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

14. Fourteen

Fourteen

Darcy

I stepped into the cramped little bookseller’s shop, the door creaking ominously behind me. It was the kind of place that reeked of dust and moldering paper, with shelves packed so tightly they seemed to sag under the weight of volumes that hadn’t been touched in years. A far cry from the sort of establishments I was used to, but desperate times, and all that…

A bell jingled, and an older man emerged from the back, wiping his spectacles on a cloth. He squinted at me like he hadn’t seen daylight in a while, or customers of my rank. “What can I do for you, sir?”

I cleared my throat, uncomfortable already. “I’m looking for books on… Scottish history. Myths, superstitions, that sort of thing. Anything on Culloden, perhaps?”

He blinked. Clearly, that was not the sort of request he got every day. “Culloden, you say?” His voice had that dubious tone people used when they were trying to figure out if I was serious. “Not much call for that around here, I’m afraid. Mostly got sermons, farming manuals, the odd novel. Plenty of those, actually. Can’t say I’ve got much in the way of ghost stories, though.”

Ghost stories . Of course, that’s how it would sound. I resisted the urge to groan. “I’m in a bit of a hurry to find this material. Is there any way you could order something?”

He scratched his head, his face screwed up in thought. “I suppose I could try.”

“I will make it worth your while,” I said, sliding a coin across the counter.

He took it up with an appreciative smile. “Well, now, that will certainly grease the wheel, but even at that, it will take some time. London has its share of booksellers, but you know how it is, asking for small, specific orders like that. It’s never quick.”

Not quick. That was the last thing I wanted to hear. The thought of another week at Netherfield, dodging Wickham, avoiding Elizabeth Bennet, and dealing with Ewan’s constant interruptions made me want to walk right out of Meryton and keep going. But still, I asked, “And there’s no one nearby with a collection that might include such material?”

The bookseller chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, now, there’s one man I can think of. That Bennet fellow, over at Longbourn. Buys more books than anyone I’ve ever seen. Got a whole room full of them. He’s bound to have something. Might be worth asking him.”

Bennet . Was I to be forever chasing Bennets?

I stared at the bookseller, unable to stop my jaw from clenching. Mr. Bennet. Of all people. I barely knew the man, apart from the few social interactions forced upon us, but worse —far worse—was his daughter. The last thing I wanted was another awkward encounter with Elizabeth Bennet, the woman who already believed I was unstable. Perhaps she wasn’t far off at this rate.

The bookseller was still smiling at me as if he’d done me a great favor. “Of course,” he added, “You may have to charm him a bit, and he’s no respecter of a fat purse. Can be a tricky fellow, that one.”

Tricky? If he was anything like his daughter, he would be a complete menace to my sanity.

I nodded, thanked him as politely as I could manage, and left the shop, my head already pounding with the thought of what I’d have to do next. The streets of Meryton were relatively empty, the autumn breeze rustling the leaves on the trees as I made my way toward my horse. Longbourn, it was. Every step felt heavier than the last.

How did one approach a man like Mr. Bennet? He was the sort of man who held no one and nothing in any sort of awe. My name and rank meant nothing to him. He would be just as likely to let me wait on his pleasure outside in the rain, just because he could—well, that was until his wife discovered me and took pity on me. With my luck, I would end up with a debilitating chest cold and a dangerous fever that necessitated my staying under his roof, nursed by the tender mercies of Mrs. Bennet and her plethora of daughters.

But no, I had no need to invent such fantastical fears, for the reality was terrifying enough. The real obstacle was not Mr. Bennet or his wife or even his raucous youngest daughter. The moment I set foot in that house, I would have to face her again. Elizabeth Bennet, with her sharp wit, her knowing looks, and that ever-present smirk that made me question everything I said. The woman had already witnessed me at my worst, and if I knocked on her father’s door to beg for books about Highland ghosts, it wouldn’t exactly improve my standing.

But what other choice did I have? I had to find answers, or I’d never rid myself of—

“Ach, ye look like yer walkin’ to the gallows.”

I swung into the saddle and stared straight ahead, my pulse spiking. “I might as well be,” I muttered through gritted teeth.

Ewan was suddenly sitting backward on my horse’s neck, arms crossed and staring at me. “Where ye off tae, lad? Gonna go ask yer lass’s da for help? Och, that’ll go well.”

“Egad, you smell foul,” I grumbled. “How the bloody devil do you smell? ”

He wrinkled his nose and got a vague expression. “I reckon the same way ye do. Wi’ my nose.”

“Get off my horse!” I thundered.

And he actually did. I couldn’t say where he went, but I didn’t care. I spurred my horse into a gallop—not that it would do any good—but a woman carrying a basket was giving me the strangest look as she passed, and I had made myself “odd” enough in town.

He only laughed and kept up. I couldn’t see him, but I could hear his boots clunking along beside my horse. “Dinna be so sour. Yer makin’ a right fool o’ yerself, ye know. What’s the worst that could happen? Bennet might spin ye some tale about Highlanders and laugh ye out the door. But ye’ll get tae see the lass. Aye, an’ that’s no’ the worst fate, is it?”

I kept riding, refusing to rise to the bait. But my hands were clenching tighter on the reins with every stride.

And then, just as I turned the corner near Longbourn, I saw her.

Elizabeth Bennet.

I pulled my horse up so quickly his hind feet locked and slid on the slick road. All thoughts of asking Mr. Bennet for help evaporated. All sense of composure vanished. And for the first time in days, I wasn’t thinking about books, or ghosts, or Highland superstitions. I was thinking about how quickly I could get out of there before she saw me.

Ewan, naturally, saw her too. “Aye, there she is. Lookin’ like a storm in a teacup, ready tae rattle yer cage again.”

“Shut. Up,” I muttered, trying desperately to avoid making eye contact with her as I changed course, pretending I had somewhere else to be.

But she was already heading my way.

And there was no escape.

Elizabeth

I t wasn’t as though I was actively seeking out Mr. Darcy, but there he was, sitting in the saddle stiff as a post by the corner of the road, looking like someone had told him his horse just insulted his mother. What did this man have against horses?

I couldn’t exactly avoid him—well, I could have, if I hadn’t been spotted already, but there was a limit to how uncivil I could be, even to Mr. Darcy. And so, as fate would have it, we were walking directly toward each other, his face growing tighter with each step.

Wonderful. I always like starting out a walk by getting waylaid by the local lunatic.

“Miss Bennet,” he greeted me, with the same strained courtesy as always. The man couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable if he were being measured for a noose.

“Mr. Darcy,” I replied. He looked… well, agitated wasn’t the word for it. Agitated was too mild. He looked like he was either going to burst into flames or collapse into a pile of anxious, brooding stares.

“Are you out for a pleasure ride, Mr. Darcy?” I asked, trying to mind my manners, even though I wasn’t quite sure why I was making the effort. “It’s such a fine day.”

He blinked at me, as if he’d forgotten how conversations worked. “A... ride? Yes. Yes, I was just… riding. At a walk. A pleasure ride.”

“Oh, good,” I said lightly, resisting the urge to sigh. It was clear he hadn’t been walking anywhere. His horse was dripping sweat and still blowing, and Mr. Darcy was practically pop-eyed and twitching like a hare that had just seen its own doom.

And, for not the first time, I wondered if it was because of me.

An awkward silence followed. He shifted in the saddle, glancing around like he was half-expecting something to jump out and bite him. And I, trying my best to keep the conversation alive—for reasons unknown even to myself—blurted, “You’ll be attending the Netherfield Ball, I suppose?”

His face twisted for a second, like I’d just slapped him. The Netherfield Ball—a simple question, I thought. Naturally, he would attend, because he was a guest at the house… unless he thought to spare us all the bother of watching him swat at shadows and take himself back to London. But judging by his reaction, you’d think I’d asked him to dance with a tiger.

“Y-yes,” he replied slowly, though his voice was taut. “I will.”

I smiled as best I could. “And I expect Lieutenant Wickham will be there too. He did mention it when he called the other day.”

If Mr. Darcy had looked uncomfortable before, he now resembled a man who had just been told he was about to be thrown off a cliff. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I was sure he was going to snap his riding whip in half.

“Lieutenant Wickham,” he said, and that was all.

Nothing more.

Just Lieutenant Wickham , as if the name alone caused him physical pain.

I watched him carefully, growing more and more bewildered by the second. Lieutenant Wickham hadn’t spoken truly ill of Mr. Darcy the other day, but something was clearly brewing between them—something more than just a casual dislike.

“Is there—” I began, unsure of how to navigate the conversation any further without accidentally making the man combust on the spot, “—some... history between you and Lieutenant Wickham, Mr. Darcy?”

His eyes flicked to mine, and for a moment, I thought he might actually say something useful. But instead, he pulled his horse a step back, nodded stiffly, and said, “Excuse me,” before whirling his mount and galloping off like a swarm of bees was after him.

I stared after him, my mouth half-open in disbelief. That was it? That was the extent of our conversation? He’d barely spoken ten words to me before bolting like a fox in the briars.

“Well,” I muttered to myself, watching his tall figure disappear around the bend, “he’s certainly not getting any less strange.”

Poor Mr. Darcy. As mad as a hatter, and possibly more uncomfortable in his own skin than any person I had ever met. But still, I couldn’t bring myself to dislike him.

I sighed, shaking my head. He wouldn’t harm anyone. Of that much, I was sure. But if he kept behaving this way, the whole town would soon agree that Mr. Darcy of Pemberley was not quite right in the head.

And for reasons I couldn’t quite explain, the thought made me pity him.

“ L izzy, do you think there will be mistletoe at the ball?” Lydia asked, her voice full of hopeful mischief as she twirled about the room, her ribbons flying behind her.

“Lydia, it is only November. I certainly hope not,” I replied, laughing at the thought. “Besides, with all those officers in attendance, I fear there would be no safe corner left in the room for any woman over the age of fourteen.”

Kitty giggled, but Jane tried to turn our conversation in a more respectable direction. “Oh, Lizzy, you know it will be a lovely night. Mr. Bingley will ensure everyone enjoys themselves.”

“And I’m sure he will,” I said, “especially if a certain Miss Bennet is in attendance.” Jane’s blush was as predictable as it was charming.

We had been talking of the Netherfield Ball for days, and it seemed as if the whole town was abuzz with excitement. The chance to see all our neighbors dressed in their finest, the music, the dancing, and perhaps a moment of stolen romance for some lucky young lady—all the makings of a perfect evening.

Charlotte, seated near the fire, chimed in with her usual practicality. “I’m more excited about the food, to be honest. I hear Netherfield’s cook has outdone herself with the preparations.”

“Oh, Charlotte! Must you always be so sensible? I had hoped you would swoon over the prospect of dancing with every eligible bachelor in Meryton.”

Charlotte snorted. “I’ll leave the swooning to Lydia.”

I grinned, but before I could respond, Charlotte leaned in with a conspiratorial air. “Actually, I’ve heard some rather interesting gossip about the guest list.”

“Oh?” I feigned indifference, though I was always keen to hear the latest news.

Charlotte glanced at the door to ensure no one was listening, then lowered her voice. “Papa was in town the other day, and he overheard some of the men talking about Mr. Darcy.”

I blinked. “Mr. Darcy? What could they possibly have to say about him?”

“Well,” Charlotte said, leaning even closer, “it seems Mr. Darcy had quite the... episode in town a while ago.”

I raised an eyebrow, already half-expecting whatever it was. “I believe I already know this rumor, but what did the gentlemen say?”

“They say he was seen acting very strangely—something about his horse nearly throwing him off, and then he started talking to himself.”

My eyes widened in disbelief, though a laugh threatened to escape me. “To himself? In public?”

Charlotte nodded, her face as serious as ever. “Yes, and Colonel Forster himself had to intervene. Some of the townspeople are starting to wonder if Mr. Darcy is entirely... well, you know.”

Kitty gasped, her eyes widening in excitement. “You mean they think he’s mad?”

I groaned. “Oh, Kitty, don’t be so dramatic. Mr. Darcy is not mad. He’s...”

What? What was Mr. Darcy? Odd? Eccentric? Brooding in the most mysterious and puzzling way possible?

He was certainly something.

But as I thought about that strange encounter with him on the road, I couldn’t deny that the man had a knack for making even the most straightforward conversations unbearable.

Still, it was one thing to be odd. It was another thing entirely to be dangerously unpredictable and a menace to society. And despite his many faults, I couldn’t believe that Mr. Darcy had crossed into the realm of true madness. No. He was far too controlled for that.

“Well, whatever he is,” I said with a sigh, “I’m sure Mr. Darcy will manage to endure the ball without causing a scene.”

Charlotte smirked. “Perhaps, but I wouldn’t place any wagers on it.”

“Oh, come now,” Jane objected. “Mr. Darcy may be reserved, but he is a gentleman. I’m sure we’ve misunderstood whatever happened in town.”

“Misunderstood?” Charlotte repeated. “Jane Bennet, there you go again, defending everyone whether they deserve it or not. He nearly trampled a man in the middle of Meryton.”

“He did not nearly trample anyone,” Jane protested. “He’s just...”

“Misunderstood?” I finished for her, grinning. “I daresay that’s the best excuse yet.”

“I don’t care if he’s ‘misunderstood’ or as cracked as King George,” Kitty declared, already bouncing on her feet again. “I only care that the officers will be there—and Mr. Wickham!”

“And I care that there’s snow in the forecast!” I added with a generous helping of fake excitement. Anything to change the subject. “I overheard Mama talking about ice skating on Christmas Eve. Perhaps we’ll have enough ice this year to make it a proper party.”

“Oh, I hope so!” Jane said, her eyes lighting up at the thought. “Remember last year, Lizzy? The whole village turned out.”

“I remember. I nearly broke my neck when Kitty crashed into me.”

Kitty huffed. “It wasn’t my fault! You skated into me .”

“Ah yes, that’s what I recall,” I said dryly. “But let’s not repeat the performance this year, shall we?”

We all laughed, all thoughts of mad neighbors and scandals melting away. The ball, the upcoming Christmas festivities, the promise of winter fun—it was enough to push thoughts of Mr. Darcy’s oddities to the back of my mind.

For now.