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

24. Twenty-Four

Twenty-Four

Darcy

T he box arrived unceremoniously one chilly afternoon, left in the drawing room by a footman who hadn’t bothered to mention it until I asked if the post had arrived.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the unassuming wooden crate. Inside it were pieces of my past I hadn’t realized I missed so keenly until this very moment—my grandmother’s journals, bound in worn leather, the spines surely creased from her careful hands.

It had been years since I’d thought of those journals. Even longer since I’d seen her handwriting—elegant but steady, the kind of penmanship that spoke of discipline rather than flair. Grandmother had always been practical, always composed, even when recounting the most sentimental of things. I remembered that well from my childhood.

I took the box upstairs to my room, waving off the offer of help from a servant. This was a task I wanted to handle alone. There was something deeply personal about unwrapping these small relics of my past, and I found myself uncharacteristically eager to sit down and leaf through them.

Once inside my room, I set the box on the desk, cutting through the twine that had held the lid in place. The scent of aged paper and faint lavender—her favorite fragrance—drifted up to greet me, pulling me back in time before I even laid eyes on the journals themselves. My fingers stilled on the wood as a pang of nostalgia hit me.

Lavender. I had never cared for it much as a boy, but now... now it felt like home.

And reminded me of another lady—one who was not my grandmother.

The journals were stacked neatly inside, just as I had remembered them—leather-bound, faded in places, but still intact. There were six volumes in all, neatly organized by date. I sat down, taking the first journal in my hands and running my fingers over the cover.

Her name, A. Darcy, was inscribed on the front in gold leaf, almost worn away from years of use.

I took a deep breath, turned the cover, and began to read.

June 12th, 1788

The roses in the garden have bloomed early this year, a welcome sight after the wet spring we’ve had. Fitzwilliam came to visit today, full of energy and curiosity. I had hardly finished my tea when I saw him climbing the oak tree in the garden, completely disregarding my warnings. He has such confidence for a boy of his age. His father would have laughed, I am sure, though I suspect George will have words with him about the state of his clothing.

He did not fall, thankfully, but he did manage to ruin his shirt in the process. When I suggested that perhaps his father might be displeased, he simply smiled that sly little smile of his, as if he already knew he would not be punished.

I smiled as I read, though the memory was hazy now. Climbing trees? I wondered what Mother and Father thought of that. They must have permitted it, surely, but I could hardly remember being given leave to indulge in such exploits. When Georgiana was born, all such permissiveness immediately became hers, while I was groomed for weightier duties. But it seems that when I was young—well, I had found trouble in the smallest of places. And grandmother had written about it with a certain level of loving exasperation.

December 23rd, 1788

The snow has fallen heavily, and it appears may not, after all, host the Fitzwilliam family this Christmas. Dear Anne will be terribly disappointed. But she came with Fitzwilliam to call this morning, and it is such a joy to have them here on these wintry mornings.

Fitzwilliam brought me a gift—a collection of pastoral poems. I suspect he chose it because it was the only book in the shop that was not on warfare or politics. What can a child of four comprehend of such things? I shall treasure it. He pretended to be uninterested when I opened it, but I could see the way his eyes darted over to watch my reaction.

I paused, feeling a lump form in my throat. Christmas at Pemberley had always been a grand affair, but the memories were distant now, clouded by time. I could almost hear Mother’s… and, later, Georgiana’s delicate fingers on the pianoforte, playing the soft melodies that filled the drawing room, her face flushed with the quiet pride of someone who loved to play but hated to be watched.

I closed my eyes, letting the sweetness of those memories linger for a moment before turning the page.

As I continued through the journals, the entries were full of small, personal moments—glimpses of my childhood, memories of family gatherings, Christmases at Pemberley. I had forgotten how much time we spent at the dower house, how often we visited my grandmother, and how much those small, seemingly insignificant moments had shaped me.

But they were also mundane in a way that was beginning to annoy me. I had come looking for something specific, and I found myself growing impatient as I skimmed through pages that held nothing of real consequence.

But then I found her.

September 2nd, 1797

Today, a new companion arrived—a woman by the name of Isobel McLean. George found her through his brother-in-law, Matlock. I understand she was living in Edinburgh. I was quite cynical of her at first, but he said he was sure the woman would suit me well. She does have a very proper look about her, though she has a rather superstitious way of drinking her tea. Though she hails from Scotland, I suspect she has traveled more than she lets on.

She speaks little of her past, though there is a sadness in her eyes that she cannot quite hide. She said she once had a brother but now tells me she has no family left, which is hardly surprising. Too sad of a tale these last fifty years. I suppose that is why she has come so far to seek employment.

She is a little… odd, but she seems capable enough. I have given her quarters in the house, and she has taken to her duties well enough, though I have noticed that she tends to speak to herself when she thinks no one is listening.

That was her—Isobel, Ewan’s sister. I could feel a prickle of anticipation as I read. I turned the page, eager to find more, but what followed were several weeks’ worth of entries detailing nothing more than garden improvements and social calls. I kept reading, more intently now.

October 7th, 1797

Fitzwilliam visited today, and it was such a joy to see him growing into a fine young man. He has his father’s serious nature, but there is a lightness about him as well, a curiosity that keeps him asking questions and seeking answers. I find him thoughtful beyond his years, though I worry that he carries too much weight for someone so young. The loss of his mother last year, I fear, has quite taken the shine out of his eyes, but he dotes on little Georgiana. I daresay his father is quite proud of him.

Miss McLean was quite taken with him. She watched him closely throughout his visit, almost too closely. Several times, I caught her muttering to herself—something about “that’s the lad,” though I could not make out the full meaning of it. It was rather peculiar, and I wonder if perhaps she is not entirely well. I will speak to George about it if this behavior continues.

My heart stilled.

I remembered none of this. Grandmother always had a companion of sorts, but I never paid them any mind. Isobel McLean—Ewan’s sister—had been watching me even then? I turned another page, half-expecting some revelation, but the next entries were disappointingly mundane. There was nothing else about her peculiar behavior, nothing more about “the lad.”

Had Ewan been communicating with her even then? Had I somehow been part of Ewan’s plans since childhood?

The question gnawed at me as I flipped through the rest of the journal, scanning for any other mentions of Isobel. There were a few—passing comments about her competence, her occasional oddities—but nothing more of the sort that had been written on that strange October day.

May 20, 1799

Miss McLean has become more withdrawn in recent days. She speaks even less than usual, though her work remains impeccable. Today, as we sat for tea, she seemed distracted, her eyes constantly flicking to the window as if she were waiting for someone.

I asked her if something was amiss, but she only smiled politely and said that all was well. I do not believe her. There is something she is not telling me.

Fitzwilliam has been asking more questions lately—about his father, about Pemberley, about the future. He has a sense of responsibility that I did not expect at his age, though I suppose it is only natural. He will one day take over the estate, and I can already see the mantle of that knowledge settling on him. So much like his father, that lad.

Again, that sense of waiting. Isobel was waiting for something—or someone. But who? Or what? The tension in my chest grew as I read, each entry pulling me further into a mystery I hadn’t even known existed.

November 15th, 1799

Miss McLean spoke to me today about her brother. Nearly two years under my roof, and it was the first time she has mentioned him in any detail. She said that he had been involved in the Jacobite rising, just as George suspected. I daresay the fool met with a swift and brutal end. Little wonder Miss McLean speaks of him sadly. She also mentioned that at one time, he was to be married to a friend of hers, though the name slips my mind. I believe it began with an “E”. Alas, the poor child apparently drowned herself in the winter of ‘45.

I wonder if this is why she has been so unsettled lately. Perhaps the memories of her brother weigh heavily on her mind, especially now as winter approaches. There is a certain sentimentality, I suppose, in coming into one’s sunset years. I have the joy of seeing my family growing, while she lost all hers to that futile Uprising.

I turned the page, my breath catching in my throat as I reached the next entry.

December 5th, 1799

There is a strange aura in the house lately. Miss McLean has been acting more peculiar than ever. She still performs her duties, but there is a distracted air about her, as if her mind is elsewhere. I have caught her speaking to herself more frequently, though when I ask her who she is speaking to, she only smiles and says, “my brother.”

It is unsettling, to say the least. I have spoken to George about it, but he assures me that there is no need for concern. He believes that she is simply homesick and that her behavior will pass in time.

But I am not so sure. There is something very troubling about her now. As if she is not entirely present in the room with me… nor, indeed, in the same world.

The air in the room seemed to grow colder as I read those words. Otherworldly. My grandmother had sensed it too. Isobel had been communicating with her brother—even then, even after his death. But how? And why?

I kept reading, my fingers trembling slightly as I turned the pages.

December 15th, 1799

Fitzwilliam came to visit today, and again, odd behavior from Miss McLean. She has been so quiet and reserved for the past few weeks, but she seemed almost... animated in his presence. She watched him closely, her eyes following his every movement, as if she were seeing something in him that I could not. I begin to fear she intends to do him some mischief.

At one point, she approached him and spoke to him in a low voice. I could not hear what she said, but Fitzwilliam looked confused, and she quickly retreated. I think it would be wise if I did not leave him unattended in her presence.

December 25th, 1799

Christmas Day has come again, and the house is full of warmth and laughter. I spent the day at the manor house with Fitzwilliam and Georgiana. Dearest Georgie brings such cheer to the house, particularly after her mother’s passing.

Fitzwilliam and I had tea by the fire today, just the two of us. He is a fine young man, and I know he will grow into someone worthy of Pemberley. He has always had the weight of the world on his shoulders, even as a boy, but I see something in him now—something that seems rather masterful.

Miss McLean finally seems to have settled in well. It is as though whatever once troubled her suddenly ceased, and she is become most decent and sedate, indeed. She is a dutiful companion, and for that, I am grateful. But occasionally she still gets an odd look about her. She will take to staring into her teacup or fingering some old brooch and will spend hours staring off into the hills. At times, I feel as though I am caught in the middle of a story I do not understand, a story that began long before I was aware of it.

I stopped reading. “ A story that began long before I was aware of it.” It wasn’t just my grandmother who had been caught in this story—it was me. I had been part of this, tied to Ewan and Isobel and Elspeth, long before I had ever known their names.

The realization hit me like a cold wind, sharp and unforgiving. Ewan had chosen me—somehow, for some reason—and his sister had known it. She had seen something in me, something that had tied me to her brother’s fate.

I set the journal down, my heart hammering like I had just run for miles.

Pricking my finger on that brooch had been no accident. I had been part of this all along.