Miss Bennet—Elizabeth—had chosen the location, and with good reason. Neither of us could afford to be seen together like this, but the circumstances left me with few alternatives. My options had dwindled down to precisely none, and now I was sitting in the middle of a decaying stone cottage, surrounded by stacks of stolen books, trying to convince myself that the best chance I had now was to confess the entire absurdity of my situation to the one person I least wanted to think I’d gone mad.
I stared at the stack of books, but the words on their spines blurred together, slipping out of focus. I needed those books to hold the answers. I needed anything—anything—to make sense of this curse that had taken over my life. But before I could ask for Elizabeth Bennet’s help, she needed to hear the truth.
The real truth.
I exhaled, the air heavy in my chest. She was sitting across from me, her posture relaxed but her eyes keen, watching me with a kind of curious patience. I could only imagine what she was thinking. This would be the moment that confirmed for her, beyond any doubts, that I truly had lost my mind. That Mr. Darcy of Pemberley had finally cracked.
I reached for one of the books, stalling for a second longer, running my thumb along the worn leather spine.
“It started with a brooch.”
The words felt foreign on my tongue, strange and absurd. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, her head tilting ever so slightly to one side.
“A brooch?” she echoed, her voice even, though I could see the flicker of doubt in her eyes.
I nodded, staring at the book in my hands. “An old brooch. One that was bequeathed to me by some… connection… I still do not quite understand the nature of it, but the end of it was that I acquired a collection of trinkets and curios that seemed perfectly unremarkable.” My grip tightened. “Until one of them wasn’t.”
“Who was this… connection?”
“I don’t know. Some spinster named Isobel McLean who claimed a friendship with my grandmother—I’ve not the least idea if that is even true. But the brooch itself once belonged to her brother, a Jacobite soldier,” I said, my voice low, each word feeling like it cost me something. “Ewan McLean. A man who died at the Battle of Culloden.”
Her eyes narrowed, her expression unreadable.
“But he didn’t die—not properly,” I went on, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Or perhaps he did. It’s... difficult to say. All I know is that ever since I found that brooch, he’s been... haunting me.”
The word “haunting” hung in the air between us, and I half-expected her to laugh, to scoff, to tell me how ridiculous I sounded. But she didn’t.
She blinked once. Twice. And then: “I beg your pardon?”
I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to stand up and flee the cottage altogether. “He’s been with me constantly. He talks, he meddles, he... interferes in my life. He was at the ball.”
Her mouth opened, then closed again. “At the ball?”
“Yes,” I said, the word coming out sharper than I intended. “He was there. You saw him—or, rather, you saw the effects of him.”
Her brow creased further. “I’m afraid you will have to clarify somewhat.”
“The glass, Miss Bennet. The punch glass that you took from him. He was… rather put out about it, in fact.”
For a moment, Elizabeth was silent, her gaze fixed on me as if trying to gauge my sincerity. And her eyelid started to twitch. Finally, she spoke. “I was terribly curious about that, sir.”
I swallowed and closed my eyes. “I know how it sounds. If it were anyone but myself who had seen it, I—”
“Back up the carriage for a moment,” she interrupted. “Are you trying to tell me that you are not only plagued by the specter of a long-dead Highlander, but that this… person?… also has a predilection for punch?”
I lifted my shoulders. “Punch, claret, whiskey… I rarely see him but that he does not have some sort of alcoholic beverage in his hand. And when he is not drinking, he smells like he has been.”
Her eyes widened in a flash. “He smells!”
“And leaves muddy footprints across my bed chamber whenever it pleases him. Believe me, Miss Elizabeth, if I had any explanations for it, I would surely offer them, but I do not.”
Her mouth was starting to fall slack by now, but not for breathing. I was fairly certain she had not taken a breath in quite some time. Sure enough, before she spoke again, she was required to take a fresh gulp of air.
“Excuse me, Mr. Darcy, but how is it that nobody else sees this… character? Surely, you do not expect anyone to believe—”
I clenched my jaw and glared at the wall. “I amnotmad. I am a rational, thinking man, Miss Bennet, who just happens to be beset by something I cannot explain.”
“Oh,” she said gently, her brows arching, “I can see that.”
