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

12. Twelve

Twelve

Elizabeth

“ L izzy, do hurry up!” Lydia’s voice rang out ahead of me as she and Kitty scurried down the road, their bonnets already askew despite having just left the house. “The officers won’t wait forever!”

“They’re hardly waiting at all,” I muttered under my breath, quickening my pace to catch up. If my sisters could only summon half this energy for household tasks, our home would be a far more pleasant place. But alas, the mention of redcoats seemed to summon a frantic enthusiasm that nothing else could.

Behind me, Mr. Collins lumbered along, out of breath.

Oh, right. Mr. Collins. The walk to Meryton the next day might have been pleasant—if not for our houseguest.

It was Papa’s fault. Mr. Collins had arrived the evening before, as expected, and he had been just as ridiculous as anyone could have hoped. So ridiculous was he that, this morning, when Kitty and Lydia proposed a walk into the village to cleanse our palates somewhat, Papa agreed that sounded like a fine notion. And he compelled Mr. Collins to offer to escort us.

He trundled along beside us, puffing out his chest like a rooster on parade, all while spouting endless praise for Lady Catherine de Bourgh, a woman none of us had ever heard of before last night, but about whom we now knew everything—from how she took her tea to her opinions on garden sculptures. I couldn’t quite decide if I pitied or despised him for his mindless devotion.

“And you must know,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the landscape, “Lady Catherine always recommends a brisk walk as a remedy for the constitution. It is an activity that improves both body and spirit.”

“Of course,” I said dryly, exchanging a glance with Jane, who was clearly trying her best to keep a straight face. “A walk always does wonders.” It might do a wonder or two for Mr. Collins, at least, for he could hardly manage to talk and move his feet at the same time, as both seemed to demand all the air in his body.

Kitty and Lydia were already giggling. Mary, however, was nodding along, probably thinking this was exactly the sort of thing she’d read in one of her moral books.

“I daresay,” Mr. Collins continued, oblivious to the barely concealed laughter behind him, “that Lady Catherine herself would find this village quite charming. She is, of course, a woman of unparalleled taste and judgment, and I feel certain she would take an interest in the welfare of the local inhabitants.”

The way he spoke of Lady Catherine, you’d think she was the ruler of half the country and not some distant benefactor of his. I opened my mouth to make some biting comment but thought better of it. He seemed beyond reason, and it was hardly worth the effort.

I sighed, wishing I could shake Mr. Collins’ company, but it seemed bothersome men were to be my lot this month. Another, far more vexing figure kept lingering at the edges of my thoughts—Mr. Darcy. His manner even more imposing, his behavior, even more baffling. One moment he seemed determined to avoid me, and the next, he looked as though he were on the verge of saying something important, only to think better of it. If he disliked me so much, why did he always seem so… double-minded when I was around?

“Lizzy!” Kitty called again, dragging me out of my thoughts. “Don’t dawdle! We might miss them!”

“Miss them?” I hurried to catch up. “We don’t even know if they’ll be in town.”

Lydia tossed her head. “If they’re not in town, we’ll wait. They have to come through eventually.” Lydia’s logic was about as flawless as her embroidery—which was to say, nonexistent.

“If only you applied this level of perseverance to your music lessons,” I quipped, earning a giggle from Kitty and an eye roll from Lydia.

“Music won’t secure me a husband, Lizzy,” Lydia replied, tossing her head dramatically. “But a red coat might!”

Behind me, Mr. Collins caught up somewhat. “Miss Elizabeth, while I admire your light-hearted spirit, Lady Catherine would never approve of such frivolity. A woman’s chief duty, as Lady Catherine has often remarked, is to secure the admiration of respectable men through modesty and propriety.”

“Well, Mr. Collins,” I said sweetly, not turning around, “I imagine Lady Catherine must be a paragon of both.”

Kitty leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. “He doesn’t realize you’re mocking him.”

“Of course not,” I muttered back. “This Lady Catherine of his wouldn’t allow it.”

Lydia turned again, already scanning the horizon. “But speaking of respectable men, we’re bound to find Mr. Denny in town, and maybe that handsome officer too!”

“Ah, yes,” I sighed. “The officer whose name you’ve forgot but whose face you remember all too well. When did you see this mythical being?”

Lydia giggled. “Two days ago, Lizzy, when you were wasting away at Netherfield. And who cares for names when the face is so agreeable?”

Kitty’s gasp interrupted any further debate. “Look!” she cried, pointing ahead. “There he is now!”

Sure enough, a man in a red coat was standing by the village shop, chatting amiably with Lieutenant Denny, one of Lydia’s favorites. The stranger had the easy posture of someone well accustomed to admiration—and the second he spotted us, his expression brightened into a smile that could have melted butter.

Lydia, never one to waste an opportunity, picked up her pace. “Denny!” she called, waving her hand as if they were the closest of friends.

“Good afternoon, Miss Lydia,” Lieutenant Denny replied with a grin. “I see you’ve brought company.” He turned to the man beside him and, with a conspiratorial wink, added, “May I introduce you to my friend, Lieutenant Wickham? He is newly arrived to our regiment.”

“Lieutenant Wickham,” Lydia repeated, her eyes shining with delight. “How wonderful to meet you!”

Mr. Wickham tipped his hat with an air of practiced smoothness. “The pleasure is mine, I assure you.”

I studied him for a moment, noting the ease with which he carried himself. There was something undeniably charming about him, and I could see that Lydia and Kitty were both already smitten.

“And how are you finding Meryton, Mr. Wickham?” I asked, feeling the need to break up the ridiculous display of girlish infatuation from my younger sisters.

“Quite well, I must say,” he replied. “It seems a lively little town. And, of course, I can already state with absolute certainty that the company is excellent.”

Lydia giggled, and I had to suppress an eye roll. It was all too easy to see why they were taken with him—he was every bit as affable as Mr. Bingley but with the added allure of a uniform.

Before I could formulate a proper response, the unmistakable sound of hooves approached, and I turned just in time to see Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy riding toward us.

“Good afternoon, Miss Bennet!” Mr. Bingley called as he approached, his face lighting up. “And Miss Elizabeth! A fine day for a walk, is it not?”

I inclined my head politely. “It is, indeed, Mr. Bingley.”

Mr. Darcy, however, said nothing, his gaze locked firmly on Lieutenant Wickham. The temperature between the two of them seemed to drop at least ten degrees. Mr. Darcy’s expression, never particularly warm, now looked positively icy.

I stole a glance at the lieutenant, curious to see how he’d react to the arrival of our most enigmatic guest. Darcy was perfectly cracked, but I was the only one who ever seemed to notice.

The change in his demeanor was subtle but unmistakable. Wickham’s easy smile faltered for just a moment, and his gaze darkened as he locked eyes with Mr. Darcy. For his part, Darcy’s posture stiffened immediately, his jaw tightening as if he’d been hit by a sudden chill.

The two men stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, though not a word was spoken. The way they were glaring at each other, you’d think someone had stolen the last biscuit at tea.

Mr. Bingley, unaware of the silent battle being waged beside him, waved cheerfully at us. “I am terribly delighted to see you about and well again, Miss Bennet. I trust your parents are also well?”

Jane smiled warmly and made some polite answer, but I could barely focus on the pleasantries. My gaze flickered between Wickham and Darcy, both of whom seemed frozen in place. It was like a staring contest where neither man realized there wasn’t a prize.

And then, something snapped. Without a word, Darcy turned his horse and rode on, Bingley casting a confused look between us before following.

As they disappeared down the road, I finally exhaled—apparently, I’d forgotten how to breathe for the past minute. My heart wasn’t pounding from the walk; it was more the realization that whatever history those two had could probably fuel an entire three-act play.

Mr. Wickham, for his part, seemed to brush it off. He turned back to us with that same charming smile, though I noticed the grimace hadn’t entirely left his face.

“Well, ladies,” he said, all charm as if nothing at all had happened, “I trust the rest of your afternoon will be just as pleasant.”

“Of course,” I replied, though my brain was practically doing cartwheels.

What had just passed between those two? And why did Mr. Darcy look like he was about to combust the moment he saw Wickham?

Darcy

“ I am not going to punch him,” I muttered, glaring at my horse’s ears.

“What was that, Darcy?” Bingley turned to me, all cheer and confusion as usual.

“Nothing,” I growled, adjusting the reins. My horse snorted, probably sensing that I was on the verge of losing my mind.

Behind me, I heard the distinct, sloshing sound of liquid being tipped back. Ewan was perched backward, completely at ease, on my horse’s rear end—again—and from the sound of it, he was halfway through an entire bottle of claret.

“Lad,” he slurred, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “if ye had a lick o’ sense, ye’d turn yersel’ around, get off that horse, an’ knock that smug look clean off that bloody lobsterback’s face.”

“I am not punching anyone!” I hissed through clenched teeth, trying to focus on anything other than the walking disaster at my back.

“But he was talkin’ to yer lass!” Ewan gesticulated, swaying slightly, and I’ve no idea how he didn’t upset my horse. “I saw ye an’ that redcoat exchangin’ glares like ye were scrapin' o’er the last bit o' haggis. Ye’ll feel better after ye give him a proper thrashin’.”

“Quiet!” I hissed under my breath. I’d got used to the notion that nobody else could hear him, but with him blathering on like that, I could hardly hear myself. And right now, my “self” was the only thing keeping me from jumping out of my skin.

Bingley glanced over at me. “Did you say something, Darcy?”

“No,” I said quickly, plastering a smile on my face. “Nothing.”

Ewan, of course, wasn’t done. “Och, an’ that lass—Elspeth—dottin’ on him like he’s some kind o' prince. Redcoats, aye, nothin' but a plague on decent folk, an' now he’s tryin’ tae steal yer lass right out from under ye.”

“For the last time, she is not my lass!” I muttered, mostly to myself, but apparently loud enough for Bingley to hear. “And her name is not Elspeth!”

“What’s that, Darcy?” he asked, frowning slightly.

“I said ‘not my glass,’” I lied. “No need to stop for a drink, Bingley.”

Bingley blinked, confused. “Er… I wasn’t suggesting that we—”

“Ye ken,” Ewan cut in, “If I were ye, I’d’ve decked that redcoat right there an’ then. Proper punch tae the face, lad. Show him what’s what.”

“I’m not decking anyone,” I snarled under my breath, while Bingley continued to talk—still entirely oblivious.

“Oh-ho! So ye do have some fire in ye, lad!” Ewan crowed, louder still. “’Bout time, too! Thought ye’d lost all yer spine—strangled by that fancy cravat ye’re so fond of.”

At that exact moment, Mrs. Long waved us down on the road. “Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley! So good to see you both!” she called out, her smile too wide for my current level of patience.

I forced another tight smile. “Mrs. Long.”

Bingley stopped to chat—blast his good manners—while Ewan leaned in even closer over my shoulder. “What in the blazes does this auld moggie want?” he barked, loud enough that I was certain Mrs. Long would hear.

“Mr. Darcy, I was just wondering if you might attend our little gathering next week—oh, how wonderful it would be to have both you and Mr. Bingley there!” Mrs. Long simpered, completely unaware of my growing urge to flee.

“Yes, of course,” I answered, barely registering her words.

“Oh, splendid! You know, I thought I saw you speaking to Lieutenants Denny and Wickham—he is new in town, you know, and what a charming young man!”

“’Charming?’” Ewan mimicked in a high-pitched sing-song. “That red-coated serpent? He’s charmful as a nettle in yer boot, he is.”

For once, I agreed with Ewan. “Charming indeed,” I mumbled.

Mrs. Long beamed. “I knew you’d think so! I always say—”

“Aye, turn that horse ‘round, lad, an’ gie that redcoat a proper thrashin’! What’re ye waitin’ on, eh? A bouquet o’ flowers? Ye don’t let a man like that sniff ‘round yer lass wi’out leavin’ him wi' a fist tae remember. Go on, show him what a real man does when his pride’s on the line, instead o’ sittin’ there like a feart wee mouse!”

I ignored him. Creditably, I thought. I doubt Mrs. Long even noticed my face twitching.

Ewan, apparently annoyed that I wasn’t paying him enough attention, leaned down and poked my horse sharply in the flank.

The horse bucked sideways, nearly throwing me off balance.

“Darcy! Are you well?” Bingley cried.

“Yes!” I snapped, shooting a glare at the invisible nuisance behind me. “Perfectly so.”

Ewan chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. “That’ll put the fire back in ye, sure enough.”

Mrs. Long looked startled. “Oh, Mr. Darcy, do be careful.”

I smiled again, though it felt like my face might crack under the strain. “Of course. Good day, Mrs. Long.”

As we finally started moving again, Ewan stuck the whisky bottle inside his coat, which, I hoped, meant that no one else could see the blasted thing. “Ye cannae just sit there, lad. That redcoat’s sniffin’ about, an’ here ye are, like a wee mouse at a feast. Get yersel’ up an’ put him in his place!”

I gritted my teeth but managed to say nothing this time.

As we rode further down the road, more villagers waved and called out greetings. I could hardly keep track of who was speaking anymore. Bingley, of course, jumped in with his usual charm, saving me the trouble of saying anything remotely civil, while I tried to resist the urge to throttle my own horse just to make a quicker escape.

Bingley had wanted to ride into town today on some pretense of asking the butcher about a roast pig for the ball he meant to have. It was an errand that could have been better managed through his cook, but I suppose Bingley felt better about taking the matter in hand himself, and so I was obliged to wait for him outside the shop, praying against disaster and feeling like a sitting duck on the streets of Meryton.

“Ye ken,” Ewan said, as though we hadn’t just been through this, “if I were still breathin’, I’d handle that lad mesel’. No’ a soul would trust a redcoat further than they could fling ‘im. An’ that lass o’ yers—aye, I’d keep a keen watch on her. She’s a bonny one, that. No wonder yer redcoat cannae keep his distance.”

“She’s not mine!” I hissed, but of course, that was exactly the moment Mrs. Philips happened to pass by.

“Mr. Darcy?” she asked, squinting at me.

I cleared my throat, praying for the ground to swallow me whole. “Mrs. Philips. Good day.”

She opened her mouth, her eyes round, and then grasped her skirts and hurried away.

Perfect. Now, even the busiest body in town had reason to think me fit for an asylum. Thank Heaven Bingley was returning to his horse now, and we could be on our way!

Before he was quite back in the saddle, I was already turning my horse for Netherfield, but the sight before me made my blood run cold. Colonel Forster and Lieutenant Denny were heading our way, and right behind them—just my luck—was Wickham. The moment I saw him, my blood pressure spiked. That same infuriating smile plastered across his face as he casually chatted with the officers.

“Och, look there, lad,” Ewan shouted, still far too loud. “There’s the redcoat who’s put the sour on yer day. Well? What’re ye standin’ there for? Get down there an’ show him what a Darcy’s truly made of! I hope it’s no’ porridge in yer veins, lad.”

I ground my teeth and stared straight ahead.

Colonel Forster greeted us first with a brisk nod. “Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy. Fine day for a ride.”

Bingley beamed. “Indeed, Colonel! Quite a fine afternoon! Lieutenant, Wickham. Perfect weather, wouldn’t you say?”

Perfect? There was nothing perfect about this.

Wickham’s eyes found mine, his grin faltering just slightly. “Mr. Darcy,” he said, tipping his hat with false politeness. “Fancy seeing you again so soon. I had not expected to encounter you in Hertfordshire.”

My jaw clenched. “Wickham.”

That was all I could manage without growling.

Ewan leaned in over my shoulder, practically bouncing with glee. “Go on, lad! Ye can dae better than that! Give him a right jab tae the nose! Knock some sense intae that red-coat!”

I said nothing. Just clenched the reins harder.

Unfortunately, Ewan—thoroughly drunk and now determined to be “helpful”—reached over and gave my horse a sharp slap on the hindquarters.

My horse, understandably startled, exploded into motion.

Before I could react, we were off like a shot. I clutched the reins with white-knuckled desperation as the horse leaped full six feet in the air, then bolted down the street, weaving through carts and market stalls, scattering villagers like leaves in a windstorm. And Ewan, blast him, was holding on by my waist with one hand, twirling his Balmoral with the other, and crowing like a lunatic.

“Darcy!” Bingley’s voice echoed behind me, full of panic, but I couldn’t respond. I was too busy holding on for dear life.

We careened in a haphazard loop around the village square, where Colonel Forster and Lieutenant Denny were still standing on foot, probably thinking they’d find shelter beside the bulk of Bingley’s mount. Instead, they got me—on a runaway horse—barreling straight toward them like I was leading a cavalry charge.

Ewan leaned in closer, cackling like the deranged menace he was. “Now that’s more like it, lad! Ye’ve finally got some fire in ye!” And he… egad, he kept spurring the horse right in the flanks, making the poor brute buck and bolt all the harder.

“I’ll kill you!” I shouted, though no one could hear me over the thunder of hooves and the shrieks of bystanders scrambling to get out of the way.

“Nae, lad, I’m already dead. Haud yer hats!” And he walloped my horse’s rump again.

Just when I thought the situation couldn’t get any worse, my horse bucked down a narrow side street—straight into a low-hanging laundry line.

I ducked just in time, just barely avoiding garroting myself as sheets and petticoats whipped across my face. The horse kept going, now tangled in linens, and all I could do was cling on, half-blinded by someone’s very floral… garment.

Forster and Denny had to dive out of the way as I thundered past, narrowly avoiding flattening them both. Wickham, of course, just stood there, arms folded, watching the entire scene unfold with barely-contained amusement.

By some miracle, I managed to yank the reins hard enough to bring the horse to a trembling, humped-up, and quivering stop—right in the middle of the square, where half the village had gathered to witness my public disgrace. My heart was pounding, my face flushed with humiliation, and I was still covered in someone’s laundry.

Colonel Forster was brushing dirt off his coat, and he did not look amused. “Mr. Darcy,” he said, his voice tight with anger, “is everything… under control?”

I glanced at my poor horse, still tangled in bedsheets, and then up at the crowd of stunned onlookers. “Yes, Colonel,” I muttered, barely managing to keep my dignity intact. “Perfectly.”

“Oh, aye,” Ewan slurred from behind me, still perched on the horse like some drunken pirate. “He’s just gettin’ warmed up, lad! Never seen a man enjoy a ride?”

I could feel the eyes of the entire village on me—Colonel Forster, Lieutenant Denny, Wickham, and half the townspeople—all watching as I peeled someone’s garments off my head and struggled to get control of my horse and my sanity.

“I… I am… perfectly well,” I forced out, though my grip on the reins told a different story. “Just… a bit of a mishap with the horse.”

Forster’s eyes narrowed. “A mishap?”

Behind me, Ewan grabbed my shoulder and rocked me as he shouted in my ear— “Coward, are ye, lad? Blamin’ the horse now, is it? Run the blighter down like ye mean it!”

I could only imagine what everyone else thought they were seeing, with my body twitching and rocking uncontrollably for no apparent reason.

“It seemed more than a mishap to me,” Wickham said, his voice full of faux concern. “Are you sure you are well, Mr. Darcy? Perhaps we ought to summon a doctor?”

Before I could answer, Ewan gave my horse another playful slap, causing it to rear up slightly. Ewan, the bloody devil, should have slid off backward, but he hooked an arm about my neck, choking me as he dangled there. I clung to the horse’s mane and barely managed to stay in the saddle, much to the absolute horror of everyone watching.

Forster, now clearly on edge, turned to Bingley. “Mr. Bingley, do you often have… incidents like this with Mr. Darcy?”

Bingley looked flustered, glancing between me and the colonel. “Er… no. No, not at all. Darcy’s usually… quite composed. This is… um… unusual.”

“Unusual,” Forster repeated, not looking convinced. He glanced back at me, clearly wondering if I was on the verge of losing my mind—or worse, endangering public safety.

Meanwhile, Ewan sat back, took another swig from his bottle, and winked at me. “Ye’re welcome, lad. Keep that bloody lobsterback on his toes!”

I could already hear the whispers starting around the square. There goes Darcy—he’s not quite right, is he? Did you see the way he almost ran down the colonel?

Wickham’s smirk deepened as he clearly enjoyed every moment of my public humiliation. If I wasn’t already plotting Ewan’s second demise—again—I’d be planning Wickham’s.

“Well, Darcy,” Wickham said, his voice smooth as ever, “I do hope you’ll be in better spirits soon. It would be a shame if your… ‘mishaps’ continued.”

I was going to kill him.

Or Ewan.

Or both.