Page 65 of To Love And To Cherish
I scarcely know how to begin, for my head is full and my heart fuller still. The journey north was long but remarkably pleasant. The roads were firm underfoot, and we were glad for the cool, dry air. Spring in the north is a thing of quiet grandeur: the hills are alight with wildflowers, and the birch and rowan are lovely to behold.
Miss Trent has proved a most steadfast friend, cheerful, sensible, and unfailingly resourceful. Mary King, though more reserved, has shown admirable courage in undertaking such an uncertain voyage. We share stories at night by the fire and have laughed at each other's foibles. I am grateful beyond measure for their companionship.
We arrived two days ago at Dalmore House, the seat of the Allister family. It is the estate Mary King is to inherit. Her Uncle Allister met us at the gate in a tam and greatcoat, with a smile broad as the River Spey. He had peat burning in every hearth and the kitchen in a bustle preparing bannocks and trout. The flatbread filled the house with a warm, fragrant aroma that set our mouths watering and made us suddenly aware of our hunger. You would like Mr. Steafan Allister, Kitty; he is at once gruff and tender, the very image of Highland hospitality.
That evening, as the wind howled down from the moor, he warned us in hushed tones of the Cusìth, a great green hound of legend said to steal women away if they venture too far afield alone. He told it so solemnly I felt the shivers up my spine and have kept to well-marked paths since.
Tomorrow we ride to Carrbridge to meet the Frazier family. There are four brothers, though the eldest, Adam, is the newly made Laird and, by all reports, 'looking about him’ for a wife. Mary is to be introduced, and we shall see whether they suit. He is said to be serious-minded and kind. I pray it goes well for her.
Send my love to dear Jane. I have written to her at Netherfield, though I know she is away on her wedding trip, so I may not hear from her for several weeks. Direct your letters to Castle Roy, Carrbridge, as we shall reside there for the next five months to allow Mary time with her prospective suitor. Do write soon, I think of you all every day.
Yours ever,
Elizabeth
Kitty folded the letter and gave a wistful sigh. Jane blinked rapidly, then brushed away a tear that had slipped down her cheek. Georgiana reached for her embroidery but held the needle still as she thought aloud. “Lizzy was to write to me. My letter must be at Darcy House. I do hope it arrives soon.”
Darcy said nothing. His gaze remained fixed upon the dancing flames, though he heard every word.
Adam Frazier.
Newly made Laird.
Looking about him for a wife.
And Elizabeth,hisElizabeth, was traveling to meet him at this very moment.
His stomach twisted.
The elder Frazier would have no eyes for Mary King if Elizabeth Bennet were present. Darcy knew it as surely as he knew his own name. She would enchant the man, how could she not?
He ought to rejoice for her. Had he not promised himself he would be contented if she found happiness, even if it were not with him?
But he was not contented. He was jealous, bitterly, wretchedly jealous, and it was a new and miserable sensation. One he had never before endured. It hollowed out his chest and thudded behind his ribs like a second heartbeat.
And now she was in Scotland. Meeting a laird. A Highland laird looking for a wife.
Darcy closed his book and rose, crossing to the window as though fresh air alone could cool the fire burning in his veins.
He was not happy for her.
He was afraid, for himself, and for all he stood to lose. Darcy excused himself and was soon outside, walking as if the devil himself were at his heels.
The little party quickly fell into an agreeable routine: in the evenings, Darcy and Bingley played chess or billiards, Georgiana practiced the pianoforte, and Kitty read aloud to Jane while she sewed for the poor. Darcy often found himself listening more than playing, his gaze drawn to the quiet tableau of contented domesticity.
It was late May, and a storm had raged the entire day, turning the roads into tracks of mud. The party had gathered in the drawing room, each occupied by their own pursuits, when wheels quietly crunched on the drive.
Darcy rose. At the window, he froze. "Bingley," he muttered, "I believe your sister has arrived."
"It cannot be," Bingley said, leaping up. He peered out. "She’s with Aunt Agatha."
"Did you write your aunt?"
"No, but perhaps my Yorkshire cousins said something. I avoided Caroline completely since she had been so abominable to Jane."
"I thought you meant to arrange a match for her?"
"She doesn’t wish to marry," Bingley said, then added sheepishly, "anyone but you."
