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

20. Twenty

Twenty

Darcy

A few days later, I had another note from “Mr. Bennet.” And for once, I actually looked forward to meeting the person who wanted to meet with me. Besides, I had something to show her.

I arrived at the gamekeeper’s cottage, the letter from my solicitor in hand. I ducked inside to find that Elizabeth had been busy. The fire crackled warmly in the hearth, and there was already a fresh pile of books stacked on the table—some of them opened, pages spread with scribbled notes and bookmarks. Elizabeth was hunched over one of them, her brow furrowed in concentration.

She glanced up, smiling. “Mr. Darcy, you’ve brought news?”

I dropped the letter on the table. “It’s from my solicitor, but it’s not what I hoped for.”

Her face brightened, and she picked up the letter. “Oh?” She scanned it quickly, her brow furrowing.

“Nothing new. Isobel McLean left no direct heirs, no children, which I already knew. Never married, and just the one brother. A few scattered properties in the Highlands and England. But no clear reason why I was named her heir.”

Elizabeth frowned, tapping her fingers against the table. “Odd. No family at all?”

“None. It’s as if she lived in isolation.” I stared at the fire. “I can’t figure it out.”

She tilted her head. “It is strange. You don’t leave a fortune to someone without a reason.”

“Well, it was not much of a ‘fortune,’ as fortunes go. But indeed, you are correct. The solicitor found very little. She’s a mystery. My grandmother may have known her, but even that must be a weak connection.”

Elizabeth leaned back, thoughtful. “Could it be that the key to all this is not who Isobel was, but what she wanted?”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Perhaps it wasn’t about family or obligation. Maybe her choice had more to do with... something else.”

I nodded slowly. “Maybe.” It was more than I had considered. “It will be some days yet before I have the journals from Pemberley, but hopefully they will yield some answers.”

“Well, that’s a start,” she said with a small smile. “Meanwhile, I believe I’ve found something.”

I dropped into the seat across from her. “Found what?”

She glanced up, her eyes shining with the faintest hint of excitement. “A connection. Possibly.”

I raised an eyebrow, moving toward the table. “Go on.”

“This book—Highland Traditions and Mysteries—talks about spirits bound by unfinished business. Particularly, it mentions Christmas as a time when spirits are more... active.”

“Christmas?” I couldn’t help the doubt that crept into my voice. “What could that possibly have to do with Ewan?”

“Well,” she said, flipping through the pages, “according to this, it’s a time when... if a spirit is tied to the mortal world by something unresolved, they can find peace during the Yuletide. Some kind of... restoration, or balancing of wrongs.”

I leaned over the book, scanning the lines she pointed to. It was full of old superstition, no doubt—but still, something about it seemed to click in place with everything I’d been experiencing.

“So, you think,” I said slowly, “that this is about... justice?”

Elizabeth shrugged lightly, but her eyes stayed fixed on the book. “It would explain why he’s still here. Maybe he needs you to help him... put something right.”

I sighed, stepping back and rubbing the bridge of my nose. “I already asked him about that, and he was entirely impossible. If only it were that simple.”

Suddenly, a familiar voice chimed in from the far corner. “Aye, too simple fer me, lad. Whit’d I be needin’ yer help for? I’ve been rightin’ wrongs just fine on me own, I have.”

I froze, clenching my jaw. Ewan was slouched against the wall, arms folded lazily as he smiled and tipped his hat at Elizabeth. Not that she could see him.

“I suppose you’ll claim this has nothing to do with you?” I asked.

Elizabeth, sitting across from me, blinked in confusion. “Are you… talking to him?”

Ewan chuckled, his voice low and tired. “She’s catchin’ on, Darcy. Maybe ye should let her in on the joke.”

I scowled at him. “I have already distressed the lady enough.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Darcy, if you’re having another conversation with... him... would you kindly include me in this?”

I shot her an apologetic glance, then turned back to Ewan. “She can’t hear you, can she?”

Ewan snorted. “Does it look like I care, lad? I’m well past explainin’ things tae the likes o’ ye.”

I sighed, sitting down heavily in the chair across from Elizabeth. “I don’t know how to explain this.”

She leaned back, crossing her arms. “Then don’t try. I’m already watching you argue with thin air—there’s no explanation that can make that seem reasonable. Let’s focus on what we can understand.”

I hesitated, then nodded. “Very well. According to him, I’m not needed for anything. No ‘injustices’ to set right, no unfinished business… we have argued before about it until I ran out of breath.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, flicking her gaze to the same space on the wall where I’d been looking at Ewan. “If you’re not needed, Mr. Darcy, then why is he still here?”

Ewan’s grin widened, but it was tinged with something that looked almost... weary. “Ach, lass, that’s the real question, aye? Why am I still hangin’ aboot? Aye, a right honorable soldier I was. Did nothin’ tae deserve this, I’ll tell ye that.”

I glared at him. “Don’t play coy, Ewan. I’ve been over that list of names. Yours wasn’t there. You claimed it was your brother’s name put down instead of yours.”

Ewan’s expression faltered—just for a moment, but long enough for me to catch it.

“Eoughen McLean,” I pressed. “That was your excuse. You said he was your brother, and they got your names confused.”

Elizabeth sat up straighter, her eyes darting between me and the empty space near the wall. She couldn’t hear Ewan’s side of the conversation, but she didn’t need to. She raised a hand. “Wait… brother? Mr. Darcy, you just told me that Isobel McLean only had the one brother. Are they…” She looked back and forth between me and the empty corner. “Are they brothers, or are they not?”

Egad, she was right. How had I blurted both those facts out without noticing how they contradicted each other? Perhaps I could blame it on my lack of sleep. I whirled on him. “Explain yourself. The lady is right—according to everything I’ve found about Isobel McLean, she didn’t have another brother, so how do you?”

Ewan’s smile faded, and for the first time since I’d met him, there was something like regret in his eyes. But he said nothing.

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth suggested, “a half-brother? Some… adoptive relationship?”

She couldn’t see Ewan’s face, but I could, and the guilt I read there… Indeed, that was precisely what I needed to see.

I leaned forward. “You lied.”

His posture sagged, his usual bravado nowhere to be found. “Aye. I’ve nae brither.”

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed, and she glanced at me. “Did he admit it? About what?”

I shook my head slowly, still staring at Ewan. “Everything, I imagine.”

Ewan sighed, scuffling his boots on the floor, and I caught the way Elizabeth gulped when a mud stain suddenly appeared on the stone.

“It wasnae supposed tae matter. Nothin’ was supposed tae matter. But here we are, aye?”

Elizabeth leaned forward, her eyes darting between me and the space where Ewan stood. “What is he saying?”

I dragged my gaze away from Ewan and met Elizabeth’s eyes. “He... he lied about his death.”

She tilted her head. “What?”

“Ewan McLean didn’t die at Culloden.” I leveled a long look at him. “Did you?”

He leaned heavily forward, one hand massaging the other as though his knuckles were sore. “Nae.”

“Let me guess. You ran. Deserted. You’ve been lying this whole time.”

Ewan’s face was pale—no, I’ve no idea how a ghost suddenly looked pale, or like he was struggling to breathe properly. But he did. He tugged the Balmoral off his head and slouched. “Aye, I ran. Slipped away the night before the fight. Left my clan behind. Bonny Prince Charlie... the lot of them.”

I glanced at Elizabeth and nodded to confirm his confession.

She blinked. “That… that is horrible. I mean… I can certainly understand. So many died, but… why lie about it?”

I stood, the frustration and confusion boiling over. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Ewan’s voice cut through the room once more. “Some things... they’re too precious tae share, lad. Even now.”

I turned to face him, my fists clenched. “You owe me the truth.”

But Ewan just shook his head, retreating into the shadows.

Elizabeth

I tugged my cloak tighter against the cold, quickening my pace as I left the gamekeeper’s cottage behind. There was a fresh blanketing of snow, and my tracks—as well as Mr. Darcy’s—would stand out for all to see until more snow had fallen. Fortunately, it was doing just that, filling in the cups of my footprints almost as quickly as my feet made them. But that would not continue to be the case—we were bound to be discovered if we kept meeting over our books, and I found myself glancing over my shoulder more than once.

It wasn’t just the fear of discovery—it was the lingering strangeness of what I had just witnessed. Mr. Darcy had sat there, talking to no one, yet answering as if he were engaged in a real conversation. Not muttering nonsense, but speaking in full sentences, responding to questions I couldn’t hear. The more I relived it in my imagination, the less it made sense.

That... thing... that apparition he claimed was haunting him—it must be real. I’d tried to believe him before, if only because no other explanation made sense, but now? Now, I was certain. Mr. Darcy wasn’t mad. He couldn’t be. His thinking was far too logical, his reasoning sound. If anything, I was the one questioning my own sanity.

And then there was the mud. The unmistakable streak across the floor of the gamekeeper’s cottage that just showed up , as though something—or some one —had scuffed it there. Someone I couldn’t see.

A chill ran through me as I recalled the way Mr. Darcy had glanced at that same patch of floor, his gaze following something invisible to my eyes. He’d looked so sure, so certain, as if it was all perfectly real to him. And now... well, it seemed more and more likely that it was.

As I reached Longbourn, my thoughts still tangled in a mess of disbelief and reluctant acceptance, I spotted Mr. Collins pacing in the drawing room. The sight of him only added to my unease. He had been acting strangely all day, muttering cryptic things about “certain expectations” and “Lady Catherine’s advice.” I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still planning something involving me—something I had no desire to be part of.

I edged quietly toward the library, hoping to deposit a few of Papa’s books without being noticed. They hadn’t been particularly useful in our research, and returning them now seemed like a safer course of action than encountering Mr. Collins in the hall. The last thing I needed was for him to accost me with another tiresome speech about his “humble abode” or his “fortunate situation.” I feared he still intended to propose.

As I reached the door to the library, I paused, listening. Silence. Good. If Papa was in the study, I could slip in and out without attracting any attention. But just as I placed my hand on the doorknob, I heard a voice behind me.

“Elizabeth,” my father called from the next room. “I’m not blind to your attempt at stealth. Do come in, will you?”

I cringed, caught in my tracks. Slowly, I turned and made my way to the study, peeking inside to find Papa sitting behind his desk, watching me with a raised brow.

“Papa,” I greeted him, stepping into the room with a sheepish smile. “I was just—”

“Pilfering my library again, no doubt,” he interrupted. “You’ve been disappearing with my books quite often lately, my dear. Care to explain what curious project has you so enthralled?”

I hesitated, unsure how much to say. I could hardly tell him about Mr. Darcy’s ghostly visitor—not without sounding like I had gone mad myself.

“Well... I have been... assisting with some research,” I said, cautiously skirting around the subject.

Papa raised an eyebrow. “Research? You? And here I thought you spent your days reading novels.” He leaned forward in his chair, his voice dry with amusement. “Whose research, might I ask?”

I hesitated, my fingers toying with the edge of my cloak. “Just... someone who required a bit of help.”

His eyes glinted, and he looked far too confident for my liking. “And this someone has a name, I presume?”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “Yes.”

Papa chuckled, but his eyes narrowed. “It wouldn’t be one of our neighbors, would it? Someone with a slightly... peculiar reputation as of late?”

My heart stuttered and died in my chest. Right there. He knew . Oh, dash it all, I was caught. Visions of fatherly consternation and forced engagements began screaming through my mind. “Po-o-s-ssibly,” I mumbled.

“Elizabeth.” His voice held a note of gentle demand now. “Who is it?”

I sighed. “It’s Mr. Darcy.”

“There, now, how difficult was that?”

I cocked an eye at him. “You sound as if you expected that.”

He chuckled. “Oh, come now, Lizzy! What I ‘expect’ is for you to be intrigued by mysteries and curiosities, and can there possibly be a more ‘curious’ person in all of Meryton at present? Here, now, out with it. What puzzle has our good Mr. Darcy got you piecing out for him, hmm?”

I shifted uneasily, unsure how much to reveal. “It’s... complicated.”

Papa raised an eyebrow, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Complicated? That does sound intriguing. Does it have anything to do with the madness that seems to have beset our poor neighbor?”

I winced. Of course, he would jump to that conclusion. Everyone in Meryton seemed to think Mr. Darcy had lost his mind. Including me, until a few days ago. “I... don’t think he’s mad, Papa,” I said carefully. “He’s... troubled, certainly, but I wouldn’t call it madness.”

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “No? Then what would you call it?”

I glanced down, choosing my words with care. “I think... he’s dealing with something very real, but difficult to explain.”

Papa’s eyes narrowed, his amusement fading slightly. “Real, you say? Hmm.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “And do you plan to continue assisting him with this... something?”

I hesitated. “Am I... forbidden?”

Papa laughed, shaking his head. “Of all the gentlemen in the neighborhood I might worry about with my daughter, Mr. Darcy is the least troubling. If anything, he’s far too honest for his own good. A man who wears his demons so openly would never be able to lie to a lady.”

I blinked. “You think Mr. Darcy is... honest?”

He shrugged. “In his own way, yes. The man may be burdened with oddities, but I suspect he is as forthright as they come. I doubt he could lie to you if he tried. But,” he added with a sly smile, “he might work upon your sympathies+.”

I rolled my eyes. “I assure you, Papa, I am not vulnerable to Mr. Darcy’s... particular charms.”

He studied me for a long moment, his gaze thoughtful. “Perhaps not. But I will say this: the only real danger I see in Mr. Darcy’s company is that it might compromise your reputation. And then, my dear, you would be forced to marry the poor fellow. I cannot think which of you two I would feel the most sorry for.”

I groaned. “Papa, really.”

“Only think how pleased your dear mother would be! I daresay she would make the most of it. Oh, I imagine it would be quite the scandal—marrying a madman. But surely it would still be preferable to marrying Mr. Collins?”

I laughed despite myself, shaking my head. “I think I should rather stay unmarried forever.”

“Well,” Papa said with a twinkle in his eye, “I shall leave that decision to you. But do try not to drive the poor man mad. He seems to have quite enough voices clamoring in his head already.”

With a final smile, he waved me off, leaving me to return the books and escape back into the hall. As I walked away, I couldn’t help but mull over Papa’s words.

Mr. Darcy... honest. The thought lingered, tugging at something deep inside me. For all his strangeness, all his mystery... Papa was right. He was honest—at least in his own peculiar way.

But what did that mean for me?

As I passed through the drawing room, Mr. Collins’ pacing stopped abruptly. He turned to face me, an expectant look on his face. My stomach dropped, but before he could utter a word, I offered him a hasty smile and continued walking, hoping to avoid whatever dreadful speech he had been preparing.

Some things, after all, were far worse than encountering a madman.