Ewan let out a bitter laugh. “Tell the truth? Och, lad, how could I? How could I face me sister, Isobel? Face any o’ them? I didnae die wi’ honor—I ran. Hid like a whipped dog, I did. An’ by the time I crawled back tae find Isobel, fifteen years had passed. Fifteen years o’ livin’ wi’ the shame. It was her that told me aboot Elspeth.” He hid his face in his hands.
“So, how did you die?” I asked, stepping closer. “How did it finally end?”
He turned to face me, his expression hollow. “It was Elspeth’s loch. The same place she jumped. I went back there, tried tae throw mesel’ in after her. But I wasnae as lucky as she was. I slipped, broke my leg on the rocks. Infection took me after that.”
My mouth dropped open at the horror of it. “And Isobel? Did she know?”
He gave me a crooked smile. “Aye, she tried tae nurse me back, but I was gone before she could do anythin’. Gave her ma brooch before I passed.”
I swallowed, staring at him. “And after that? Did you haunt her, too, or am I the first one to be so lucky?”
Ewan’s smile faded, and he glanced at the floor. “Aye. At first. Had a laugh or two, ye ken? But after a while, it just… got old.”
I took a breath, my mind racing with questions, but one pressed to the front, demanding an answer. “Why me? Why was I her heir? Surely you know something, Ewan.”
He shrugged, his face a mask of confusion—or indifference. “Dinnae ken, lad. Maybe the brooch had its eye on ye. Always seemed like it was huntin’ for its rightful keeper, it did.”
I frowned. “The brooch’s rightful owner was you, Ewan. So, how did that help?”
Ewan shook his head slowly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “The brooch was never mine, lad. It belonged tae Elspeth. Always did.”
Before I could press him further, he tipped his hat, a tired smirk on his lips, and vanished.
Elizabeth
“Oh, Lizzy, do hurryup!” Lydia called back to me, skipping ahead like a child. Her bonnet, already askew, flapped precariously as she trotted toward Aunt Philips’ house. “Mama says we mustn’t keep Aunt Philips waiting.”
I sighed and adjusted my gloves. “She won’t even notice if we’re five minutes late. She’ll be too busy talking.”
Kitty, trailing beside me, grinned. “Aunt Philips does love her gossip.”
“She does,” I agreed. “Which is why I can only imagine what wild tales we’re about to hear today.”
Ahead of us, Mama had already linked arms with Mary, who was grimly holding her prayer book as if she might be ambushed by sinners at any moment. But, at least, there would be no ambushes by Mr. Collins. He had remained at Longbourn to read, saying he must prepare his sermon for when he returned to Kent. So long as he was not with us, I did not care what he did.
As we approached Aunt Philips’ house, Lydia had practically broken into a run, barely knocking before bursting through the door, her laughter echoing down the street.
Inside, Aunt Philips welcomed us with open arms—and, true to form, immediately launched into conversation.
“Ah, Sister, and my dear nieces! Come in, come in! I was just telling Mr. Philips the most delightful bit of news! Oh, you’ll never guess what I heard at the butcher this morning!” Aunt Philips practically dragged us into the parlor, her hands framing the air.
I exchanged a wary glance with Kitty. Whenever Aunt Philips started a sentence with “you’ll never guess,” it usually meant some far-fetched rumor was about to make the rounds.
“What is it, Sister?” Mama asked, eyes wide, already readying herself to feast on whatever morsel of gossip was about to be served. “Do tell!”
“Well!” Aunt Philips sat down, smoothing her skirts. “Mr. Bingley’s cook was at the butcher this morning, placing the largest order I have ever seen—absolutely staggering amounts of beef, poultry, and game. You know what that means, don’t you?”
Mama gasped. “A ball! Oh, it must be a ball! What else could it be?”
Kitty and Lydia squealed in delight, clapping their hands. “A ball! A Christmas ball at Netherfield!” Lydia cried. “It’s too perfect!”
I folded my arms, narrowing my eyes. “It seems like quite a leap to assume that, Aunt. Mr. Bingley just hosted a ball. It seems odd he would so quickly be planning another. It could be for any number of reasons. A large gathering of guests from Town, perhaps. Or something festive for his tenants.”
But Aunt Philips waved away my objections with a flourish. “Nonsense, Lizzy! Everyone knows an orderthatlarge from the butcher is the surest sign of a ball being planned. And at this time of year? It simply must be a yuletide celebration!”
“But there have been no invitations, no calls to that effect—”
Oh, what was the use? Everyone was talking over me, anyway.
