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

Epilogue

Darcy Twenty-Five Years later

T he strains of a lively reel filled Pemberley’s ballroom as guests swept in, their laughter mingling with the clinking of crystal and the joyful hum of voices. Elizabeth turned from a conversation, her gaze meeting mine from across the room with that mischievous sparkle that I had come to know so well. She raised an eyebrow, a slight nod telling me she had her eye on our son Bennet.

“Why, Mr. Darcy,” she called to me with a playful smile, “aren’t you going to see to your guests? They’ll say you’re slacking in your old age.”

I chuckled, crossing the room to join her. “Slacking? I have greeted no fewer than half the county, my dear,” I replied, reaching for her hand. “And yet you seem to have won all their attention, as usual.”

She laughed softly, squeezing my hand, before her gaze shifted to our son, who stood by the refreshment table, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes fixed on a particular figure in the crowd. Elizabeth sighed and shook her head.

“Ah, but I wonder if he’s found someone a bit more captivating than his parents tonight,” she murmured. “I do believe our Bennet has his mother’s nerve for love.”

“Let us hope he has more of his mother’s fortune,” I replied, my own gaze following Bennet’s. He stood, half-concealed in the shadows, doing his best impression of a bashful suitor—no easy feat for a Darcy. He tugged at his coat sleeves, casting an anxious look toward the ballroom’s opposite side, where Miss Eliza Bingley stood in animated conversation with her aunt Catherine. Sweet-natured, poised, and possessing every whit of her mother’s grace, she was as kind as she was lovely. And Bennet, for all his attempts at composure, looked as though he were teetering on the edge of a great precipice.

“Poor boy,” Elizabeth murmured with a soft laugh. “I don’t think he’s drawn breath since she walked into the room.”

I smiled, clapping my hand over hers. “He may have taken more after me than you’d think. There’s no denying it: he’s well and truly besotted.”

“Then perhaps it’s time he learned a thing or two about love.”

He hadn’t yet noticed me watching, too lost in his own world, but I saw him reach one hand toward his pocket and then pull it back, hesitating. I caught Elizabeth’s gaze, and we both shared a knowing smile before she moved to his side. She reached up to her gown and unpinned a brooch—an ancient, worn thing, the silver tarnished and the stones dim, yet still beautiful in its own way. And then she pressed it into Bennet’s hand.

He glanced down, then back up at her, a bewildered expression on his face. “Mother… forgive me, but why are you giving me this… thing?” He looked up sheepishly. “I only mean—well, it’s rather ugly, isn’t it?”

Elizabeth chuckled, unfazed. “Perhaps it is. But it holds more worth than you might think. I thought there might be a special lady in the room you would like to give it to.”

Bennet looked even more confused, glancing between us as if searching for answers. “I do not… will any lady… appreciate it?”

I stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Sometimes, Bennet, the most precious things come from the most inauspicious beginnings.” I tilted my head toward Miss Bingley, who was still speaking with her aunt across the room. “If you truly love her, if you believe in your heart that she is meant for you, then give her that brooch at the stroke of midnight.”

He looked down at the tarnished pin in his hand, his brow furrowing. “But… why?”

“Because, son,” I said, my tone growing solemn, “that brooch is bound by an old vow, one meant only for those with steadfast hearts. If you pledge yourself to her with it, if you promise to come back to her in this life or the next, that promise will hold you to it.”

Bennet glanced up, uncertainty in his eyes. Elizabeth reached out, brushing a hand over his cheek. “Do you love her, my son?” she asked softly.

The young man snapped his gaze to hers, resolve flaring in his eyes. “Yes, Mother. More than life itself.”

“Then know this—such a vow can be a curse, or it can be a blessing. For me, it has been nothing but blessing.” She nodded as if reassuring herself as much as him. “And I am certain it will be the same for you.”

I squeezed his shoulder. “Go on, Bennet. No time to waste. And do us proud.”

He hesitated only a moment, clutching the brooch tightly in his palm before he took a steadying breath and nodded. “Thank you, Father. Mother.” With one last glance between us, he turned, his shoulders squared with purpose as he made his way toward Miss Bingley.

Elizabeth and I exchanged a quiet, knowing smile, watching as he wove through the crowd, finally reaching her and leading her toward the doors to a quiet corner of the hall. The glow of the ballroom faded as he took her hand and guided her, both of them sneaking glances back, their laughter hushed in excitement.

The clock began to chime, marking the approach of midnight.

Beside me, Elizabeth slipped her hand into mine, her fingers warm and her grip as sure and steady as it had ever been. I turned to her, the light in her eyes reminding me of every year we’d shared, every Christmas since that first, wild ball that had bound us in ways neither of us could have ever foreseen. She tilted her head, her eyes brimming with emotion.

“Do you think,” she whispered, her voice just for me, “that Ewan McLean would be proud?”

I chuckled, drawing her closer. “I think he’d be insufferably smug.” Then, more tenderly, I added, “But aye, ma dùrachdan . I’d wager he’d be right proud.”

The final chime of midnight rang out, echoing through the hall. From across the room, Bennet’s laughter mingled with Eliza Bingley’s as he slipped the brooch into her hand, sealing his promise.

“Merry Christmas, Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth whispered.

“Merry Christmas, my love,” I replied, holding her close, feeling the blessing of our shared life wrap around us, warm and sure as ever.