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

13. Thirteen

Thirteen

Darcy

T he idea of leaving Netherfield had grown more tempting by the minute. After that disaster in Meryton—the awkward encounter with Wickham, the townspeople staring like I’d just declared myself the local madman—I had little reason to stay.

I’d already packed half my belongings, my hand lingering over the last few cravats to fold. London beckoned like a warm hearth on a cold night. At least there, I could put some distance between myself and Wickham, not to mention the other problem. Not Ewan… I already knew that running back to London would avail me nothing there.

But I could get away from Elizabeth Bennet.

A ball. Of all the things Bingley could have arranged, this was the worst. The prospect of spending an entire evening in a crowded room, trying to pretend that everything was normal while a Scottish ghost floated around causing chaos? It was enough to make my stomach churn.

So, I had no intention of lingering around, waiting for the worst. I could easily come up with an excuse—urgent business, an estate matter, or a sudden family obligation. Anything to avoid the inevitable embarrassment that awaited me. Ewan would undoubtedly find some way to humiliate me in front of everyone, and frankly, I’d had enough public scrutiny to last a lifetime.

I even started framing my excuse to Bingley. My sister Georgiana is missing my company—it is with utmost regret that I must...

But no sooner had the words formed than I heard a familiar noise. The window creaked open behind me, followed by the unmistakable sound of muddy boots hitting the floor.

“Goin’ somewhere, lad?” Ewan’s voice came from the direction of my bed, sounding far too relaxed for decent conversation.

I turned, and there he was—a second ago, he’d been crawling in through the window, and there was a muddy path to prove it. But in the blink of an eye, he was sprawled across my bed, boots off, claret in hand, his feet—bare feet, which had no business being in my room—propped up on one of my pillows. The scent of stale ale and mischief clung to him like a second skin.

“I’m leaving,” I spat. “Going back to London.”

“London, eh?” He took a swig from his cup. “Aye, I always wondered if that London was as grand as folk say. Leavin' yer lass behind, are ye? That's brave, lad. Admirable, truly.”

I gritted my teeth. “Elizabeth Bennet is not—she’s not—”

“Oh, aye, sure she’s not.” Ewan waved me off. “But yer runnin’, aren’t ye? Thought ye were made o’ sterner stuff.”

“I’m not running. I’m—getting away. There’s a difference.”

“Aye. The difference is, one’s what a proper gentleman does. The other’s what a coward wi’ his tail tucked does.”

I turned, glaring at him. “And what do you suggest I do? Stay here, with you haunting my every move, embarrassing me in front of half the town?”

“Could do that.” Ewan shrugged. “Right then, London it is. Yer family’s in town, right? Wee sister o’ yours, she’s there too?”

I froze, the trunk’s latch half-closed in my hand. Georgiana. I hadn’t even considered that.

Ewan’s grin softened, almost thoughtful. “Aye, thought that’d catch yer ear. I’ve been wonderin’ what yer sister’s like. Must be somethin’, growin’ up with ye. Might be worth a wee visit tae see if she’s got that same stubborn streak.”

I stiffened, my pulse quickening. Georgiana didn’t need that—didn’t need him or the chaos he’d bring. And she didn’t need to see her older brother, her closest relation and defender, disintegrate before her eyes.

Ewan scratched his chin, frowning like he was deep in thought. “Ach, but ye know, it’s easier wi’ ye around. Yer a bit o’ fun, if I’m honest. I’m startin’ tae get used tae it—this place, these folk. A Highland spirit like mesel’ needs a bit o’ routine after all these years.”

I tensed, my thoughts still on Georgiana. “And if I don’t stay?”

“Och, then I’ll be wanderin’ aboot, tryin’ tae make sense o’ yer grand London. But who’s to say? Could be more trouble than it’s worth. I’d rather stick wi’ ye here, keep things as they are, eh? I’ve no mind tae be stirrin’ things up wi’ yer kin. No sense complicatin’ it more than it needs tae be.”

He wasn’t threatening—just pointing out that, as maddening as he was, things could be worse if I left. Egad, what if the earl or my friends in London saw me acting… out of sorts? Nothing short of a social catastrophe!

Perhaps... I was better off here for now.

Elizabeth

T he house was in an uproar. Mama burst into the room like a general delivering news of victory, waving an invitation in the air. Her eyes were alight with the kind of excitement that always made me brace myself for what was coming.

“A ball! At Netherfield! Mr. Bingley has invited us all! Oh, Jane, you know this is a great honor to you , above all!”

Kitty and Lydia erupted into delighted squeals, already bouncing in their seats like children promised sweets.

“Finally!” Lydia cried. “Oh, we must go into Meryton today! I need ribbons—no, a whole new gown!”

Kitty was practically beside herself with glee, clutching at Lydia’s arm. “Who do you think will be there? Do you think the officers will come?”

“They must! They simply must!” Lydia declared, spinning around as if the room couldn’t possibly contain her excitement.

Jane blushed and smiled, a far more serene expression than the madness overtaking the younger girls. Her eyes, though, were full of anticipation. Mr. Bingley had clearly set her heart aflutter, and this invitation was only feeding the flames.

Beside me, Mary frowned. “A ball is hardly necessary, given the state of the country. Should we not focus on more serious pursuits?”

Mrs. Bennet waved Mary off with a flick of her wrist, too far gone in her excitement to listen to such notions. “Nonsense! A ball is exactly what this family needs. Jane, my dear, this is your moment!”

I sat back, watching the chaos unfold, amused but mildly exhausted already.

“It is most generous of him,” Mr. Collins declared, oblivious to the fact that no one was listening. “And I trust that the evening will be as grand as those held at Rosings Park, where Lady Catherine often entertains with the highest elegance.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. The idea of a Netherfield ball resembling anything Lady Catherine would deem “elegant” was as likely as a pig sprouting wings.

“And, of course,” Mr. Collins added with a knowing look in my direction, “I shall be most delighted to dance with you, Cousin Elizabeth.”

Oh, joy—a preordained dance with Mr. Collins, who would likely trip over his own feet while reciting Lady Catherine’s virtues. I gave him my most polite smile, hoping it conveyed just the right amount of reluctance.

Before I could respond, Lydia bounced out of her chair. “We must go to Meryton! I must see the officers—especially Mr. Wickham! He’ll want to know about the ball!”

Mama clapped her hands. “Yes, yes, go, girls! You must be the first to spread the news!”

As if we weren’t already halfway out the door.

T he afternoon sun greeted us as we made our way toward Meryton, the anticipation of the ball buzzing around us. Lydia and Kitty were already discussing the merits of various officers, barely pausing to take a breath.

“We simply must ask Mr. Wickham if he’ll attend,” Lydia declared, grabbing Kitty’s arm. “Do you think he will? Oh, I hope he will!”

I half-listened, my thoughts wandering to what the evening might hold. There was, of course, the matter of Darcy. How in blazes would that twitchy fellow survive something as chaotic as a ball? Perhaps he would leave for London before it arrived.

It wasn’t long before we spotted Mr. Wickham and his fellow officers walking toward us. Lydia wasted no time rushing up to them, her excitement spilling out like a waterfall. Lydia’s squeal nearly shattered the windows.

“Mr. Wickham! Have you heard the news? A ball at Netherfield!” she exclaimed.

Mr. Wickham smiled warmly. “A ball? I had not heard. How delightful.”

Kitty practically jumped in place. “You must come, Mr. Wickham! It wouldn’t be the same without you!”

Wickham glanced at me then, his smile still in place, but something flickered behind his eyes—hesitation, perhaps. “But I have not been invited.”

“Oh, surely you will be!” Lydia cried. “You know he must invite all the officers. You will come if he does, will you not?”

“I’m not sure if I should attend, Miss Kitty. I understand Mr. Darcy is in residence at Netherfield, and Darcy and I... well, let’s just say our history makes such events somewhat... complicated.”

“Complicated?” I echoed. “How so?”

His smile remained, but there was a tightness to it now. “It’s a long story, Miss Elizabeth. Suffice it to say that Mr. Darcy and I are not the best of friends.”

“I could have guessed that much from your greeting last week,” I said with a laugh. “But surely you won’t let him stop you from attending?”

Wickham gave a noncommittal shrug. “I hadn’t planned to, no.”

I glanced at my sisters, still chattering away, and I couldn’t resist stepping closer and asking the question at the fore of my mind. “You must know the gentleman rather well, then?”

Mr. Wickham chuckled. “All my life, I’m afraid. You see, my father was the steward at Pemberley. Darcy and I knew each other as boys.”

“Really!” Oh, now, here truly was an excellent source of information. I lowered my voice. “Perhaps you would be the right man to ask, then. I must admit, I’ve found Mr. Darcy’s behavior rather... odd, since arriving in Hertfordshire.”

Wickham raised an eyebrow. “Odd?”

“Yes,” I said, a little more eagerly than I intended. “I’ve seen him act in ways that make me wonder if he’s... well, if there’s something wrong with him.”

Wickham chuckled softly. “I wouldn’t presume to say, Miss Bennet. Though, you’re not the first to observe such things.”

“Do you mean to say he’s always been... this way?”

Wickham’s smile turned a little sharper. “Mr. Darcy has always been... difficult to understand. Some might say it’s pride, but others—well, others might call it something else entirely.”

“I find myself perplexed by Mr. Darcy. There’s something... unsettling about him. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

Wickham’s eyes gleamed with interest, and his lips curled into a grin that was just a touch too eager. “Ah, Mr. Darcy. Yes, he does have that effect, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t suppose you’ve noticed anything... off about him?”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as though he were about to share some great, scandalous secret. “ Off? Miss Bennet, you have no idea.”

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. “Do go on.”

Wickham chuckled, clearly enjoying the attention. “Well, I suppose it’s no secret that Mr. Darcy and I are not... on the best of terms, but I hardly think I am unique in thinking him less than a gentleman. In fact, just a few days ago, there was quite the spectacle in town.”

My curiosity sharpened. “Spectacle?”

He leaned back, the picture of nonchalance. “Oh, yes. Mr. Darcy came tearing through Meryton on his horse, nearly knocked over half the market stalls, and all but ran over Colonel Forster. His horse was out of control, and Darcy—well, let’s just say he wasn’t exactly in control of himself either.”

Lydia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in delighted horror. “He ran over Colonel Forster?”

“No, no,” Mr. Wickham corrected, his grin widening. “But he certainly looked like he was trying to. Poor Mr. Darcy was a sight. I’ve never seen a man so... flustered.”

I blinked, trying to picture the usually rigid, proper Darcy in such a state. “Flustered?”

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Wickham nodded, feigning sympathy. “Sweating, red-faced, muttering to himself. I believe I even heard him threatening his horse. Now, did you ever hear of such a thing? You’d have thought he was possessed.”

Lydia giggled, and Kitty covered her mouth to hide a grin, but I frowned, something twisting uncomfortably in my chest. Possessed? Muttering to himself? This all sounded vastly familiar.

Mr. Wickham must have sensed my hesitation because he leaned in again, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “It’s all rather unfortunate, really. The poor man’s clearly... not quite right in the head.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and for the first time, I didn’t find Wickham’s easy charm amusing. “You think he’s... mad?”

Wickham shrugged, his expression far too casual. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but let’s just say he’s... eccentric . Everyone has their quirks, of course, but with Darcy... it’s more than that. He’s always been a strange fellow, but lately... well, let’s just say I’d keep my distance if I were you.”

Lydia and Kitty exchanged gleeful glances, clearly thrilled by the idea of Darcy being mad. But I found myself frowning, feeling a pang of... pity? Surely not. And yet...

I couldn’t help but remember all the strange things I’d witnessed at Netherfield. Darcy’s odd behavior, his stilted conversations, the way he looked at me as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t. Could it be true? Was he really losing his mind?

“Is he quite safe to be around?” I found myself asking.

Mr. Wickham’s face grew thoughtful. “I should not think him dangerous unless you choose to believe… whatever he is saying. Goodness knows what that might be.”

I forced a tight smile. “I daresay it is a pity you will not be at the ball, then. I would very much like to hear your thoughts on how he comports himself there.”

Just then, Lydia interrupted. “Oh, please say will you come, Mr. Wickham! We simply can’t have a ball without you!”

Mr. Wickham’s hesitation vanished, replaced by his charming smile. “On second thought, Miss Lydia, I think I shall attend. It might be worth seeing how the evening unfolds after all.”

Darcy

I sat hunched over my desk, surrounded by an ever-growing pile of books, each one more useless than the last. I was in the middle of scratching out yet another letter to my solicitor, hoping for something—anything—that would explain this madness.

The window creaked open behind me.

At first, I thought it was a draft. Maybe the hinges were loose. But then I caught the faint smell of whisky and wet earth.

“Ach, yer books whisperin’ sweet nothin’s to ye again?” came Ewan’s voice, far too close for comfort.

I whipped around, only to find Ewan—half through the window, his boots muddy, with a grin on his face like this was the most natural thing in the world. One leg was already inside, the other dangling outside as if he were just taking his sweet time.

“What are you doing?” I snapped. “You’ve got to be the most—”

“Comfortable, aye,” he finished for me, hauling himself fully inside. He dusted off his coat, though the mud on his boots remained annoyingly intact. How did a ghost… oh, blast, what was the point in wondering about it anymore?

“Thought I’d stretch me legs. House gets cramped, ye know?”

I didn’t know. At all.

I glared at him as he made himself right at home, strolling across the room with his usual swagger, wiping his muddy boots on my carpet as if it were a welcome mat.

“Get off that,” I growled, feeling my blood pressure rising.

He gave me an innocent look. “What? It’s no’ like ye use it for anythin’ other than collectin’ dust.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You know, if you stopped distracting me with this... nonsense, maybe I’d actually make some progress figuring out why you’re still here.”

“Progress, eh?” Ewan said, plopping into the chair by the fire, boots still firmly planted in the middle of my rug. “Aye, ye look like yer gettin’ somewhere. Must be riveting stuff, lad.”

I wanted to throw something at him—preferably one of the heavier tomes.

“Why don’t you make yourself useful and actually tell me what happened at Culloden?”

He ignored me entirely, picking up one of the books on the desk and flipping through it lazily as though the subject of his unfinished business was the last thing on his mind. “So, this is how ye spend yer nights. I’d go mad.”

“Funny,” I muttered, “I thought I was already there.”

Ewan tossed the book aside, glancing out the window he’d just crawled through. “Ye ever think about somethin’ other than yer precious cravats an’ letters, lad? What about the bonny lass, eh? Ye’ve got eyes. Pretty thing like her, brown hair, a smile like she’s got all yer secrets tucked away. Reminds me of—ach, never ye mind.”

“Miss Bennet?” I asked, more alarmed by how casual he was about it. “Why do you keep bringing her up?”

“Because she knocks ye right off yer pins. Ye think I’ve got better things tae do than watch ye blunder about like a calf findin' its legs? Well, I dinnae, so why shouldn’t I go on about the lass?”

I bit back a retort, mostly because my head was still reeling as dizzily as it had the evening we had danced. The fact that he was lingering on Elizabeth Bennet—on her—set my teeth on edge. “You stay away from her.”

He grinned, slow and mischievous.

“I’m serious, Ewan.”

“Aye, and so am I,” he said, stretching his legs and letting out a long sigh as if this conversation were nothing more than a pleasant diversion. “Ye should be thankin' me, lad. If I hadnae given ye a wee shove, ye’d still be sittin' there, glarin' at the lass. Or that redcoat. Maybe both.”

“If you hadn’t shoved me, I might have passed for sane, but all such hopes are now out the window!”

“Well, ye weren’t exactly takin’ the lead, lad. Took a wee bit of encouragement.”

“You... meddled in affairs that are not yours!”

“Meddled? Is that what ye call it? I prefer to say I was givin’ ye a wee push in the right direction.”

I clenched my fists. “If you keep meddling in my affairs—”

“Ach, ye'll what? Threaten me, will ye? I’m already dead, ye daftie, remember?” He chuckled, taking off his boots and propping them up on my desk, the smell hitting me like an attack.

How could I smell a ghost’s feet? It made no sense, but here it was—an undeniable assault on the nose. “For heaven’s sake, put those away!” I snapped, recoiling from the scent.

“What’s the matter?” he said with a smirk, wiggling his toes like some kind of barbarian. “Afraid yer fancy English manners cannae stomach a wee taste o’ real livin’?”

I buried my face in my hands, half in disbelief, half in frustration. “I cannot believe this is my life.”

“Well, ye best get used to it,” he said, lounging back like he hadn’t a care in the world. “I’m no’ goin’ anywhere, lad. No’ till ye sort yersel’ out.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to sort out?”

“I dinnae ken,” he said before belching loudly. “Now, if ye don’t mind, I’m off tae find somethin’ a bit more excitin’ than yer books. Maybe that bonny lass...”

Before I could even think of a reply, Ewan strolled right back out the window, leaving behind a muddy mess and the faint scent of whisky and regret.