Darcy spread his arms: further apology seemed pointless.

  ‘I’m going to my room now.’ Bingley’s voice was cold. ‘I need to think. Alone.’

  ‘I implore you, Charles. Let us go to London
…’

  ‘To what end? For Caroline’s sake I cannot marry Miss Bennet now. The woman I loved is lost; my sister has betrayed me; so has my best friend. Return if you must. I’m not sure I could bear your company in any case.’

  He withdrew, leaving Darcy in shocked confusion.

  2

  May 1813, nine months later, northern Scotland

  The route from Wick crossed the most northerly coast of mainland Britain, past dramatic outcrops, ferocious seas, dark pine forests, pastures bright yellow with broom and gorse. Elizabeth had brought a book, Lady of the Lake by Walter Scott, but she read on-and-off as the landscape claimed her attention. By her side, her husband Thomas Bailey conversed with Sir John Sinclair, who had represented Caithness in parliament until recently ceding that honour to his son. Their parties had met by chance in the inn at Wick, and joined up for the final leg.

  Sinclair was a distinguished writer and thinker, and as Elizabeth noticed with a private smile, not shy in sharing his achievements. He had edited a series called Statistical Accounts of Scotland, compiled by sending a questionnaire to hundreds of clergymen. He had written extensively on modern methods in agriculture, implementing them in his own estates. He was a Fellow of the Royal Society of elite scientists. As Thomas was discovering, he was not a man with whom one could have a normal exchange of views. His role, as he saw it, was to expound; yours was to listen and learn. His aim was to persuade Thomas to invest in improvements: roads, machinery, new breeds. Perhaps he was right, but as argument piled on argument she let her mind wander, observing her husband affectionately as he endured the lecture.

  She had met Thomas Bailey at Ambleside, while touring the Lakes with her Uncle and Aunt Gardiner. He was travelling with a group of literary friends from Edinburgh following a similar itinerary. He had a boyish face, and an open accommodating manner; from the start they talked easily, agreeing or disagreeing without embarrassment or hostility. She found him endearing in his enthusiasms, and unfailing in his kindness and good humour, although not a man that aroused passion, at least in her.

  As his attentions continued she guessed he might offer, and feared she would be obliged to disappoint a third suitor—and one more appealing than Collins or Darcy. But then came Jane’s letters about Lydia, which not only ended the idyll of the tour, but turned her life upside-down after their father, exhausted and despondent, succumbed to virulent pneumonia.

  Thomas’s letter of proposal, months later, was testament to his decency and independence of mind. At the time she had assumed she was unmarriageable, her family ruined as well as disgraced. But Thomas had a small estate in Scotland which generated sufficient surplus to rent a house near Meryton for her mother and sisters; with this added to the income from Mrs Bennet’s marriage settlement, they could get by. For once Elizabeth had no need of her mother’s exhortation. She accepted without hesitation, and by January was on her way to Edinburgh …

  To be launched into that mysterious mode of intimacy known as marriage.

  Elizabeth bit her lip, suppressing an impulse to laugh as she recalled their early experiments in the bedroom. It turned out that Thomas, whose mentality tended to the theoretical rather than the practical, had only the vaguest idea how to proceed. For her part, Elizabeth could contribute only her mother’s advice, to be guided by her husband, and Charlotte’s, after she had become Mrs Collins: Close your eyes and think of buttered crumpets.

  Somehow they had worked it out—well enough, she hoped, to satisfy the biological preconditions for an heir. Thomas seemed content with their clinches, but often she felt she wanted more. The romantic bliss of which troubadours sang had proved a modest pleasure.

  ‘So, Mrs Bailey.’ Sinclair met her eye. ‘We have talked too long, I fear, on matters of minor interest to the ladies.’

  Elizabeth exchanged an ironic glance with Thomas. ‘On the contrary, sir, I welcome the education.’

  ‘Well said, madam.’ He preened his long silver hair. ‘In that case, I hope you can convince your husband of the necessity, I might say urgent necessity, of re-organising our estates along the lines I have been proposing.’

  Elizabeth paused, feeling the force of his gaze pressing her to agree. ‘I am not well-versed in economics, Sir John, but I can claim some experience in the art of persuasion. The trick, I have found, is to draw out the other person’s viewpoint prior to expounding your own. To lead a man from Wick to Thurso, you must first go to Wick. Call him from Thurso and he will probably remain where he is, no matter how loudly you shout.’

  Sinclair frowned. ‘Viewpoints are all very well; I put my trust in the facts.’ He pointed at her book. ‘May I ask what you are reading?’

  She showed him the title, and he nodded. ‘Admirable poetry, but I hope you understand that Scott’s picture of Highland life is a romanticised fantasy. As a corrective I urge you to study my own works, or any other objective account.’

  Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. ‘As one visiting for the first time, I hope to learn from my own experience.’

  ‘That has value too,’ he conceded, ‘if your judgement is not biassed by prior misconception.’

  Struggling to keep a straight face, Elizabeth bestowed her sweetest smile. ‘I will bear that in mind.’

  At Thurso, Sir John hospitably offered refreshment and a stroll in the formal gardens, with fine views of the castle and the bay beyond. It was a busy market town and port, and in winter they would have stayed overnight. But now, in May, it would be light until late in the evening, and after a brief stop they set off again, alone except for their driver and a maid.

  They had been on the road two hours when Thomas pointed towards the coast.

  ‘Dounrith Castle. Not far now.’

  Elizabeth shivered, and moved closer to take his arm. ‘I do hope your relatives will accept me.’

  ‘Why should they not?’

  ‘Do folk not remember the rebellion? The massacres after Culloden?’

  Thomas patted her hand. ‘There are few Papists hereabouts, Elizabeth. The Mackays, like the Sinclairs, fought against the Jacobites, on the side of the English.’ He indicated the castle again. ‘Lord Rith, who lived here at the time, helped foil an attempt by the French to send funds to the Bonnie Prince. It is said his associates kept most for themselves; chests may still be buried near the shore where the French ship ran aground.’

  ‘Such derring-do!’ Elizabeth smiled. ‘Our lives unfold on calmer lines in Hertfordshire.’

  ‘But the same is true here, sweetling. We have robbers, but the days of smuggling and poaching and clan warfare are over.’

  ‘Remind me who will receive us.’

  ‘The laird, my cousin Hector, is with the regiment in Holland, but you will meet his mother Flora Mackay and some of her progeny. Captain Robert. Henrietta. Isobel. Anna if she comes over from Larraig.’

  Elizabeth shook her head: it was bewildering. ‘And we are to stay in Strathmaran?’

  ‘My own estate is inland, too remote to offer good accommodation or society. The Mackays are my friends, Elizabeth. There were disputes in my father’s time, when the estate was divided, but we have left that behind us.’

  Elizabeth fell silent. It would not be long now.

  Strathmaran lay near the coast, guarded on three sides by a loop in the Maran river. It was an L-shaped building of three storeys and an attic, perhaps twice as large as Longbourn, surrounded by out-buildings and a walled garden; behind, hills of gorse glowed orange in the setting sun.

  Two women in fashionable muslin gowns ran out, and introduced themselves as Henrietta and Morag Mackay. Warmed by their enthusiasm, Elizabeth followed them to the hall, where an elderly lady dressed in dark blue, with white ruff and cap, appraised her with a frown.

  ‘Mrs Bailey? Flora Mackay. Ye’ll be wanting a dram after yer journey.’

  Elizabeth followed, expecting the others to join them, but was led to a private drawing room warmed by a wood fire.

  ‘Sit yerself doon.’ The matriar
ch pointed to a divan, as a servant poured wine.

  ‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I cannot recall a house so beautifully situated.’

  This was received with a raise of the eyebrows. ‘I hope the interior will also be to your satisfaction.’ She studied Elizabeth, as if trying to fathom her. ‘Ye wilnae mind me saying that this has come as a surprise. We didnae expect Mr Bailey tae return from England wi’ a wife.’

  Elizabeth blinked, sensing suspicion. ‘I confess I have also been startled by the turn of events.’

  ‘Ye should ken …’ The old lady paused, as if unsure whether to continue. ‘There was a presumption Thomas might seek a bride among my daughters.’

  Elizabeth coloured: this had never been mentioned. ‘I hope nobody has been disappointed.’

  ‘That’s nae for me tae say.’ She drained her glass. ‘Ye’ll find things strange here, I’m thinking.’

  ‘Sometimes strange, but beautiful and fascinating.’

  Another raise of the eyebrows. ‘Ye’ll be wanting yer room, Mrs Bailey, tae rest afore supper.’

  Elizabeth had been allotted the larger of two connected chambers in the visitor wing. It overlooked the garden, where in the fading light she could just make out beds of herbs and vegetables, and apple trees climbing the walls. A double four-poster dominated the room, with a wardrobe and chest in mahogany, recessed dressing table, and washstand. The rug was threadbare, but overall the accommodation could not be faulted: compared with inns en route it was palatial. A maid had hung her clothes, leaving unopened a casket where she had packed her gifts.

  A tap at the door, and Morag Mackay peeped inside. ‘I thought I’d check whether there’s anything ye’ll be needing.’

  ‘Do come in!’ Elizabeth perched on the bed while her companion surveyed the room. She guessed Morag was in her mid-thirties, a neat woman with fair hair braided and pinned, and a figure that had probably been willowy when she was a girl, but was now filling out.