I swung my legs off the bed, stumbling slightly as I stood. My body protested every movement, aching from being twisted in an awkward position for what must have been hours. Too much drink. Too little sense. I should have known better than to let Bingley talk me into staying up for that nightcap.
Still grumbling to myself, I staggered over to the basin. A good, stiff splash of cold water on my face would surely clear the last remnants of this ridiculous dream. I leaned over, doused my face, and wiped my eyes with a towel.
But when I glanced up at the mirror, my heart nearly stopped.
There, reflected behind me, was the wild-eyed man again—Ewan, if I remembered that part of the dream correctly—looking over my shoulder with an almost curious expression.
I froze, every muscle locking up in terror. For a split second, I told myself this couldn’t be real. But when he raised an eyebrow, I screamed.
Not the dignified, stern kind of shout one might expect from a man like me—oh no. This was a full-throated, soul-leaving-my-body sort of scream, the kind usually reserved for surprise proposals and armed highwaymen. I bolted for the door, my feet sliding on the floorboards, limbs flailing. All thoughts of composure, breeding, and every shred of decency went flying out the window.
“Ach, lad! There’s nae need to keen like a banshee!” his voice trailed after me, but I was too busy fleeing for my life to care.
Out into the hall I ran, my untucked shirt billowing around me, bare feet slapping against the floor in a manner I was sure would haunt me later. I didn’t care. I just had to get out.
I reached the landing and there he was, standing at the bottom of the stairs like he’d been there all along, arms folded, face full of complete boredom.
“Yer no’ gonna outrun me, ye know,” he called up, looking for all the world like he was lecturing a child about stealing jam.
I let out a sound somewhere between a yelp and a very manly grunt—no one would ever call it a squeak, certainly not—and spun around, charging back the way I came. The panic bubbling inside me surged like some wild animal, and reason had completely fled the scene, much like I was trying to.
“Ye’ll wear yersel’ oot, lad!” Ewan called, his voice infuriatingly casual, as if this were all a bit of morning exercise.
I pelted down the corridor, headlong into the next staircase. This was absurd. This couldn’t be happening! Ghosts weren’t real, and even if they were, they had the good sense to remain in tragic ballads, not in my bedroom.
But then, halfway down the stairs, I skidded to a halt. Ewan was standing at the bottom again, looking far too pleased with himself. This man—this ghost—was popping up like an unwanted relative at a dinner party.
“Ach, come, Darcy, this is gettin’ a wee bit daft.” He gave a long-suffering sigh, as though he were speaking to a child having a tantrum over vegetables. “Ye’d think ye’d ne’er laid eyes on a spirit afore.”
I let out another undignified yelp and darted down the hall, heart hammering in my ears—or was that my pride, beating itself to death after this series of humiliations?
This was insanity. Complete, unadulterated madness. But still, I had no desire to be seen by anyone else in this ridiculous state. The servants were stirring already, and the very idea of Mrs. Nicholls spotting me, barefoot and wild-eyed, tearing down the hall like a madman, made me consider launching myself out of a window.
I didn’t have the courage for that, though, so I did the next best thing.
I spotted the service staircase, hidden away near the far end of the hall. I lunged for it like a man lunging for the last lifeboat on a sinking ship. Flinging open the door, I threw myself down the narrow, creaking steps two at a time. There wasn’t much space to maneuver, but it wasn’t like I was doing much thinking anyway.
“Ach, runnin’ off now, are ye? Ye’ll nae get far, lad. I’m stuck with ye, like it or no’!”
I wasn’t listening. I couldn’t be. If I slowed down for even a moment, I’d have to face the fact that my life had taken a sharp, deeply unwelcome detour into the world of ghosts and curses. Either that, or it was the worst hangover I’d had since university.
Down the stairs I went, hurtling myself toward the back of the house. Each step groaned beneath my weight, and I could practically hear the house mocking me for my complete and utter lack of dignity. But I kept going. I had no other choice.
The moment I hit the stone floor, I slammed open the door to the servant’s entrance and practically fell out into the cold morning air, my feet skidding on the wet ground. I clung to the side of the house, gasping, hair sticking to my face in an undignified and, frankly, sweaty mess.
The chill of the dawn hit me, sharp and biting, and I stood there, panting like a hare that had just escaped the hounds. I had never been so grateful for fresh air in my life, but I also had never been more utterly, completely, certifiably done with everything.
“I’m going mad,” I muttered to myself. “That’s it. I’ve lost my mind.”
But I didn’t dare look behind me. If that horrid Scotsman appeared again, I’d likely faint outright, and that was a humiliation I wasn’t ready to face just yet.
Elizabeth
The morning couldn’t havebeen more beautiful. The rain had washed everything clean, leaving the air crisp and the sky a brilliant blue, dotted with a few lingering clouds. The trees, rich with autumn colors, glistened with drops of water, and the smell of damp earth filled the air as I walked. My shoes squelched occasionally in the mud, but otherwise, I was perfectly comfortable.
Mama had been completely wrong. There wasn’t a drop of rain in sight. The only danger I faced was the mud beneath my feet—and perhaps the odd look I might get for cutting across the fields to reach Netherfield more quickly.
I rounded a small grove of trees, the great house just coming into view, when—
