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

10. Ten

Ten

Elizabeth

T he morning air was crisp, the sun shining bright enough to make everything feel a bit less stifling. After spending most of my time indoors, either keeping Jane company or attempting to survive Miss Bingley’s conversation, a walk through the gardens felt like freedom. The scattering of golden leaves across my path was a refreshing change from the cloying conversations that seemed to follow me at every turn inside Netherfield.

I rounded a corner of the path, hoping to prolong my escape from the house, when—of course—I spotted Mr. Darcy heading straight toward me. He was staring down at the ground as though it had personally offended him, completely unaware of my presence.

I considered turning around—quickly—but the gravel beneath my foot had other ideas. A twig snapped loudly.

His head jerked up as if he’d been yanked by an invisible string.

“Miss Bennet,” he blurted, sounding less like a greeting and more like a man staring into the maw of a sudden thunderstorm.

“Mr. Darcy,” I replied, trying not to laugh at how startled he looked. He blinked at me, then glanced around as though unsure what to do next. He wasn’t running or cursing at shadows, so I supposed that was a good sign.

We stood there—me staring at him, him staring at… everything else. Neither of us spoke, and if there’s one thing I loathe more than awkward silences, it’s awkward silences with Mr. Darcy.

“It’s a lovely day for a walk,” I ventured, hoping to break the stalemate. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he replied, his voice flatter than a week-old biscuit. “Lovely.”

I was beginning to wonder if he’d lost the ability to have a normal conversation. His eyes darted around, almost as if he was looking for something—or, more likely, trying to avoid looking at me. Was he hoping I’d vanish into the bushes if he stared hard enough at them?

“Are you… enjoying your stay at Netherfield?” he asked, as though someone had prompted him from offstage. The words came out stiffly, as if speaking them pained him.

“Quite,” I said, though if I were being truthful, “surviving” would have been a better word than “enjoying.” I had hoped for a bit more peace and less Mr. Darcy glaring at furniture.

His gaze flicked back to me, then off to the side again, and we resumed our silent standoff. The man looked about as comfortable as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

“Forgive me,” I said, curiosity finally getting the better of me, “but you seem… unsettled, Mr. Darcy. Is something troubling you?”

He blinked as if I’d suddenly appeared out of nowhere, and his expression shifted so quickly I thought I might have imagined it. “No,” he said, though the edge in his voice made it clear he wasn’t fooling anyone. “Everything is perfectly under control.”

Ah, yes. Perfectly under control. That explained why he looked like he’d been cornered by a pack of wild dogs or—knowing my luck—was bracing for someone to jump out of the hedges with a broadsword.

“You’re sure?” I pressed, my eyebrows lifting. He was practically vibrating with whatever thoughts were rattling around in his head. For someone who claimed everything was under control, he certainly didn’t seem calm.

“I am,” he said, with the enthusiasm of someone trying to convince themselves they hadn’t just spilled tea all over their best coat.

I tilted my head, studying him for a moment. He still wasn’t looking directly at me. Instead, his gaze kept wandering to the trees, the sky—anything that wasn’t my face. I half expected him to apologize to a bush at any moment.

“Well, if you’re quite sure,” I said, letting the words trail off as I took a step back. This entire conversation was a disaster, and I wasn’t sure how to rescue it.

Mr. Darcy nodded sharply as though agreeing with himself. “Yes. Quite.”

I began to walk past him, certain I should leave before anything stranger happened. But then, just as I was about to escape, he spoke again.

“Miss Bennet?”

I paused, half-turning back to him. “Yes, Mr. Darcy?”

He stared at me for a moment, his lips parting as if he was about to say something important. But then he snapped his mouth shut, blinking rapidly, and whatever it was, he seemed to abandon it.

“Enjoy your walk,” he said stiffly, sounding as though the words had physically hurt him.

I blinked at him, unsure whether to laugh or feel concerned. “Thank you. And you as well.”

I didn’t wait for a response. Instead, I hurried down the path, glancing back only once to see him still standing there, staring at nothing in particular like he was waiting for the ground to swallow him whole.

Darcy

T he moment Elizabeth Bennet turned her back, I all but bolted down the garden path. What the devil had I been thinking, standing there like some sort of tree, my mouth moving but saying nothing? I practically fled to the farthest corner of the grounds, willing my legs to carry me as far from that awkward mess as possible.

“Ach, ye run like a hare wi’ its tail on fire!” came the familiar brogue, and before I could even groan, Ewan appeared out of nowhere, strolling alongside me, his arms crossed, a look of pure disappointment on his face. “After the way that lassie danced in yer arms last night?”

“ You made me do that!” I snapped. “A reel… what the devil, man?”

“Aye, an’ ye almost looked like a man for a moment there. A pity ye turn tail in the daylight. Blind fool, ye are, lad. A fool, an’ a coward, tae.”

I clenched my jaw and kept walking, eyes fixed ahead. Maybe if I ignored him, he’d disappear.

“Ignorin’ me now, eh? Aye, that’ll fix everythin’,” Ewan continued, undeterred. “Ye get a lass like that lookin’ ye in the eye, an’ ye skitter off like she’s got the plague! Where’s yer backbone, man?”

“I didn’t skitter,” I muttered, quickening my pace. “I merely... departed. Sensibly.”

“Sensibly?” Ewan threw his head back and let out a bark of laughter. “Ye’ve got the sense of a sheep herdin’ itself into a river! She was right there, lad! Bold as brass, and ye ran! What kind o’ ‘gen’leman’ does that?”

I rounded a hedge, determined to put distance between us, though I knew it was pointless. He was dead; I wasn’t getting away.

“A wise gentleman,” I snapped. “Who knows when a situation is too far gone to salvage.”

Ewan shook his head, keeping pace with me, his boots making no sound against the gravel. "Ye’re aff yer heid, lad. Ye had her interest—an’ that’s more than most men’ll ever get. But instead o’ takin’ the chance, ye ran off wi’ yer tail between yer legs like some green lad meetin’ his first lass.”

I stopped, turning to face him, my patience officially gone. “What would you know of being a gentleman? You’ve spent most of your time barging into my life, hovering like a cretin over women who can’t even see you, and making indecent remarks.”

“Och, I see. So ye’re a master o’ manners now, are ye? Tell me, lad, how gentlemanly was it when ye stood there gapin’ like a fish in front o’ Miss Bennet, sayin’ nothin’? Eh? Aye, thought so.”

I groaned, running a hand through my hair. “I didn’t know what to say! She... catches me off guard.”

Ewan snorted. “Aye, catches ye off guard ‘cause ye’re too busy hidin’ behind yer precious propriety. Always those books wi’ ye. Ye wouldn’t ken what tae dae wi’ a real woman if she slapped ye across the face.”

I glared at him. “I suppose your idea of a fitting encounter with a woman involves inappropriate comments and lurking about like a lecherous specter?”

“A lecherous specter!” Ewan laughed again. “Ach, that’s a fine joke, comin’ from a lad who scarpers at the sight o’ his own shadow. Naw, lad. Ye’ve got tae stop thinkin’ an’ start feelin’. But ye wouldnae ken much aboot that, would ye?”

“I feel plenty,” I snapped, probably too loudly. A nearby gardener glanced in my direction, and I quickly coughed, pretending I’d swallowed a bug. “I ‘feel’ quite well, indeed.”

Ewan raised both eyebrows now, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “Aye, ye feel plenty, do ye? Then why’s it ye’re standin’ there wi’ yer neck straighter than a ship’s mast whenever she’s about?”

“That’s enough,” I growled. “I am handling things. Quite well, in fact.”

“Ye couldnae handle a sheep wi’ a stick if it were standin’ still.”

I bit back a sharp retort, taking a deep breath. “And what exactly do you propose I do? Go back there and declare myself like some lovesick fool?”

“Why no’?” Ewan shrugged. “At least she’d ken ye’re alive, instead o’ wonderin’ why ye keep runnin’ fae her like she’s got claws.”

I groaned again, exasperated. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Dinnae I?” He shot me a sideways glance, arms crossed. “If ye had even half the fire that lass has, ye’d ha’ wed her by now, nae doubt.”

I stopped dead in my tracks, staring at him. “ Wed her?! We aren’t even courting! Egad, I don’t even like her.”

“Oh, aye?” He tapped his chin, looking thoughtful. “Well then, if there’s nae objections, I reckon I might just—”

“You will leave the lady alone!” I cried. “Last night was more than enough meddling!”

He grinned and set his fists on his hips. “No’ when a lassie fancies a man.”

“Fancies… She can barely stand to be in the same room with me!”

“Because ye act like ye’re terrified o’ her!” Ewan fired back. “Aye, lad. Ye’ve got all the charm o’ a wet mop, an’ ye run like one too. If ye’d stop bein’ such a stubborn Sassenach, ye’d see the lass looks at ye more than ye think.”

I felt my mouth open to argue, but nothing came out. He was grinning, clearly having the time of his life, while I stood there, thoroughly rattled. The worst part? He wasn’t entirely wrong. She was the only one at Netherfield who even noticed me—truly noticed me—enough to see that something was amiss.

A pity she thought I was barking mad.

“I am not discussing this with you anymore,” I muttered, turning sharply and marching back toward the house.

Ewan’s voice followed me, as irritatingly cheerful as ever. “Aye, run along now! Back tae yer books, yer ruminatin’. Maybe one day ye’ll grow a spine!”

I didn’t stop, but I could feel my teeth grinding. If I were not careful, I’d be the first person in history to die from sheer annoyance.

Darcy

“ H ow is Miss Bennet this evening, Miss Elizabeth?” Bingley asked, his eyes bright with concern as he leaned forward slightly. “I trust she is recovering well?”

Elizabeth set down her spoon before replying. “My sister was in excellent spirits earlier, Mr. Bingley. I expect we shall return to Longbourn tomorrow.”

Bingley frowned. “Tomorrow? Surely, you could both stay a little longer. Another day or two to fully recover might be best. Do you not agree?”

Elizabeth’s eyes flicked—almost too quickly—toward me before settling back on Bingley. “I’m confident my sister is well enough to return home,” she replied. Her tone was firm, but I couldn’t help noticing the slight shift in her expression. Did she think I might object? Or had my presence been the reason for her eagerness to leave?

Better she should go . One less complication for me to fight myself over.

I kept my gaze fixed on my wine glass, reminding myself to breathe. Ever since that cursed conversation in the garden, I’d found myself… noticing too much. The way Elizabeth Bennet tilted her head when she laughed, the way her eyes held a spark of something sharp and intelligent when she said something witty. Which she did with regularity, and I think I was the only one at Netherfield who even perceived half the clever things she said. Caroline Bingley had no idea that Elizabeth Bennet was laughing at her more often than not, because she had a sweetly devious way of turning her slights to sound like compliments to vain ears.

And I was fascinated.

I stared down at my plate, suddenly very aware of how insidious this attraction to her had become. Whatever it was that drew my attention to Elizabeth Bennet, it was dangerous—utterly unwanted—and growing harder to dismiss.

Worse than that… it was ever in my face, because even when the lady was not in the same room, I still had that wretched Highlander apparition urging me to do and think things unbecoming of a gentleman. “ She looks at ye…” he had claimed.

As if Elizabeth Bennet would be caught within half a mile of me if she had any alternatives. If she did look at me, it was because she had every reason to believe I was mad as a hatter!

But there I was, allowing myself to watch her. The way she laughed softly at something Bingley said, the way her fingers brushed absently against the tablecloth, the way she met every exchange with a keen wit that belied her playful nature. She truly was... remarkable.

For a blissful moment, Ewan was absent, leaving my thoughts and admiration uninterrupted. I leaned forward slightly, debating whether I should actually say something to her. Something benign, harmless, to provoke her to look my way and tilt her head just so when she replied.

Something that wouldn’t make her think I’d gone off the deep end again.

“So, Miss Bennet,” I began, clearing my throat awkwardly, “I trust your stay at Netherfield has been... tolerable?”

Her eyes shifted toward me, and in that brief glance, I realized I’d said the wrong thing. What the devil was wrong with my question? Clearly, something had provoked her, and not the way I had hoped. Her brows arched, and a faint smile tugged at her lips, though I suspected it was merely out of politeness.

“Tolerable?” she repeated, her tone light but sharp. “I daresay it has been more than tolerable , Mr. Darcy. I do hope my sister and I have not been a burden.” There it was—that gentle reproach that made me wonder if she’d misinterpreted my every word, or if I simply didn’t know how to speak around her.

Bingley had always been oblivious to nuance, and he proved it again. “A burden! Nonsense. It is a pity you are going so soon. I have used my time poorly, it seems, for I have been meaning to ask someone, and surely you must know—have we any festivities in Meryton to look forward to this autumn? I imagine there must be certain local traditions.”

Elizabeth’s smile warmed as she considered the question. And, I noted, she was careful to avoid looking at me.

“Oh, there are many—I suppose not that different to any other town. Autumn fairs are quite common, as are harvest suppers. The tenants often gather, and there’s always a good deal of music and dancing. In winter, we have caroling and feasts to celebrate the season. Mr. Bingley, I expect you’ll have your tenants to entertain at Netherfield?”

Bingley’s eyes lit up. “Indeed! I hadn’t given it much thought, but a proper gathering for the tenants sounds delightful.”

“Oh yes,” Elizabeth added. “It’s quite traditional here—landowners usually host a gathering of some kind. It brings the community together, particularly as the colder months set in. And, of course, December brings even more delights.”

“Ah, lovely,” Miss Bingley put in. “Christmas in the country. How quaint. I shan’t imagine we shall be here long enough for such... celebrations. Such a pity.”

Caroline’s eyes slid toward me, a subtle attempt to gauge my reaction, but I remained silent. I could feel Elizabeth’s gaze lingering on me as well, though her interest, I suspected, was far less flattering.

“Do you not think, Caroline?” Bingley asked. “I cannot think where else we would be. I have every intention of passing the winter here, and I think it all sounds wonderful! Fireside games, music, perhaps a bit of mistletoe, hmm? Oh, Miss Elizabeth, I saw a pond I fancied would be perfect for skating. Do you… and, er… your sisters skate?”

Elizabeth laughed. “I do, Mr. Bingley, though not well, I’m afraid. But I imagine my sisters would be delighted at the prospect.”

Bingley grinned. “Then it is settled! We shall have skating, and you must join us!”

I was nodding along, mentally begging the conversation to stay on the cheerful topic of skating, when I caught sight of movement by the sideboard. My heart sank.

There he was—Ewan, plucking a glass of claret as if he were the honored guest of the evening. He lifted it, examined it like some connoisseur, and took a hefty gulp, his face twisting into an expression of exaggerated disdain. “Och, Christmas... what a miserable time o’ year. Cold, dark, and filled wi’ folk singin’ as if that’ll keep the snow away. No’ to mention all the daft superstitions. Could hardly walk a step without someone wailin’ about spirits lurkin’ in the shadows. As if the cauld wasn’t bitter enough already!” He paused, looking thoughtfully at the glass in his hand. “Still, this claret’s no’ as terrible as I thought. For English swill.”

And with that, he ambled off, glass in hand, like he owned the place.

The glass. I blinked and gripped my fork so hard it could have snapped. What the devil was he doing? What would everyone else see if they should happen to look toward the corner of the room? Hurst, for one, had a perfect view from where he sat, but he was paying far too much attention to his own glass to notice any… anomalies.

I risked a glance around the table. No one else seemed to notice. Not the floating glass. Not the rogue Highlander sampling the Bingleys’ best claret. They were all still absorbed in their conversation, blissfully unaware that a ghost was casually reminiscing about haunted holidays while helping himself to their wine.

“Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth’s voice jolted me back into the present, and I nearly knocked over my own glass. She was looking at me, expectant. “Surely you’ve experienced many grand Christmases in the country?”

Christmas . I released a shaky breath. Right .

“Oh, yes,” I stammered, scrambling for a coherent thought. “Christmas... of course. Though, I must say, Pemberley has fewer... er...” Ghosts? No, do not say ghosts . “...traditional festivities than Meryton seems to, by your description.”

“Truly?” she asked. “I would have expected such a grand estate as I have heard Pemberley is to be the very heart and soul of the local festivities.”

I swallowed, doing my best to not let my eyes dart to the far side of the room, but instead, fixing them on her face. “Not since my mother’s passing, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Ah, to be sure!” Caroline Bingley agreed. “Perhaps someday, Mr. Darcy, you will remedy that tremendous loss.”

I tried to offer a thin smile. The old me would have done… something. Probably made some pithy remark. But just now, the only thing I was thinking of “remedying” was a certain wine-sloshing intruder.

Ewan wandered to the far side of the room, claret in hand, mumbling to himself like an old man lost in his thoughts. “Aye... no’ like we had back home... Elspeth... always somethin’ at Christmas, wasn’t it?... Yule log... och, that was the stuff. None o’ this English... prancin’ about. Spirits, aye... but not... no, just stories, mind. Always stories...”

He stopped, took another swig of claret, then sniffed at the glass. “Hmph. No’ as bad as I thought... but could use a proper drink...” He wandered further off, grumbling, “Ghosts... aye, no real ones... jus’ stories. Still... would make things interestin’, eh?”

I was half convinced that if I didn’t move, didn’t breathe, the claret glass might just remain unnoticed by the others. But every muscle in my body was twitching, and I was desperately trying not to stare at the floating drink.

Elizabeth, however, seemed to notice my discomfort, tilting her head just slightly. “Deep in thought, Mr. Darcy?”

I forced a smile—probably the least convincing one I’d ever mustered. “Just... reflecting on my own country Christmases, Miss Elizabeth. Perhaps I have not appreciated them fully.”

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing, while Bingley launched back into his enthusiastic ramblings about the pond and skating, and then, I think he said something about hosting a ball.

“I say,” Hurst exclaimed, “where is that footman?”

I froze, my eyes rolling to the corner where Ewan had been standing. He was gone, and the glass with him… by whatever mercies prevailed.

Bingley looked about curiously and then frowned. “Indeed, I had not noticed. He must have stepped out. Something amiss, Hurst?”

Hurst pointed to the sideboard, where the bottle of claret and all those glasses had once stood ready to replenish the ones on the table. “Shoddy business, this. The wine is all gone.”