The Scotsman’s Ghost: or How to Wreck a Yule Party (Christmas With Darcy and Elizabeth)

4. Four

Four

Darcy

T he sky was well into dusk by the time the carriage rolled up the long drive to Netherfield. The faint glow from the windows spilled out into the darkening landscape, giving the house a warm, almost welcoming appearance. I was tired, sore from the hours spent in the carriage, and more than ready for a quiet evening without interruption.

As I stepped down from the carriage, a footman approached to take my coat and offer assistance. “Have this box taken up to my room,” I said, gesturing toward the large wooden crate being unloaded from the back. “Be careful with it. Dratted thing is likely to fall apart.”

He nodded and set about the task without a word.

I made my way inside, expecting the quiet of a late evening, but instead, I was greeted by Bingley bounding into the entryway with all the enthusiasm of a man who had forgotten what exhaustion felt like.

“Darcy!” he exclaimed, his face lighting up with surprise. “We weren’t expecting you back tonight. Thought you said you meant to stay in town.”

“Changed my mind,” I said, brushing off my gloves and handing them to the waiting servant. “It was a simple matter. I’d rather return here than linger in London over something trivial.”

Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst appeared from the drawing room, both offering slightly too-bright smiles of greeting. I could tell by the way Caroline’s eyes gleamed that she had been hoping for a different outcome to my absence—perhaps one that involved all of them returning to London after me, and her playing hostess in my house.

“Mr. Darcy,” Caroline cooed, moving closer. “You must be utterly exhausted after such a sudden trip. But we are ever so pleased to have you back so soon.”

“Yes,” Louisa added, glancing over at her brother. “You’ve missed quite a lot.”

“I’m sure,” I muttered, more to myself than anyone else. I had no doubt that whatever trivial events had occurred in my absence, Bingley and his sisters would make far more of them than they deserved.

Bingley clapped a hand on my shoulder, steering me toward the sitting room. “Come, Darcy, have a drink with us before you head upstairs. You must tell us all about this mysterious inheritance of yours. You had me intrigued when you left!”

“I doubt it’s anything worth mentioning,” I replied, though I allowed myself to be led toward the decanters.

“But you never know!” Bingley poured a generous amount of brandy into a glass and handed it to me. “Old estates, strange relatives—it sounds like something out of a novel.”

“It’s neither strange nor worth any great excitement,” I said, accepting the drink. “Someone connected through my grandmother. The inheritance amounts to little more than personal effects.”

“And yet, you went to London for it,” Caroline remarked with an arched brow, clearly hoping for something more sensational.

I took a sip of the brandy, letting the warmth spread through me. “Yes, and now I’m back. That’s all there is to it.”

Bingley laughed. “Well, you’ve missed quite the dinner in the meantime. We dined with Colonel Forster, the local militia commander. Good fellow, quite a few stories. Hurst particularly enjoyed him.”

Hurst, who had appeared in the doorway just moments earlier, gave a sleepy nod from his position by the fireplace. “He has a taste for good brandy,” Hurst said lazily. “That’s enough for me.”

“And the ladies?” I asked, raising an eyebrow as I glanced toward Caroline and Louisa. “I’m sure you had your own amusements.”

Caroline’s smile stretched a little wider, and I could tell she had been waiting for this part of the conversation. “Oh, indeed. We had the pleasure of inviting Miss Bennet to dine with us earlier today.”

I could see Bingley’s expression brighten instantly at the mention of her name, but it was Louisa who continued the story, her tone far more amused than it should have been. “Poor Miss Bennet arrived just as the heavens opened. Absolutely drenched.”

Caroline nodded. “She arrived on horseback , of all things, just before the rain came pouring down. Completely soaked and chilled to the bone. Naturally, we couldn’t let her return in such a state.”

“So, you put her up for the night?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“Of course,” Caroline said, waving her hand dismissively. “We’ve only just sent word to Longbourn not half an hour ago. I expect her mother will be overjoyed at the situation.”

That much was certainly true. I could already imagine Mrs. Bennet crowing with triumph, no doubt convinced that this was all part of some grand plan to ensnare Bingley for her daughter.

Bingley, of course, looked entirely too pleased with this turn of events. “I’m glad we could offer Miss Bennet shelter. It’s the least we could do after such an unfortunate accident.”

I said nothing, though I felt the familiar tug of annoyance. It was hardly an accident that Mrs. Bennet had sent her eldest daughter out into the rain on horseback. The woman was shameless in her ambitions. But I kept my thoughts to myself and finished my brandy.

“Well,” I said, setting the glass down, “I appreciate the welcome, but I believe I’ll retire for the evening.”

Bingley stood, smiling warmly. “Of course. You must be exhausted after the journey.”

Caroline tilted her head, watching me closely. “Are you sure you won’t stay up a little longer, Mr. Darcy? We’ve missed your company terribly.”

I gave a brief nod toward her and Mrs. Hurst, keeping my tone polite but firm. “Perhaps tomorrow. Good night.”

Without waiting for further protest, I left the room and headed up the stairs, the long day finally catching up with me. As I reached the landing, the footman was already outside my room, the wooden box from Arthurson & Wilkes placed carefully by the door.

The thought of going through its contents was exhausting in itself. But for now, it could wait.

I tossed and turned for what felt like an hour, trying to ignore the dull ache in my lower back. Too many hours in that blasted carriage, bouncing on uneven roads. And the brandy, though welcome at the time, had left my head muzzy and restless. Sleep was an impossible prospect.

With a groan, I rolled out of bed, stretching slowly in the dimly lit room. My muscles protested with every movement, stiff from being held taut in a rocking carriage over bad roads. I braced myself against the bedpost, trying to relieve the tightness in my back.

I glanced around, hoping something in the quiet stillness might lull me into some kind of comfort, and my eyes landed on the box. The one from the solicitor.

It sat there, as unremarkable as the inheritance it supposedly held. I hadn’t the energy to care about it earlier, but now, with sleep nowhere in sight, it seemed a better distraction than pacing the room like a restless ghost.

I padded over to the box, the floor creaking beneath me as I bent to lift the lid. It gave way easily, revealing a collection of old items, each more underwhelming than the last.

I sighed, rubbing my temples, and started picking through the contents.

First, a few yellowed papers—receipts for some sort of… bread? Stew? Old letters, none of which seemed remotely interesting. I skimmed over the dates. Nothing out of the ordinary. Some were written in the faded hand of a person long dead. Others looked like deeds or records of some minor transaction, no more intriguing than a pile of estate ledgers.

Next, a small portrait. It was cracked along the edges, the face of a woman barely visible under the wear and grime. I stared at it for a moment, wondering vaguely if this was Isobel McLean herself or some other forgotten soul in the McLean family. There was no name, no inscription.

I set it aside, leaning back and rubbing the tight knot of muscle at my shoulder. The night was eerily quiet, the faint ticking of the clock the only sound.

I reached back into the box, almost wishing I hadn’t bothered. There was nothing remarkable here, nothing that explained why I had been summoned to London. It was simply the debris of a life long ended, and none of it had anything to do with me.

Finally, I spotted the brooch, sitting at the very bottom of the box. It was small, barely the size of my palm, and almost seemed to glow faintly in the low fire light. The white rose symbol was unmistakable, delicate, and intricate despite its age. I picked it up, turning it over in my fingers. It felt oddly cold.

As I examined it, I felt a sharp sting.

I cursed under my breath, dropping the brooch. A small bead of blood welled up on my finger where I’d pricked myself on the point of one of the rose’s metal thorns. How ridiculous—an old piece of jewelry, sharp enough to draw blood.

I moved to wipe the blood away, but then something strange happened. A chill swept through the room, sudden and biting, despite the fire still burning low in the hearth. My vision blurred, the room tilting slightly as if the very air had shifted around me.

The brooch on the floor seemed to pulse, as though it were alive.

What the devil had Bingley put in that brandy? I shook my head to clear my vision, but when that did not work, I stumbled backward, my body heavy and sluggish. The room had grown darker, the shadows pressing in on me, but before I could make sense of it, a figure appeared. It was sudden—there, in the blink of an eye.

A man, tall and wild-eyed, rushed at me with outstretched arms. His face, twisted with fury or madness, locked onto mine.

“A bloody sassenach!” he bellowed.

The cold hit me like a wall. My heart lurched in terror, my legs buckled beneath me, and then—nothing.

I came to with my face pressed against the cold wooden floor. My heart was pounding in my ears, and for a moment, I wasn’t entirely sure where I was. The memories were hazy—flashes of cold, a voice shouting, and… a man?

I pushed myself up, wincing at the stiffness in my body, and glanced around the room. The brooch was lying a few feet away from me, perfectly still and completely unremarkable.

For a brief moment, I just stared at it. Then I looked down at my hand. There it was—a small, red mark where the thing had pricked my finger. I ran my thumb over it, half-expecting some other sign of what I had seen. But there was nothing. No cuts, no bruises, no indication that I had just… fainted?

I pushed myself upright, still breathing heavily. The room felt colder than it had been before, but my head was clearer. The brandy. That had to be it. Probably a bad lot—I would speak to Bingley about improving the quality of his cellars. I had been half-asleep, over-tired, and muddled from bad drink. It was preposterous, really. I never faint.

Feeling slightly ridiculous, I rubbed my face, trying to shake off the lingering disorientation. Was I feverish? My skin felt like the sticky residue of perspiration, but that was it. No warmth, no obvious sign of illness.

“Get a hold of yourself,” I muttered, glancing around the room as though the shadows themselves were listening.

I moved to pick up the brooch, the papers I’d scattered across the floor, and tried to convince myself that nothing had happened. Because nothing did happen. The cold air in the room was simply my imagination—a draft from the chimney, perhaps. The strange figure I had seen—well, that had to be the brandy playing tricks on me. It was nothing.

But just as I stooped to gather the rest of the scattered papers, the door swung open, and in walked… well, I’d no idea who, precisely.

A man, just as I’d seen before—tall, broad-shouldered, and every bit as out of place as I had feared. But this time, he was carrying a bottle of something amber-colored, and before I could so much as process what was happening, he sniffed the bottle with a look of disdain.

“It’s no’ verra good, this stuff,” he said, his voice thick with a Scottish accent. “But I s’pose it’ll do.”

I froze, my hands still halfway to the floor, staring at the man. My breath caught in my throat. This was not the brandy.

He stood there, completely at ease, glancing around my room as though he had just stumbled into it for a friendly chat. He looked like something from a bad theatre production—his clothes worn and faded, his hair wild and untamed, and his face… Well, his face was almost bored.

“Who the devil are you?” I demanded, my voice sharp, though I wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t shaking too.

He raised an eyebrow, as if my question had been unworthy of his attention. “Who the devil are ye? Ye’ve got a lot of nerve, askin’ me that in my room!”

I blinked, trying to make sense of the situation. “What—no, this is my room. You—you’re the one who’s—”

“Aye, I’m the one,” he interrupted, waving his hand as if to dismiss my entire train of thought. “And now ye’ve gone and brought me here, too. So, let’s nae waste time arguin’ about whose room it is, eh?”

I gaped at him, unable to find words for a long moment. I glanced toward the door. Was I still fainting? Was this some twisted dream?

He sighed, apparently unimpressed by my silence, and pulled out the chair at my desk, plopping down into it as if he owned the place. “So, who are ye, then?”

I stared at him, still crouched half over the floor, my mind too numb to think of anything clever. “Darcy,” I muttered. “Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

He gave a nod, eyeing me with mild disdain. “Aye, a proper name for a proper sassenach. Ye’ve the look of someone wi’ more titles than sense.”

That stirred something like pride or dignity, or perhaps just stupidity in me. I straightened. “I hold no titles, sir, but I will have you know, the D’Arcy heritage is a proud one, all the way from the Normans who—”

He leaned back in the chair, shaking his head with what could only be described as disappointment. “I ken no’ but here I am, saddled wi’ an Englishman. Of all the folk to get tied to, it had to be a sassenach who faints like a lass in a church pew.” He shot me a look as if my fainting had been a personal offense. “A Scot would’ve stood his ground.”

“I— I fainted?”

“Aye, ye did.” He seemed quite amused by this fact, leaning back in my chair with a smirk. “Down like a sack o’ potatoes. No’ even a wee fight.”

My legs wobbled slightly beneath me as I backed away from the stranger. I finally found my voice, pushing past the numbness that had kept me frozen. “You’re trespassing,” I said, standing up straighter and feeling a spark of my old self return. “I’ll wake the household if I must. Call the footmen. You’ll be thrown out on your ear before you can say another word.”

“Aye, is that right? Gonna wake the whole house for a wee tantrum, are ye?” He crossed his arms, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Go on then. I’m sure the footmen would love to see ye blubbering aboot ghosts at this hour.”

I bristled at his tone. “I don’t blubber, and I don’t believe in ghosts.”

He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Then what’re ye so worked up aboot, lad?”

My mouth opened, but no words came out. It was maddening, how casually he sat there—in my room!—as if my threats were nothing more than an idle game.

Then, as if to prove his point, he leaned over and casually swept his hand through the wood of the table beside him, his fingers sinking into the solid surface as though it were made of water. My heart stopped, and I hardly know how I kept from crumpling again as he pulled back, producing a pen knife as if from thin air. He inspected it lazily, then tossed it onto the table with a soft clink. “That’ll serve ye well.”

I stared, my pulse pounding in my ears. That was not possible. Was it? It wasn’t … right?

“Ye see?” Ewan said with a grin. “Ye’re havin’ yerself a fine wee tantrum, and fer what? Ye canna throw me out.”

I slapped my own face—hard enough to feel the sting, as if that would somehow wake me from this madness. But when I opened my eyes again, he was still there, looking more amused than ever.

“You’re not real,” I said firmly, my voice shaking only slightly. “This… this is absurd. I’m imagining all of this.”

He sniffed the bottle again, pulling a face as if I’d just insulted his honor. “Aye, well, if I’m no’ real, then I’ve got nae business drinkin’ this swill, do I?”

I shook my head, my hand tightening on the back of the chair to steady myself. “Who are you?” I demanded again, my voice rising with the frustration of being completely unmoored.

The man tilted his head, considering me for a moment. “Ewan,” he said finally, as though I should have known all along. “Ewan Douglas Malcom McLean.”

My blood ran cold. McLean . Isobel McLean.

I gaped at him, my throat tight. “Mclean… The brooch…” I whispered.

His eyes glinted. “McLean, ye’ve got it, lad. There’s nae wrong with your hearing.”

I stared at him, my mind struggling to make sense of what was happening. “But… you’re dead,” I said slowly.

He raised his bottle in mock toast. “Aye, tha’s the long an’ short of it, lad.”

And then I did the only thing a sensible man could do in such a situation.

I sat down hard on the bed, rubbing my face with my hands, and muttered, “I need more brandy.”