Fitzwilliam has been asking more questions lately—about his father, about Pemberley, about the future. He has a sense of responsibility that I did not expect at his age, though I suppose it is only natural. He will one day take over the estate, and I can already see the mantle of that knowledge settling on him. So much like his father, that lad.
Again, that sense of waiting. Isobel was waiting for something—or someone. But who? Or what? The tension in my chest grew as I read, each entry pulling me further into a mystery I hadn’t even known existed.
November 15th, 1799
Miss McLean spoke to me today about her brother. Nearly two years under my roof, and it was the first time she has mentioned him in any detail. She said that he had been involved in the Jacobite rising, just as George suspected. I daresay the fool met with a swift and brutal end. Little wonder Miss McLean speaks of him sadly. She also mentioned that at one time, he was to be married to a friend of hers, though the name slips my mind. I believe it began with an “E”. Alas, the poor child apparently drowned herself in the winter of ‘45.
I wonder if this is why she has been so unsettled lately. Perhaps the memories of her brother weigh heavily on her mind, especially now as winter approaches. There is a certain sentimentality, I suppose, in coming into one’s sunset years. I have the joy of seeing my family growing, while she lost all hers to that futile Uprising.
I turned the page, my breath catching in my throat as I reached the next entry.
December 5th, 1799
There is a strange aura in the house lately. Miss McLean has been acting more peculiar than ever. She still performs her duties, but there is a distracted air about her, as if her mind is elsewhere. I have caught her speaking to herself more frequently, though when I ask her who she is speaking to, she only smiles and says, “my brother.”
It is unsettling, to say the least. I have spoken to George about it, but he assures me that there is no need for concern. He believes that she is simply homesick and that her behavior will pass in time.
But I am not so sure. There is something very troubling about her now. As if she is not entirely present in the room with me… nor, indeed, in the same world.
The air in the room seemed to grow colder as I read those words. Otherworldly. My grandmother had sensed it too. Isobel had been communicating with her brother—even then, even after his death. But how? And why?
I kept reading, my fingers trembling slightly as I turned the pages.
December 15th, 1799
Fitzwilliam came to visit today, and again, odd behavior from Miss McLean. She has been so quiet and reserved for the past few weeks, but she seemed almost... animated in his presence. She watched him closely, her eyes following his every movement, as if she were seeing something in him that I could not. I begin to fear she intends to do him some mischief.
At one point, she approached him and spoke to him in a low voice. I could not hear what she said, but Fitzwilliam looked confused, and she quickly retreated. I think it would be wise if I did not leave him unattended in her presence.
December 25th, 1799
Christmas Day has come again, and the house is full of warmth and laughter. I spent the day at the manor house with Fitzwilliam and Georgiana. Dearest Georgie brings such cheer to the house, particularly after her mother’s passing.
Fitzwilliam and I had tea by the fire today, just the two of us. He is a fine young man, and I know he will grow into someone worthy of Pemberley. He has always had the weight of the world on his shoulders, even as a boy, but I see something in him now—something that seems rather masterful.
Miss McLean finally seems to have settled in well. It is as though whatever once troubled her suddenly ceased, and she is become most decent and sedate, indeed. She is a dutiful companion, and for that, I am grateful. But occasionally she still gets an odd look about her. She will take to staring into her teacup or fingering some old brooch and will spend hours staring off into the hills. At times, I feel as though I am caught in the middle of a story I do not understand, a story that began long before I was aware of it.
I stopped reading. “A story that began long before I was aware of it.”It wasn’t just my grandmother who had been caught in this story—it was me. I had been part of this, tied to Ewan and Isobel and Elspeth, long before I had ever known their names.
The realization hit me like a cold wind, sharp and unforgiving. Ewan had chosen me—somehow, for some reason—and his sister had known it. She had seen something in me, something that had tied me to her brother’s fate.
I set the journal down, my heart hammering like I had just run for miles.
Pricking my finger on that brooch had been no accident. I had been part of this all along.
Twenty-Five
Elizabeth
When I reached thecottage, I wasn’t surprised to find Mr. Darcy already waiting—leaning casually against the low stone wall. He wasn’t exactly the sort to be late. What did surprise me was the ease in his posture, a marked difference from the stiff, guarded man I had come to know over the past two months. He straightened when he saw me, brushing off his coat as if to shake off the winter cold, though something in his expression softened.
“Miss Bennet,” he said with a bow.
“Mr. Darcy.” I gave him a teasing smile, tugging my gloves off and dropping them on the table. “I wondered if I would see you here today. I came to collect the last of my father’s books, ashe was rather eager to have them back before mildew took the pages.”
Something like a smile warmed Mr. Darcy’s face, and he was rather fetching when he looked like that. A pity I had more often seen him flinching and looking over his shoulder. But today, he seemed relaxed and very much at peace.
“Tell me,” I said, “has Ewan left you alone for once?”
