I clenched my fists. “If you keep meddling in my affairs—”
“Ach, ye'll what? Threaten me, will ye? I’m already dead, ye daftie, remember?” He chuckled, taking off his boots and propping them up on my desk, the smell hitting me like an attack.
How could I smell a ghost’s feet? It made no sense, but here it was—an undeniable assault on the nose. “For heaven’s sake, put those away!” I snapped, recoiling from the scent.
“What’s the matter?” he said with a smirk, wiggling his toes like some kind of barbarian. “Afraid yer fancy English manners cannae stomach a wee taste o’ real livin’?”
I buried my face in my hands, half in disbelief, half in frustration. “I cannot believe this is my life.”
“Well, ye best get used to it,” he said, lounging back like he hadn’t a care in the world. “I’m no’ goin’ anywhere, lad. No’ till ye sort yersel’ out.”
“And what exactly am I supposed to sort out?”
“I dinnae ken,” he said before belching loudly. “Now, if ye don’t mind, I’m off tae find somethin’ a bit more excitin’ than yer books. Maybe that bonny lass...”
Before I could even think of a reply, Ewan strolled right back out the window, leaving behind a muddy mess and the faint scent of whisky and regret.
Fourteen
Darcy
Istepped into thecramped little bookseller’s shop, the door creaking ominously behind me. It was the kind of place that reeked of dust and moldering paper, with shelves packed so tightly they seemed to sag under the weight of volumes that hadn’t been touched in years. A far cry from the sort of establishments I was used to, but desperate times, and all that…
A bell jingled, and an older man emerged from the back, wiping his spectacles on a cloth. He squinted at me like he hadn’t seen daylight in a while, or customers of my rank. “What can I do for you, sir?”
I cleared my throat, uncomfortable already. “I’m looking for books on… Scottish history. Myths, superstitions, that sort of thing. Anything on Culloden, perhaps?”
He blinked. Clearly, that was not the sort of request he got every day. “Culloden, you say?” His voice had that dubious tone people used when they were trying to figure out if I was serious. “Not much call for that around here, I’m afraid. Mostly got sermons, farming manuals, the odd novel. Plenty of those, actually. Can’t say I’ve got much in the way of ghost stories, though.”
Ghost stories. Of course, that’s how it would sound. I resisted the urge to groan. “I’m in a bit of a hurry to find this material. Is there any way you could order something?”
He scratched his head, his face screwed up in thought. “I suppose I could try.”
“I will make it worth your while,” I said, sliding a coin across the counter.
He took it up with an appreciative smile. “Well, now, that will certainly grease the wheel, but even at that, it will take some time. London has its share of booksellers, but you know how it is, asking for small, specific orders like that. It’s never quick.”
Not quick. That was the last thing I wanted to hear. The thought of another week at Netherfield, dodging Wickham, avoiding Elizabeth Bennet, and dealing with Ewan’s constant interruptions made me want to walk right out of Meryton and keep going. But still, I asked, “And there’s no one nearby with a collection that might include such material?”
The bookseller chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, now, there’s one man I can think of. That Bennet fellow, over at Longbourn. Buys more books than anyone I’ve ever seen. Got a whole room full of them. He’s bound to have something. Might be worth asking him.”
Bennet. Was I to be forever chasing Bennets?
I stared at the bookseller, unable to stop my jaw from clenching. Mr. Bennet. Of all people. I barely knew the man, apart from the few social interactions forced upon us, but worse—far worse—was his daughter. The last thing I wanted was another awkward encounter with Elizabeth Bennet, the woman who already believed I was unstable. Perhaps she wasn’t far off at this rate.
The bookseller was still smiling at me as if he’d done me a great favor. “Of course,” he added, “You may have to charm him a bit, and he’s no respecter of a fat purse. Can be a tricky fellow, that one.”
Tricky? If he was anything like his daughter, he would be a complete menace to my sanity.
I nodded, thanked him as politely as I could manage, and left the shop, my head already pounding with the thought of what I’d have to do next. The streets of Meryton were relatively empty, the autumn breeze rustling the leaves on the trees as I made my way toward my horse. Longbourn, it was. Every step felt heavier than the last.
How did one approach a man like Mr. Bennet? He was the sort of man who held no one and nothing in any sort of awe. My name and rank meant nothing to him. He would be just as likely to let me wait on his pleasure outside in the rain, just because he could—well, that was until his wife discovered me and took pity on me. With my luck, I would end up with a debilitating chest cold and a dangerous fever that necessitated my staying under his roof, nursed by the tender mercies of Mrs. Bennet and her plethora of daughters.
But no, I had no need to invent such fantastical fears, for the reality was terrifying enough. The real obstacle was not Mr. Bennet or his wife or even his raucous youngest daughter. The moment I set foot in that house, I would have to faceheragain. Elizabeth Bennet, with her sharp wit, her knowing looks, and that ever-present smirk that made me question everything I said. The woman had already witnessed me at my worst, and ifI knocked on her father’s door to beg for books about Highland ghosts, it wouldn’t exactly improve my standing.
But what other choice did I have? I had to find answers, or I’d never rid myself of—
“Ach, ye look like yer walkin’ to the gallows.”
