I didn’t know exactly what was happening, but I had a strong suspicion that this mysterious ball had everything to do with Ewan. I could practically hear the ghost cackling in some invisible corner of the room, rubbing his hands together in delight.
The rest of the conversation blurred as Mrs. Bennet continued to gush about gowns and preparations, Lydia babbled on about the officers, and Kitty joined in with her own suggestions for the ball. But I kept glancing toward Darcy, whose eyes met mine each time with that same unspoken understanding.
Something was definitely brewing.
Twenty-Three
Darcy
The Bennet ladies werepreparing to leave, a flurry of cloaks and chatter as they gathered at the carriage. I stood a short distance from the door, doing my best to keep out of the way, while Bingley hovered near Jane, still glowing from the victory of his declared ball.
Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, however, were far less enthusiastic about the whole affair, their polite smiles barely hiding their displeasure at Bingley’s impulsive decision.
I watched from the edge of the entryway, half-expecting Ewan to make his presence known again at any moment, but the ghost had been suspiciously absent since the previous night. My relief was tempered by the knowledge that this calm wouldn’t last. Ewan was up to something—I just didn’t know what.
As I turned to follow Bingley back inside, movement from across the courtyard caught my eye.
Elizabeth.
She stood at the carriage, adjusting her shawl, but her eyes met mine in a brief, secret glance. No one else seemed to notice—her sisters were too busy fussing over who would sit where, and Mrs. Bennet was too focused on reminding Jane of something—but Elizabeth held my gaze for just a moment longer than necessary. Then, with a subtle tilt of her head, she glanced toward the woods. It was so faint, so perfectly timed between movements, that no one else would have noticed.
But I did.
My heart lurched in my chest. It was a signal. She wanted me to meet her at the gamekeeper’s cottage again, where we could speak freely.
It was unwise, incredibly so. Her reputation could be jeopardized if we weren’t careful—if anyone saw us. This was not like a few days ago, when fresh snow promised to cover our tracks. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky today, and our footprints would stand out clear as a bell—but the temptation to talk to her, to unburden myself of everything I knew about Ewan, was undeniable.
Before she could turn away, I mouthed, “One hour.”
She caught my meaning immediately, gave the smallest nod, and stepped into the carriage, her face calm and unreadable as the Bennet party departed.
When I arrived, Elizabethwas already waiting. She stood near the small table, her back to me, her hands tracing absentmindedly over the spines of the books that littered the table—no doubt the latest pillaging of Mr. Bennet’s trove. She didn’t startle when I entered, and I could tell by the slight tilt of her head that she’d heard my approach.
“I was beginning to think you might reconsider,” she said, turning to face me with a half-smile.
I closed the door softly behind me. “I nearly did.”
Her eyebrow arched slightly. “And yet, here you are.”
I gave a short nod, moving to stand opposite her. “I needed to tell you the rest. About Ewan.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened instantly. Her sympathy for the ghost—a man she had never seen, who wasn’t even real to her—was remarkable. I hadn’t expected that when I first confided in her.
“All I knew was that he fled the battle at Culloden. Did he tell you why? Anything else?”
I nodded, running a hand over my face, trying to organize the pieces of Ewan’s chaotic confession into something that made sense. “Yes. He told me the story. He wasn’t proud of it, but he didn’t mince words. He was… trapped between loyalty to his clan and the knowledge that staying would mean certain death. The fighting was over by the time he turned back, and he carried the shame of it—of not going down with the others.”
Elizabeth frowned, her fingers resting on one of the books. “I can’t imagine the guilt, even though I… I am certain I would have done the same.” She paused, her brow furrowed in thought. “He told you all of this himself?”
I nodded. “In his own way, of course.”
A soft sigh escaped her, and she leaned against the table. “I am sorry for him.”
I blinked at her. Sorry?
“You pity him,” I said, more a statement than a question. “He’s not even real… not in the traditional sense… and you pity him.”
“I do. If you hadn’t told me about him, I would have never known he existed. But he’s real enough to you, Mr. Darcy, so he’s real enough for me.”
