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

17. Seventeen

Seventeen

Darcy

I strode into the bookshop, head down, hoping the wind from the door might blow me out the way I’d come. How had it come to this? Walking into Meryton—a town I had no love for, on a fool’s errand to track down books that wouldn’t be of any use if they ever arrived. But I had to try something. At least it gave me an excuse to leave Bingley and his endless prattling about Miss Bennet.

“Mr. Darcy, sir. Good afternoon!”

I grimaced. Old Mr. Stone, the bookseller, popped out from behind a towering stack of books like a rabbit from its hole. He peered at me with watery eyes, the smile of someone who’d been in business a bit too long.

“Do you have word from London?” I asked, trying to keep the desperation from my voice. Desperation was for people who still believed in miracles. At this point, I’d settle for a decent suggestion on how to rid myself of a drunken ghost.

The old man blinked at me, shuffling toward his counter. “Not quite yet, sir, not quite. They did say the shipment was delayed—something about a miscommunication with the delivery. But rest assured, Mr. Darcy, the books you’ve requested should be here in about a fortnight.”

A fortnight. Fantastic. I’d be lucky if I still had my sanity by then. “I cannot wait a fortnight. I need them as soon as possible.”

The old man gave me a strange look as if my life didn’t depend on a few worn-out pages of Highland superstitions. Which it did. “Well, sir, did you ever ask Mr. Bennet? They say his library is one of the largest in the area. Might be something there on… er, unusual subjects.”

Bennet. I swallowed. That was the last thing I needed. To owe him something. And worse, to have any reason to go to Longbourn, where his daughter—the one who already thought me mad—could eye me with the baleful cynicism of a judge at the Old Bailey. The mere thought of entering that house made me itch.

I opened my mouth to decline politely when the bell over the door rang behind me, and in walked the very person I had been trying, unsuccessfully, to avoid for weeks. The one person who, regardless of my efforts, seemed privy to all my most embarrassing moments, courtesy of one Ewan McLean.

Elizabeth Bennet.

My first thought was to make a run for it. Surely, I could bolt past her, pretend I’d seen some disaster in the street, and come back later.

Too late. She spotted me, and I felt my spine stiffen as if Ewan himself had just prodded it with that rusty Highland dirk he liked to poke me with.

“Mr. Darcy,” she greeted me, her voice filled with what I could only describe as cautious politeness. The kind one might use on a wounded animal that could still bite.

“Miss Bennet,” I managed, nodding stiffly. My brain scrambled for something more intelligent to say. Nothing came.

She regarded me curiously. Her eyes darted to the stack of books on the counter, then back to me. “You’re here for… a purchase?”

What else would I be doing there? “Unfortunately, what I came to purchase is unavailable.”

Her eyebrow lifted, and I could tell she was already suspicious. The woman could smell evasion like a hound on the hunt. But just as quickly, she brightened and turned to Mr. Stone. “My father asked me to collect the book he ordered last week. I trust it is here?”

Mr. Stone beamed and reached under the counter. “But of course, Miss Elizabeth. I sent the order express myself, and it arrived only this morning.”

I narrowed my eyes. So, Mr. Bennet got his order in a week, but I offer enough gold to gild the entire shop, and I must be kept waiting? Either my order was harder to obtain than I had imagined, or the shopkeepers in Meryton were starting to decline to do business with me. I wasn’t sure I wished to know which one it was.

Elizabeth thanked Mr. Stone for the book he handed to her, then turned back to me. “Are you in search of anything in particular, sir?”

I could practically hear Ewan’s mocking voice in the back of my head. Aye, tell her, lad. Tell her yer lookin’ for a book on how tae get rid o’ yer drunken, dead Scotsman.

I cleared my throat. “Just some reading material. Nothing... of importance.”

Elizabeth studied me for a moment, then glanced at the old bookseller, who was watching our exchange with all the subtlety of a hawk.

“You’ve been in Meryton much more frequently of late,” she observed, her tone casual, but her eyes sharp. “I thought you did not care for our town.”

She was not wrong, but I wasn’t about to confess that the only reason I was in Meryton was to avoid the fact that my current residence, Netherfield, was a haunted prison.

I glanced back at Mr. Stone, who had taken it upon himself to study the fine details of his bookshelves, giving us the illusion of privacy. “I’ve had business here,” I said. Technically, that was true. If by “business” I meant trying not to lose my mind.

Her gaze didn’t waver, and I could feel her assessing me as if she were looking for cracks in my facade. “You seem... troubled again today, Mr. Darcy.”

Was it that obvious? I thought I’d done a remarkable job hiding the fact that I was rapidly unraveling, but perhaps I’d overestimated my skill in masking madness.

“I assure you, Miss Bennet,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “I am quite well.”

That eyebrow of hers arched again. “Are you?”

No. Absolutely not . But I couldn’t say that, could I?

Before I could deflect any further, she glanced at the door and said, “Well, it seems we’re both headed in the same direction. Might I suggest we walk together?”

Walk? Together? She must be joking. I could hardly manage civil conversation with her in controlled situations, let alone on the open road, where my mind would undoubtedly betray me halfway through, and I’d be left muttering about ghosts. And Heaven only knew if Ewan would decide to make an appearance.

“I... suppose,” I said, hating how unsure I sounded.

To my increasing horror, Elizabeth smiled and stood poised as if she expected me to offer her my arm like a regular gentleman. I used to be a gentleman. Now… I wasn’t sure what one would call me.

I nodded stiffly and exited the shop, wondering if my legs would suddenly forget how to function properly. To my great relief, they worked. But walking alongside Elizabeth Bennet was no easy feat. I could feel her presence beside me, calm and curious, waiting for me to speak—likely expecting me to, at any moment, blurt out something unintelligible.

For a few blessed seconds, the only sound was the creaking of carriages up the street and distant voices. I might survive this—see her safely on the path to Longbourn, then escape to Netherfield without further incident.

Then she spoke.

“I must admit, Mr. Darcy,” she began, her tone measured, “you are a bit of a mystery.”

There it was. The probing. The gentle pressing for answers that she already half-suspected. I stared straight ahead, determined not to look at her.

“I don’t see how that could be,” I replied, though I knew full well what she meant. “I am no more mysterious than any other gentleman.”

She let out a soft laugh, and the sound hit me like a jab to the ribs. “Come now, Mr. Darcy. You can’t expect me to believe that. Forgive me my bluntness, but I cannot help but wonder—are you quite well? And before you reply, take care. I am not Mr. Bingley, who can be swayed by easy platitudes, nor am I Miss Bingley, who believes you can do no wrong, so long as you compliment her. I want to know, sir. Are you well … in a medical sense?”

I stopped in my tracks, my throat so dry it was sticking to itself. I turned to face her, my heart thrumming so quickly I feared my ribs would break— not from attraction , I assured myself, but from sheer dread of what she might already know.

“Do you... feel safe in my company, Miss Bennet?”

Her eyes widened in surprise, and then something softened in her expression. “Safe? Why wouldn’t I?”

I hesitated, unsure how to answer without admitting too much. “There are... things you don’t know, Miss Bennet. Things that would explain my behavior.”

She tilted her head slightly, her curiosity now fully engaged. “Then perhaps you ought to tell me, Mr. Darcy.”

I stared at her, feeling the weight of that challenge. I was cornered. No escape. If I didn’t tell her something— anything— she would surely press further.

“What I’m about to say will sound... incredible,” I began slowly, “but I assure you, it’s the truth.”

Her expression remained unchanged, save for that one eyebrow that ticked upward.

“There is... someone I must deal with. Someone I cannot get rid of.”

She blinked, clearly not expecting that. “Someone? You mean, a person?”

“Yes. And no. It’s difficult to explain.”

Her brow furrowed. “And is this… person… a familiar of yours?”

“If by that, you mean someone with whom I share a friendship, I would have to say no. You…” I blew out a breath. “You have never met this… person, but he has been with me constantly.”

“I used to have an imaginary friend,” she declared with a playful pucker to her lips. “A rag doll, if you must know. Alas, I lost her in the cow pasture due to a bit of my own carelessness, and I never—”

“It is not a figment of my imagination,” I growled. “Would that it were.”

She sighed. “Is this why you’ve been acting so strangely?”

“I am afraid so,” I admitted. “It’s... complicated.”

For a moment, she said nothing. Then, to my surprise, she nodded. “I believe you, Mr. Darcy.”

That threw me off entirely. “You... do?”

“It is the only logical explanation. I’ve seen enough oddities myself to know that not everything is as it seems.”

My quick hope cooled to ash. “Then it is not from any confidence in my character but some detached puzzle you have determined to piece together that makes you credit my words.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Come, come, Mr. Darcy. What character have you ever shown me, apart from being a reluctant conversationalist and an even more reluctant—though occasionally skilled—dancer? No, I have questions, and the only way for me to have them answered is to help you.”

I frowned. “Help me? There is nothing to be done, and if you are quite through insulting me—”

“You were in the bookstore searching for something, and I have seen you tearing books off Mr. Bingley’s shelves like a man possessed. You are trying to learn something, are you not?”

I hesitated, then nodded.

“My father’s library is quite extensive. If there’s anything you’re looking for, perhaps we could find it there.”

I was stunned. “You’d... do that for me?”

“Of course,” she said. “I am too curious not to.”

Elizabeth

P apa’s library.

I had spent many an evening rooting around in there, much to his bemusement. While my father delighted in his eclectic collection, his taste in books ranged from the arcane to the absurd, most of which he rarely touched. Just the kind of volumes Mr. Darcy might be desperate to get his hands on—and I couldn’t help but want to offer my help, if for no other reason than to observe the oddity that was Mr. Darcy up close.

I waited until Papa had retreated to his study after breakfast, as was his custom. No one ever disturbed him then—least of all me. Still, I tiptoed into the library, pausing at the door to listen for any sign of servants or sisters nearby. All was quiet.

It was far too early in the morning for a heist, but here I was, crouched in front of a dusty old shelf like a common burglar.

My fingers danced over the spines of countless forgotten volumes: Human Pathology, Superstitions of the Highlands , An Account of Strange Apparitions in the British Isles , Disorders of the Mind and one book that was simply titled Ghosts . Well, those seemed promising enough.

I stacked the books quickly, one on top of the other, until the pile was almost comically high. There was no need to be choosy when half of these would probably be useless. It was a good thing Papa wasn’t here to see me now, or else I’d be in for another long lecture about how dull I was becoming with my obsession over “tedious” historical facts.

Clutching my armful of books, I scurried back to my room. Then I realized... where was I supposed to meet Mr. Darcy? I certainly wasn’t about to march up to Netherfield and invite myself in like some stray dog. And there was no way I was letting Mr. Darcy into our home, either—my mother would have him married to one of us within the hour.

Then it struck me. The old gamekeeper’s cottage, just on the edge of Netherfield’s grounds. It had been abandoned for years, and no one ever went near it. If Mr. Darcy could discreetly make his way there, we could work in peace.

M r. Hill had always indulged my whims, and today was no exception, when I begged him to have a note carried to Mr. Darcy at Netherfield under the guise of my father’s name. Surely, even suspicious Miss Bingley would sense nothing unusual if the gentleman received a note from a doddering old neighbor. Papa would never hear of it, either, so I scrawled out the details of the plan and waited. After about an hour, when my younger sisters had gone to town, and Papa was closeted with a book, I pulled on my cloak and headed for the cottage, an odd sense of excitement bubbling up inside me. Sneaking around wasn’t exactly becoming for a lady, but there was something thrilling about it all.

When I arrived at the moss-covered stone cottage, I glanced around. The place was as lonely as ever, with ivy creeping up the walls and a thick mist clinging to the trees. Inside, it was musty and cold, but serviceable enough for our purposes.

A creak from the door caught my attention, and I turned just in time to see Mr. Darcy step inside, looking more like a man on the run than one meeting a lady for a quiet rendezvous. He glanced around warily, his shoulders tense. I half-expected him to pull his coat tighter, as though the very air were conspiring against him.

“Ah, Mr. Darcy,” I greeted him. “You are looking remarkably sane at the moment.”

His eyes narrowed. “If you invited me here merely to insult me, Miss Bennet…” He sounded annoyed, but his eyes were busy scanning the room as if expecting something—or someone—to jump out at him.

“You needn’t look so alarmed. No one knows we’re here.”

“On the contrary, Miss Bennet, it is precisely that fact which alarms me,” he muttered, eyeing the rough wooden table in the center of the room.

I set down the books with a thud, watching as he flinched ever so slightly. “Afraid I’m luring you into a trap, Mr. Darcy?”

His eyes flickered with something close to exasperation. “It’s your reputation I’m concerned about, not mine.”

I laughed. “You think anyone would believe I’m alone with you of my own accord? Honestly, if you tried to tell them, I would simply have to declare that Mr. Darcy has lost his mind, and no one would ever take your side. You’re worse than harmless. You’d sooner do yourself harm than me.”

“That is hardly reassuring.”

“Isn’t it? But you must give me some credit for my courage, sir. What if you’re plotting to trick me into a compromising position so that I’ll have to marry you? I am taking a terrible risk here, you know. And are you entirely certain that I mean you no harm?”

His expression shifted almost imperceptibly. “I think I’ll take my chances.”

For a moment, he said nothing, only glanced at the books I’d brought as though grateful for the distraction. I started to unstack them, laying them out in a disorganized sprawl on the table.

“I’ve pilfered these from my father’s library. Don’t ask me how I’m going to explain their absence, but I imagine he won’t notice them missing for a week or so.”

Darcy’s brow furrowed as he picked up one of the tomes, his fingers brushing the cover with the kind of reverence that only a man utterly desperate for answers could muster. He flipped through the pages, his expression softening ever so slightly as he realized they might actually be of some use.

We sat down at the table, the musty air thick around us, and for a moment, there was silence as we both stared at the books. “I suppose,” I said, breaking the quiet, “it would help if you told me exactly what we are looking for.”

He glanced up, meeting my eyes for a moment longer than necessary. “Yes,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I suppose it would.”