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

21. Twenty-One

Twenty-One

Darcy

W hen I opened the door to my room, Ewan was already there—lounging in my chair at my desk, scribbling away with my quill, looking for all the world like he owned the place. The fire crackled, casting shadows that made him seem even more obnoxiously at home.

I didn’t even bother to wonder how he was casting a shadow. I just ground my teeth, barely resisting the urge to shout. “What in Heaven’s name are you doing now?”

“Dinnae fash yersel, lad,” he said without looking up. “Just finishin’ up a wee note. Won’t be a minute.”

“A note,” I repeated, half disbelieving. “For what?”

He sanded the paper, gave it a shake, and tucked it into his coat pocket. “Ye’ll see soon enough.”

I wasn’t in the mood for his games. “Get out of my chair.”

Ewan stretched, arms over his head, utterly unbothered. “Ach, calm yersel, lad. I’ll be out o’ yer hair in a few wee weeks. But I reckon ye’ve got some questions I ought tae answer, aye?”

I glared at him, pacing the room because I couldn’t stand still. Not with this infuriating ghost lounging around like it was perfectly normal for a dead man to be writing letters at my desk.

“You lied to me,” I said finally, stopping in front of the fire. I kept my back to him. “You said you died at Culloden.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Too long. I turned, and for once, he wasn’t smirking. He looked—what was it? Embarrassed? No, something deeper. Regret.

“Aye,” he said, barely above a mutter. “I lied.”

I folded my arms. “About what?”

Ewan shifted uncomfortably, running a hand over the back of his neck. “’Bout the whole lot. Culloden... the fight, how it all played out.”

I stared at him, waiting.

Ewan sighed heavily. “We got our orders that night, the night before the battle. It was cold. Cold enough ye could feel it in yer bones, and the sky... och, the sky was hangin’ heavy, like even it kent whit was comin’.” He paused, his gaze far away as though he were seeing something long buried.

He ran a hand over his face and continued. “We all sat roond the fire, me an’ the lads. The bravest men ye could ever ask tae fight by yer side. They tried tae joke, tried tae laugh like it was just another day, but there was nae denyin’ it—we all kent we were walkin’ intae doom. Prince Charlie? He had our loyalty, aye, but we kent he had nae chance. The English were ready, better armed, better fed, better prepared. But none o’ that mattered. We were Highlanders—men who’d die for our clans, for our country, an’ fer our prince.”

He paused, his voice growing quieter. “But really, it wasnae the prince we were fightin’ for. It was the ones we left behind. The women, the bairns... Our wives, our mothers, sisters. Like Elspeth. Aye, that’s what kept us there, starin’ down the English, ready tae die. We’d fight fer them.”

His expression softened, and for the briefest moment, he looked almost human again, as if he were remembering something far too personal to share.

“That night, as we sat waitin’,” he murmured, “I pulled out the brooch Elspeth had given me. It was small, ye ken? Ye’ve seen it, Darcy. Just a wee thing, silver and polished up nice, but... it was hers. She’d given it tae me the night before I left, made me promise I’d come back. That I’d find my way back tae her, no matter what happened on that battlefield.”

He swallowed hard, his voice thickening. “I kissed it, held it in my hand like it was the last thing I’d ever touch from her. I made a vow that night. Swore tae it. Swore I’d come back tae her, dead or alive. Thought I’d be a right hero, ye ken? Thought I’d die like the others, and my name would be spoken wi’ honor, and maybe Elspeth would remember me as some gallant fool.”

Ewan’s fists clenched slightly, his knuckles whitening as the memory seemed to tighten its hold on him. “We sat there, makin’ grand plans—how we’d storm the enemy, how we’d take as many o’ them doon with us as we could. We kent we were walkin’ intae death, but none o’ us cared. What mattered was how we died, aye? Die wi’ honor, wi’ pride. Die wi’ yer sword swingin’, die fer yer clan. That was the dream.”

Ewan’s voice cracked just slightly as he continued. “I looked ‘round at the lads. Every one o’ them had someone they were fightin’ for—some lass they’d left behind, some family waitin’ on them tae come home. That’s what we told ourselves, what we held onto. We werenae fightin’ for Charlie, not really. We were fightin’ for the folk at home. The folk that needed us.”

He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “But then... then I saw it. Saw the redcoats marchin’. Slipped away from the camp, just a bit, tae get a look over the hill. An’ what I saw... the sheer size o’ them, their weapons glintin’ in the moonlight... It was like starin’ at the end o’ the world, lad. I kent, right there, that none o’ us would see the mornin’. That every one o’ us was marchin’ tae a slaughter. An’ somethin’ broke in me that night. I dinnae ken what it was, but somethin’ snapped. I’d promised her I’d come back, alive or dead, but I couldnae keep that promise. I couldnae die wi’ the rest o’ them.”

He swallowed hard, his voice now barely above a whisper. “Ran like a coward. Abandoned my clan, my brothers. Left them tae die. An’ I’ve regretted it every day since.”

He dropped his head into his hands, his entire body slumped in a posture of defeat. “I should’ve died wi’ them. Should’ve died wi’ honor. Instead, I lived wi’ shame. Hid from the world. Hid from her. Elspeth... she deserved better.”

His voice broke on the last word, and for the first time, I saw the weight of that promise—how it had clung to him even after death. He wasn’t just a ghost tied to some worthless brooch. He was a man bound by his own cowardice.

He stopped, his breathing ragged, like just telling the story was pulling him back to that night.

“And you ran,” I finished.

“Aye,” he whispered, his voice rough. “I ran. My legs took me before my brain caught up. Ran ‘til my feet bled, ‘til my lungs gave out. Didn’t even know where I was goin’. Just away.”

“And when you stopped?”

“I went down, slept where I dropped. When I woke, it was done. The fight, my clan—everythin’. Should’ve died that day, lad, same as my brothers. But... I wasnae there.”

The words hung heavy in the room. This wasn’t just about a lie to cover up his cowardice— cowardice! As if any rational man would not quake in his boots at that. But this was about the life he had lost—the honor he could never reclaim.

“And Elspeth?” I asked, my voice catching.

Ewan’s face twisted, and he clenched his fists at his sides. “She... she waited for me. Thought I was comin’ back tae her. Thought I was dead. And when I didnae come back… they said she… she drowned hersel’. Threw hersel’ off the rocks, into the loch.”

The room seemed to spin for a moment, and I had to grip the back of a chair to steady myself. “She… drowned herself?”

“Aye,” Ewan whispered. “She reckoned I’d be there waitin’ for her in Heaven. Thought I’d be there, ready an’ all.”

I closed my eyes. Egad, this was no ordinary ghost story. This was a tragedy, one that had consumed one life and left another trapped in the wreckage.

“But why lie about it?” I could hardly find it in me to be angry anymore. I was just… lost. “What do you think I care about a battle that was fought forty years before I was born? Why not tell the truth?”

Ewan let out a bitter laugh. “Tell the truth? Och, lad, how could I? How could I face me sister, Isobel? Face any o’ them? I didnae die wi’ honor—I ran. Hid like a whipped dog, I did. An’ by the time I crawled back tae find Isobel, fifteen years had passed. Fifteen years o’ livin’ wi’ the shame. It was her that told me aboot Elspeth.” He hid his face in his hands.

“So, how did you die?” I asked, stepping closer. “How did it finally end?”

He turned to face me, his expression hollow. “It was Elspeth’s loch. The same place she jumped. I went back there, tried tae throw mesel’ in after her. But I wasnae as lucky as she was. I slipped, broke my leg on the rocks. Infection took me after that.”

My mouth dropped open at the horror of it. “And Isobel? Did she know?”

He gave me a crooked smile. “Aye, she tried tae nurse me back, but I was gone before she could do anythin’. Gave her ma brooch before I passed.”

I swallowed, staring at him. “And after that? Did you haunt her, too, or am I the first one to be so lucky?”

Ewan’s smile faded, and he glanced at the floor. “Aye. At first. Had a laugh or two, ye ken? But after a while, it just… got old.”

I took a breath, my mind racing with questions, but one pressed to the front, demanding an answer. “Why me? Why was I her heir? Surely you know something, Ewan.”

He shrugged, his face a mask of confusion—or indifference. “Dinnae ken, lad. Maybe the brooch had its eye on ye. Always seemed like it was huntin’ for its rightful keeper, it did.”

I frowned. “The brooch’s rightful owner was you, Ewan. So, how did that help?”

Ewan shook his head slowly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “The brooch was never mine, lad. It belonged tae Elspeth. Always did.”

Before I could press him further, he tipped his hat, a tired smirk on his lips, and vanished.

Elizabeth

“ O h, Lizzy, do hurry up!” Lydia called back to me, skipping ahead like a child. Her bonnet, already askew, flapped precariously as she trotted toward Aunt Philips’ house. “Mama says we mustn’t keep Aunt Philips waiting.”

I sighed and adjusted my gloves. “She won’t even notice if we’re five minutes late. She’ll be too busy talking.”

Kitty, trailing beside me, grinned. “Aunt Philips does love her gossip.”

“She does,” I agreed. “Which is why I can only imagine what wild tales we’re about to hear today.”

Ahead of us, Mama had already linked arms with Mary, who was grimly holding her prayer book as if she might be ambushed by sinners at any moment. But, at least, there would be no ambushes by Mr. Collins. He had remained at Longbourn to read, saying he must prepare his sermon for when he returned to Kent. So long as he was not with us, I did not care what he did.

As we approached Aunt Philips’ house, Lydia had practically broken into a run, barely knocking before bursting through the door, her laughter echoing down the street.

Inside, Aunt Philips welcomed us with open arms—and, true to form, immediately launched into conversation.

“Ah, Sister, and my dear nieces! Come in, come in! I was just telling Mr. Philips the most delightful bit of news! Oh, you’ll never guess what I heard at the butcher this morning!” Aunt Philips practically dragged us into the parlor, her hands framing the air.

I exchanged a wary glance with Kitty. Whenever Aunt Philips started a sentence with “you’ll never guess,” it usually meant some far-fetched rumor was about to make the rounds.

“What is it, Sister?” Mama asked, eyes wide, already readying herself to feast on whatever morsel of gossip was about to be served. “Do tell!”

“Well!” Aunt Philips sat down, smoothing her skirts. “Mr. Bingley’s cook was at the butcher this morning, placing the largest order I have ever seen—absolutely staggering amounts of beef, poultry, and game. You know what that means, don’t you?”

Mama gasped. “A ball! Oh, it must be a ball! What else could it be?”

Kitty and Lydia squealed in delight, clapping their hands. “A ball! A Christmas ball at Netherfield!” Lydia cried. “It’s too perfect!”

I folded my arms, narrowing my eyes. “It seems like quite a leap to assume that, Aunt. Mr. Bingley just hosted a ball. It seems odd he would so quickly be planning another. It could be for any number of reasons. A large gathering of guests from Town, perhaps. Or something festive for his tenants.”

But Aunt Philips waved away my objections with a flourish. “Nonsense, Lizzy! Everyone knows an order that large from the butcher is the surest sign of a ball being planned. And at this time of year? It simply must be a yuletide celebration!”

“But there have been no invitations, no calls to that effect—”

Oh, what was the use? Everyone was talking over me, anyway.

“It has to be a ball, Lizzy,” Lydia insisted. “After all, with such a fine house, where else would we all have a Yuletide party? Mr. Bingley loves dancing, and with so many eligible ladies in the neighborhood, he’d be mad not to host one.”

“And if Mr. Bingley hosts a ball, surely all the officers will attend again!” Kitty declared.

I was already shaking my head. Only the previous afternoon, I had been with Mr. Darcy, and he had given no indication that such an event was being planned. He, of all people, would certainly be wary of another such event in the offing.

“I’m not sure,” I said slowly, choosing my words carefully. “If Mr. Bingley were planning such an event, surely… his friends would know of it. It would not be a matter for speculation. Jane, you have heard nothing of this from Miss Bingley, have you?”

Jane shook her head. “No, and I took tea with her yesterday.”

Lydia pouted. “Oh, Lizzy, you always have to be such a voice of reason. Why can’t you just let us be excited?”

“Because excitement is best saved for actual events, not imagined ones,” I replied, earning a scowl from both Lydia and Kitty.

But my mother was having none of it. “Now, Lizzy, let your sisters have their fun. After all, Mr. Bingley is a man of considerable means, and Christmas is the perfect time for such festivities. If I know anything about the world, it’s that wealthy young men don’t need much excuse to throw a ball.”

“Indeed!” Aunt Philips nodded sagely. “Mark my words, Lizzy, you’ll see the invitations soon enough.”

As much as I wanted to argue further, I knew it was a lost cause. There was no stopping this runaway carriage once it had gained momentum. Mama and my sisters were already giddy with anticipation, whispering excitedly about the gowns they would wear, the gentlemen who might attend, and—inevitably—who might propose to whom.

I sighed, resigned to the madness, and followed them out into the street, where we continued toward the shops. I was still pondering the alleged ball when we nearly collided with Lieutenant Denny and Mr. Wickham.

“Miss Bennet!” Wickham’s voice was warm and charming as he greeted us with a smile. “What a pleasant surprise!”

Before I could reply, Lydia had already launched herself in between us. “Mr. Wickham! Have you heard the news? There’s to be a Christmas ball at Netherfield!”

I winced. “Lydia, we don’t know that for certain.”

Mr. Wickham raised an eyebrow. “Another ball at Netherfield? How delightful. Though I must say, Miss Bennet,” he added, turning to me with a slight grin, “you seem rather apathetic about the prospect.”

I met his gaze evenly. “I prefer to wait for facts, Mr. Wickham. Rumors, as you know, can be misleading.”

“Quite right,” he agreed, still smiling. “But sometimes, a bit of anticipation can make the eventual truth all the sweeter.”

“Oh, Mr. Wickham, you must attend! I only got one dance with you last time, and Lizzy got two. It is not fair, you know. You simply must come!”

He chuckled. “If there is another ball, Miss Lydia, I will do my utmost to attend.”

Kitty beamed. “And then you can dance with all of us!”

Mr. Wickham bowed slightly. “I would be honored.”

I tried not to roll my eyes as the younger girls practically swooned at his charm. Mama was no better, encouraging them with enthusiastic nods and murmurs of approval.

And there I was, the lone voice of reason in a sea of wild speculation. As much as I wanted to believe that there would be a ball—and that Mr. Bingley and Jane might find themselves perfectly paired on the dance floor—something about the whole situation left me uneasy.

“Come along, girls,” Mama said at last, practically pulling Lydia and Kitty away from Mr. Wickham. “We’ve much to do before the ball if there’s to be one!”

And with that, we were swept off again, leaving Mr. Wickham and Lieutenant Denny behind, the rumor of a Christmas ball growing ever larger in my family’s imagination.