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

25. Twenty-Five

Twenty-Five

Elizabeth

W hen I reached the cottage, I wasn’t surprised to find Mr. Darcy already waiting—leaning casually against the low stone wall. He wasn’t exactly the sort to be late. What did surprise me was the ease in his posture, a marked difference from the stiff, guarded man I had come to know over the past two months. He straightened when he saw me, brushing off his coat as if to shake off the winter cold, though something in his expression softened.

“Miss Bennet,” he said with a bow.

“Mr. Darcy.” I gave him a teasing smile, tugging my gloves off and dropping them on the table. “I wondered if I would see you here today. I came to collect the last of my father’s books, as he was rather eager to have them back before mildew took the pages.”

Something like a smile warmed Mr. Darcy’s face, and he was rather fetching when he looked like that. A pity I had more often seen him flinching and looking over his shoulder. But today, he seemed relaxed and very much at peace.

“Tell me,” I said, “has Ewan left you alone for once?”

Darcy’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Yes, for nearly two days together. Miss Elizabeth, have you any experience with small children?”

I pursed my lips and tilted my head. “Mr. Darcy, you have met my younger sisters. What do you think?”

He quirked a brow. “Indeed. Well, then, you may be familiar with the concept of ‘if it is quiet, there is trouble.’”

“Ah.” I started to collect some of the books on the table and stack them neatly. We had no further need for some of these, so I would carry them back today. “Does that mean you are concerned that your friendly neighborhood ghost is up to some mischief?”

“When is he not up to mischief? Usually, he delights in destroying my life up close, but for now, at least, it seems he’s found more... amusing distractions.”

“For now?” I raised an eyebrow. “I must admit, I half expected him to be waiting here, making books fly off the table for daring to meet with you unchaperoned.”

“He’d likely enjoy it too much,” Darcy muttered. “But no, thankfully, he’s spared us that particular... intrusion.”

“Well, I suppose we should consider ourselves lucky,” I said, laughing softly. “A conversation without being interrupted by an invisible Scot sounds almost... pleasant.”

Darcy looked at me, his gaze lingering a little too long. “It does.”

There was something in the way he said it that made me pause. It wasn’t just the words, but the timber of his voice when he said them. Darcy had always struck me as serious, almost somber at times, but there was a quietness to him now that felt different. Warmer, somehow.

I swallowed. “You’ve learned more from Ewan, haven’t you? You have an odd look on your face just now.”

“More so than usual?”

“Oh, indeed. For your ‘usual’ expression is one of terrified paranoia. Now, you just look annoyed.”

Darcy sighed, then chuckled, his breath misting in the cold air. “Not from him directly, but yes. My grandmother’s journals proved… enlightening, though I’m not sure how much of it is relevant.”

“Relevant to what?”

“To... everything, I suppose.” He looked down, avoiding my gaze for a moment. “It seems I’ve been involved in this tangled story much longer than I ever realized.”

I set down the books I’d been collecting. “What do you mean?”

“My grandmother had a companion,” he said slowly, “a woman named Isobel McLean. Ewan’s sister. She lived at Pemberley’s dower house for some time, though I have no memory of her. Apparently, I met her when I was only four years of age.”

I blinked, trying to piece it together. “Your grandmother’s companion? Interesting.”

Darcy nodded. “Grandmother died in January of 1800, so Isobel McLean would have only been at Pemberley for about three years. I’ve no idea what became of the woman after that, but I was able to find entries about Isobel in Grandmother’s journal... odd ones. Strange things she said, strange behavior. Sound familiar?”

I raised a brow. “Indeed. Strange how?”

“Well, as you might expect, she used to talk to herself. Or rather, she talked to someone who ‘wasn’t there.’ My grandmother wrote it off as harmless eccentricity at first, but then there was an entry that caught my attention. Apparently, Miss McLean used to watch me. Every time I visited Grandmother as a boy, she would mutter under her breath, saying things like, ‘That’s the lad.’ As if she were expecting me.”

I stared at him, trying to absorb it all. “So you’ve been... fated to cross paths with Ewan’s ghost since you were a boy?”

“Apparently.”

“That’s... quite a long game to play for a ghost,” I mused, biting my lip as I tried to imagine how a decades-old plan could unfold so subtly.

Darcy shook his head. “I’ve given up trying to make sense of it. There’s too much we don’t know. Too many pieces missing.”

“Have you considered,” I started, stacking more books into the basket, “that perhaps Ewan doesn’t even know the full story himself? Maybe he’s just... improvising.”

Darcy’s lips twitched, but his eyes remained contemplative. “Improvising, Miss Bennet? I do wonder if you give him too much credit. I suspect Ewan’s version of improvisation would involve throwing more objects at my head.”

“Yes, but think about it,” I said, warming to the idea. “He might believe he’s orchestrating something grand, but he might also be as lost in all of this as we are. What if he only knows half the reason he’s still here, and he’s making it up as he goes along?”

Darcy considered this, the crease in his brow deepening. “That would explain his constant meddling.”

“And the ball!” I added. “He practically forced Mr. Bingley into it, but other things seem so chaotically random that I doubt he had a plan. If Ewan were really in control of this whole fate business, wouldn’t he have done something a little more... direct?”

Darcy raised a brow. “Direct like...?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, smirking. “Perhaps making you wear a kilt and a Balmoral and sporran, then thrusting a bagpipe into your arms. That seems more Ewan’s style.”

Darcy snorted—an actual snort of amusement, which I did not expect. “Well, it’s a relief he hasn’t gone that far.”

“Indeed! Although I think if it does, I should like to see it.”

Darcy—Fitzwilliam Darcy, the proudest man in Hertfordshire—actually laughed at that. His eyes lingered on me for several seconds, and then he cleared his throat and glanced at the books I was collecting, his expression turning serious again. “And what of you, Miss Bennet?” he asked. “Do you have any ideas about how we should proceed?”

I tilted my head, pretending to consider it. “Well, the obvious choice would be to gather everyone at the ball, have you make a dramatic speech about Scottish folklore, and then we all run out at midnight to bury the brooch somewhere. Or maybe throw it in a lake or make everyone take some sort of blood oath… whatever it is, it’s all very romantic.”

Darcy chuckled. “I imagine that would go over well with the redcoats.”

“I’m sure Colonel Forster would lend you his sword to cut your thumb for the oath.”

He smiled, shaking his head. “I’ll pass.”

“But in all seriousness,” I said, softening my tone, “we don’t know enough yet. We’ll just have to play along, won’t we?”

Darcy nodded, though he still looked as though he were carrying the weight of the world—or at least, the weight of a particularly stubborn ghost. “Yes,” he agreed. “We’ll have to see what Christmas Eve brings.”

I gathered the last of the books, stacking them into the basket I’d originally carried them in. Darcy, still watching me with that quiet intensity of his, seemed to hesitate for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“Allow me to help you carry those back to Longbourn,” he offered, taking a step forward.

I raised a brow, suppressing a grin. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Darcy. If you show your face at Longbourn, my mother will shackle you to a chair until you propose to one of us.”

He blinked, taken aback, and then the corner of his mouth twitched. “A reasonable concern.”

“Exactly. It’s for your own good.” I gave him a bright, teasing smile and hoisted the basket onto my arm. “Unless you want a leg shackle?”

His lips quirked again. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Good choice.” I turned toward the door, throwing one last look over my shoulder. “After all, Christmas is still a few days away. Plenty of time for trouble.”

W hen I returned to Longbourn, the first thing I noticed was Mr. Wickham’s familiar figure through the window of my mother’s sitting room. I paused at the door, my hand tightening on the latch. I hadn’t expected to see him today, especially after everything I’d learned.

A wave of unease swept over me. In all my distraction over Mr. Darcy’s ghostly troubles, I had failed to mention anything about Wickham’s true nature—to Jane, or even my father. Now, he was here, comfortably ingratiating himself into our household like an honored guest.

I stepped inside, brushing the snow from my cloak, and was immediately greeted by the sound of Lydia’s too-loud laughter echoing through the drawing room. There he was, Wickham, surrounded by my younger sisters, holding court like some sort of genteel prince. Kitty and Lydia were practically draped over the furniture in their eagerness to hang on his every word.

“Miss Elizabeth!” Wickham exclaimed as I entered, standing with a flourish that was as smooth as it was practiced. “What perfect timing.”

“Mr. Wickham,” I replied, forcing a smile to mask my unease. “I see you’ve been well received in my absence.”

He gave a lazy, charming grin, his eyes gleaming with that false warmth I now recognized. “Ah, but the household shines brighter now that you’ve returned.”

Lydia giggled at that, thoroughly taken with his flattery, and even Kitty couldn’t resist glancing in his direction with wide, adoring eyes. I, however, remained still, my thoughts dark with the warning Darcy had given me just days ago.

Wickham’s gaze lingered on me for a fraction too long before he gestured toward the window as if continuing some light conversation that had begun before I arrived. “I happened to pass through the woods earlier. A peaceful place for a stroll, don’t you think?”

My stomach twisted. “Yes. Very peaceful,” I said, keeping my tone steady despite the implication behind his words.

His smile widened, but it was too sharp to be friendly. “Of course, it pays to be vigilant. One never knows what one might encounter in the woods.”

I met his gaze head-on, refusing to flinch. “I imagine only the occasional fox.”

“Or something equally... unexpected,” Wickham replied, his voice still light but the meaning beneath it unmistakable. He knew . Somehow, Wickham had stumbled across my footprints or—worse—Darcy’s.

I forced another smile, unwilling to let him see me falter. “Indeed.”

“Well, then, it is unfortunate that I missed you before you set out for your outing. I believe I have stayed my welcome already, and I shall about-face and take me back to my quarters.”

Mama gasped in dismay. “But you have only just arrived, Mr. Wickham! You simply must stay for dinner. I insist! It would be our greatest pleasure to have you.”

I clenched my jaw, watching as Wickham’s smile slid back into place with effortless ease. “I wouldn’t dream of imposing, Mrs. Bennet,” he said, though we all knew he would hardly decline the invitation.

“Nonsense!” my mother declared. “You must stay, Mr. Wickham, you must! We shall have a delightful evening together.”

I caught Wickham’s glance as he cast me another look—this time more smug than playful, as if he’d already won some unspoken victory. And I, for once, had no clever retort. Not in front of my mother, and certainly not with my sisters fairly swooning in their slippers.

It was too late to warn anyone now. Wickham had already embedded himself too deeply into our lives, and while my family basked in the glow of his charm, I stood frozen, trapped between my knowledge of the truth and my inability to speak it. Before I could formulate an escape plan, the door to the drawing room opened, and in marched Mr. Collins. He looked about until his eye settled on me, and then he brightened, hurrying forward.

“Cousin Elizabeth, what exceeding luck to find you. It is so rare that I have had the leisure of seeing you about and unoccupied that I feel I must, even in the presence of company, impose upon your good nature to relay to you some bit of news. I have received a most urgent letter from Lady Catherine herself.”

I stifled a groan and prepared for whatever nonsensical praise he was about to heap on his benefactor.

“She requires my presence back at Hunsford with immediate effect, due to certain pressing matters. However...” His eyes took on that familiar glint as he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “I deeply regret that there is a most ... important matter I had hoped to secure during my visit, and time is slipping away.”

Ah, of course. That again.

I folded my hands in front of me and gave him my most attentive smile, though my mind was already working out how to divert him. “Mr. Collins, how tragic for you that duty must call you away from such pressing personal concerns. Lady Catherine’s word is, after all, as close to law as one might hope to follow.”

“Indeed, Miss Elizabeth, you understand perfectly!” he said, beaming at what he assumed was my complete submission to the conversation.

“Well, Lady Catherine’s needs must always come first, Mr. Collins. How unfortunate that she requires your return to Hunsford immediately, when there was still something... dear to you left unsecured.” I clasped my hands with exaggerated sympathy. “But surely such matters will keep, won’t they? Kent needs you.”

Mr. Collins blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. “Well, I... I—”

“And imagine Lady Catherine’s disappointment should you tarry here any longer!” I continued, as though I hadn’t noticed his growing confusion. “Surely, she would be beside herself knowing you’re delayed when she needs you so. Why, I dare say Kent might collapse without you.”

His brow furrowed, and for the first time, he appeared uncertain. “But... Miss Bennet, I had intended—”

“You mustn’t allow such trivial matters to weigh on you, Mr. Collins.” I smiled brightly, stepping past him with a polite nod. “Duty calls, after all! Lady Catherine must not be made unhappy by any delay, even for a moment.”

Without giving him a chance to recover, I dipped my head and turned toward the stairs, leaving him frozen in the middle of the drawing-room, utterly baffled by how the conversation had slipped from his grasp.

As I ascended the stairs, my basket full of books balanced carefully on my hip, I bit back a triumphant grin. If nothing else, today had been a success in keeping Mr. Collins, Mr. Wickham, and my sanity at arm’s length.