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

18. Eighteen

Eighteen

Darcy

O f all the places to meet a young lady, an abandoned gamekeeper’s cottage wasn’t high on the list of acceptable venues. It was drafty, musty, and isolated, not to mention... highly improper. But it wasn’t as if I had much choice.

Miss Bennet—Elizabeth—had chosen the location, and with good reason. Neither of us could afford to be seen together like this, but the circumstances left me with few alternatives. My options had dwindled down to precisely none, and now I was sitting in the middle of a decaying stone cottage, surrounded by stacks of stolen books, trying to convince myself that the best chance I had now was to confess the entire absurdity of my situation to the one person I least wanted to think I’d gone mad.

I stared at the stack of books, but the words on their spines blurred together, slipping out of focus. I needed those books to hold the answers. I needed anything—anything—to make sense of this curse that had taken over my life. But before I could ask for Elizabeth Bennet’s help, she needed to hear the truth.

The real truth.

I exhaled, the air heavy in my chest. She was sitting across from me, her posture relaxed but her eyes keen, watching me with a kind of curious patience. I could only imagine what she was thinking. This would be the moment that confirmed for her, beyond any doubts, that I truly had lost my mind. That Mr. Darcy of Pemberley had finally cracked.

I reached for one of the books, stalling for a second longer, running my thumb along the worn leather spine.

“It started with a brooch.”

The words felt foreign on my tongue, strange and absurd. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, her head tilting ever so slightly to one side.

“A brooch?” she echoed, her voice even, though I could see the flicker of doubt in her eyes.

I nodded, staring at the book in my hands. “An old brooch. One that was bequeathed to me by some… connection… I still do not quite understand the nature of it, but the end of it was that I acquired a collection of trinkets and curios that seemed perfectly unremarkable.” My grip tightened. “Until one of them wasn’t.”

“Who was this… connection?”

“I don’t know. Some spinster named Isobel McLean who claimed a friendship with my grandmother—I’ve not the least idea if that is even true. But the brooch itself once belonged to her brother, a Jacobite soldier,” I said, my voice low, each word feeling like it cost me something. “Ewan McLean. A man who died at the Battle of Culloden.”

Her eyes narrowed, her expression unreadable.

“But he didn’t die—not properly,” I went on, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Or perhaps he did. It’s... difficult to say. All I know is that ever since I found that brooch, he’s been... haunting me.”

The word “haunting” hung in the air between us, and I half-expected her to laugh, to scoff, to tell me how ridiculous I sounded. But she didn’t.

She blinked once. Twice. And then: “I beg your pardon?”

I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to stand up and flee the cottage altogether. “He’s been with me constantly. He talks, he meddles, he... interferes in my life. He was at the ball.”

Her mouth opened, then closed again. “At the ball?”

“Yes,” I said, the word coming out sharper than I intended. “He was there. You saw him—or, rather, you saw the effects of him.”

Her brow creased further. “I’m afraid you will have to clarify somewhat.”

“The glass, Miss Bennet. The punch glass that you took from him. He was… rather put out about it, in fact.”

For a moment, Elizabeth was silent, her gaze fixed on me as if trying to gauge my sincerity. And her eyelid started to twitch. Finally, she spoke. “I was terribly curious about that, sir.”

I swallowed and closed my eyes. “I know how it sounds. If it were anyone but myself who had seen it, I—”

“Back up the carriage for a moment,” she interrupted. “Are you trying to tell me that you are not only plagued by the specter of a long-dead Highlander, but that this… person?… also has a predilection for punch?”

I lifted my shoulders. “Punch, claret, whiskey… I rarely see him but that he does not have some sort of alcoholic beverage in his hand. And when he is not drinking, he smells like he has been.”

Her eyes widened in a flash. “He smells!”

“And leaves muddy footprints across my bed chamber whenever it pleases him. Believe me, Miss Elizabeth, if I had any explanations for it, I would surely offer them, but I do not.”

Her mouth was starting to fall slack by now, but not for breathing. I was fairly certain she had not taken a breath in quite some time. Sure enough, before she spoke again, she was required to take a fresh gulp of air.

“Excuse me, Mr. Darcy, but how is it that nobody else sees this… character? Surely, you do not expect anyone to believe—”

I clenched my jaw and glared at the wall. “I am not mad. I am a rational, thinking man, Miss Bennet, who just happens to be beset by something I cannot explain.”

“Oh,” she said gently, her brows arching, “I can see that.”

My gaze centered back on her. “If you mean only to mock me, you may as well leave. I know you are going to spread the rumors all over town, so do not let me cause you any delay.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, her mouth puckering. “Is this Mr. McLean… present now?”

It was a trap, and I knew it. She wanted to watch me leaping at shadows again so she could have something to laugh over with her friends. But I could not resist sliding my gaze to the corners of the room, just to make sure…

“I do not see him just now, but that does not mean he is not listening at the windows, or whatever the ghostly equivalent is of being a peeping Tom.”

Elizabeth suddenly flushed, tensing her shoulders and casting about as if she, too, could search for Ewan and that her modesty was in some jeopardy.

“Calm yourself, Miss Bennet,” I said. “While I have known him to…” I cleared my throat. “ leer at a lady… namely you… I believe he only did so to provoke me. Your dignity is quite safe… as far as I know.”

Her eyes rounded even further. “That is hardly comforting, Mr. Darcy! Are you saying this… this thing was rattling about Netherfield while Jane and I stayed there? How can you now give your assurances that he did nothing unseemly while we were in our private rooms?”

“He’s a ghost, not a deviant.” My brow creased. “I think.”

Elizabeth held both hands in the air, shaking her head and looking down as if trying to collect her thoughts. “So, that morning on the lawn, when you were screaming and running as if someone had set your trousers on fire?”

I swallowed. “I had cherished some small hope that you might have forgot all about that.”

“Not bloody likely, Mr. Darcy. What about the rumors of you losing control of your horse and running through some laundry line in the middle of town?”

I sighed. “Are you going to name every embarrassing incident that miscreant has caused me?”

“That depends. How many are there?”

“More than I can number. Please, Miss Elizabeth, at this point, either you credit my words somewhat, or you mean to pat me on the head like a harmless eccentric and go your way.”

“Not necessarily. There is always a third option. Have you ever heard of a nice little estate called ‘Bedlam’? I fancy you could meet any number of fine new friends there.”

I glared at her with a deadpan expression. “This is the trouble with trying to ask for help from one who considers herself a wit.”

“Oh, come, Mr. Darcy, I was only teasing. Very well, back to the brooch, where it all began. You say this Ewan person began appearing to you after it came into your possession? Why not simply get rid of it?”

“Would that it were that simple. No matter what I’ve done—no matter how I’ve tried to rid myself of him—he remains.”

Elizabeth’s fingers brushed against the edge of one of the books, but she didn’t pick it up. Her gaze stayed on me, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“And this Ewan... what does he want?”

I leaned back in my chair, my hands trembling despite myself. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. He’s given me vague hints, but nothing certain. All I know is that he had someone—someone named Elspeth. And somehow, she’s connected to this.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened slightly. “Elspeth?”

“Yes. And before you ask, he claims that you remind him of the lady, but I am not certain if that can be true. How can I trust the memory of a man who is not even alive? And even if I trusted his memory, I doubt I can trust his intentions. He delights in getting a rise out of me.”

“Well, in that respect, he and I think somewhat alike. You are perfectly diverting when thrown off balance.”

I gestured toward the door. “You are still free to leave, Miss Elizabeth.”

But she acted like she hadn’t even heard me. Her fingers tapped lightly on the table, her eyes darting to all corners of the room as she seemed lost in thought. “So,” she began slowly, “we’re looking for... what exactly? Information about this Ewan McLean? About his connection to the brooch? To this... Elspeth?”

I nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes. That’s what I’m hoping these books might tell us. If we can find out who Elspeth was and what happened to her... perhaps we can put an end to this.”

Her gaze switched back to me, and for a moment, she just stared, as if she were trying to divine the truth. As if I had not already told her everything I knew. Then she took a deep breath and opened one of the books. “Well, Mr. Darcy, it seems we have our work cut out for us.”

I watched her begin to flip through the pages, her brow furrowing as she scanned the text. She was taking this seriously—more seriously than I could have hoped for. But there was still a part of me that feared she didn’t truly believe me. That she was humoring me, just waiting for the next time I jumped out of my skin or did something entirely uncivilized, just so she would have the pleasure of laughing about it.

I cleared my throat, my heart hammering in my chest. “Miss Bennet,” I said carefully, “I understand that this must sound...”

“Completely insane?” she finished for me, a wry smile tugging at her lips.

I winced. “Yes.”

She looked up from the book, her eyes locking onto mine. “Mr. Darcy, you are many things. Stiff, brooding, and occasionally insufferable... but I don’t believe you’re a liar.”

The words hit me harder than I expected, and for a moment, I couldn’t speak. She believed me—or at least, she believed that I believed myself.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

Elizabeth’s smile softened. “Besides,” she said, turning back to the book, “I don’t think you’re nearly clever enough to invent something like this.”

Elizabeth

I turned the page of the latest book I’d picked up from the stack—an ancient tome on Highland folklore—with a sigh. It was an account of banshees, ghosts, and various other Scottish superstitions, all intriguing in their own right, but none of it was helping us unravel the puzzle of Ewan McLean or why he was bound to Mr. Darcy.

Mr. Darcy sat across from me at the table, scanning yet another book, his brow furrowed in concentration. He had been enough of a gentleman to scavenge some firewood for us and had even found an old flint among the dusty stones of the mantle. Now, a fire crackled merrily in the hearth. It was the only sound in the room, and for a moment, I allowed myself to glance at him, just once.

There was something oddly... calming about him now. He wasn’t the aloof, haughty man I’d first encountered in Meryton. He was still stiff, still proud in many ways, but I was beginning to see flashes of something else beneath the surface—something far more complex. I was no longer sure if I found him intriguing or infuriating. Both, most likely.

But we were here for answers, not distractions.

A sudden thought struck me, and I looked up from the page. “Mr. Darcy?”

He glanced up from his book. “Yes, Miss Bennet?”

“There’s something we’ve overlooked.” I closed the book in front of me, leaning forward slightly. “We’ve been so focused on Ewan, but why did Isobel McLean make you her heir? Surely, that’s unusual—especially if she had no direct connection to your family beyond what you’ve told me.”

His expression shifted—just the barest flicker of surprise, followed by a thoughtful frown. “I’ve wondered the same myself, but I never found a satisfactory answer.”

I drummed my fingers on the table, thinking aloud. “Do you think that question might be part of this... mystery? Could it help us understand why all this is happening to you?”

Darcy’s eyes darkened slightly as he considered my words. “It’s possible. I hadn’t thought to investigate that aspect in much depth. I was more focused on ending Ewan’s presence altogether.”

“Well,” I said, reaching for another book, “perhaps we should try a different approach. Isobel McLean must have had some reason to favor you. Maybe her family history holds a clue.”

He leaned back slightly, nodding. “You could be right, Miss Bennet. I will send a letter to my solicitor at once to ask him to report any and all details of Miss McLean’s life and circumstances. He gave me very few details before, but I am sure there are some that I have forgotten.”

“You said she was your grandmother’s friend?”

He lifted his shoulders. “That was the claim. Perhaps my grandmother…” He narrowed his eyes, and then an inspired light shone in his eyes. “I shall write to my housekeeper at Pemberley to have my grandmother’s journals sent to me. Excellent notion. Thank you, Miss Bennet.”

I couldn’t help but smile a little. “Good thing you’ve got me here, then.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost—but not quite—a smile.

We resumed our search, but after that, we were both more vocal about our findings. Any curious notion, any strange little fact, was sufficient cause for an uttered musing, which was usually received and considered by the other. It was strange, really—sitting across from Mr. Darcy in a deserted cottage, poring over dusty old books and grunting at our discoveries like a pair of conspirators. I hadn’t realized until now just how accustomed I’d become to his presence, and even more so to the strange... warmth that came with it.

As I reached for yet another book, my hand brushed against one of the larger volumes I had brought, one I’d nearly forgotten about in the shuffle. It was a thick, heavy book—likely one of the oldest in Papa’s collection—titled An Account of the Glorious Fight at Culloden, with a Record of the Fallen and Imprisoned, Collected from Reliable Sources.

I pulled it toward me and opened it, the old pages crackling slightly under my fingers. As I flipped through, my breath caught. “Mr. Darcy... look at this. What luck! Fancy me grabbing this when I did not even know what I would be looking for.”

He leaned forward, and I pointed to the page in front of me. It was a list—long and detailed—of the names of those who had died or been imprisoned after the battle of Culloden. Ewan McLean’s name should be here.

Mr. Darcy scanned the page, his frown deepening as he read. “There it is. Clan McLean… Not Ewan, though.”

I shook my head, biting my lip. “Interesting. But I doubt this is the complete list. The book says there were more than fifteen hundred dead, and this looks like it is only heads of clans. Perhaps there is a more exhaustive list further on.”

He stared at the page for a moment longer, then glanced at me. “May I...?”

I hesitated for a brief second, then nodded. “Of course. You can take the book with you, if you like. My family will be wondering where I am, and I imagine you’ll want more time to go through it carefully.”

Darcy’s expression softened slightly, and he gave me a small, grateful nod. “Thank you, Miss Bennet. I appreciate your help more than you know.”

I stood, brushing a stray curl from my face. “I’m only curious about what else we might uncover. Perhaps we’ll discover that this mystery has a very simple explanation after all.”

“I hope so,” he murmured, closing the book and rising to his feet as well. His height struck me again—as it always did when I stood this close to him—and for a moment, I felt a strange flutter in my chest. It was disconcerting, this odd awareness of Mr. Darcy as more than just an irritating puzzle to be solved.

He lingered by the door, holding the book under his arm. “Miss Bennet,” he began, his voice softer than usual, “I know you’ve humored me throughout all this. And for that, I... thank you.”

I raised an eyebrow, half-smiling. “If I didn’t believe something was going on, Mr. Darcy, I wouldn’t be here.”

For the first time, he offered me a real smile—small, but sincere. “Then I shall consider myself fortunate.”

He left the cottage, disappearing into the night, and I was left standing alone, still feeling the strange way my heart had stuttered when he smiled. This was a man I had once thought insufferable, and yet... I couldn’t help but be drawn in. Not just by the mystery, but by him.