Darcy’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Yes, for nearly two days together. Miss Elizabeth, have you any experience with small children?”
I pursed my lips and tilted my head. “Mr. Darcy, you have met my younger sisters. What do you think?”
He quirked a brow. “Indeed. Well, then, you may be familiar with the concept of ‘if it is quiet, there is trouble.’”
“Ah.” I started to collect some of the books on the table and stack them neatly. We had no further need for some of these, so I would carry them back today. “Does that mean you are concerned that your friendly neighborhood ghost is up to some mischief?”
“When is he not up to mischief? Usually, he delights in destroying my life up close, but for now, at least, it seems he’s found more... amusing distractions.”
“For now?” I raised an eyebrow. “I must admit, I half expected him to be waiting here, making books fly off the table for daring to meet with you unchaperoned.”
“He’d likely enjoy it too much,” Darcy muttered. “But no, thankfully, he’s spared us that particular... intrusion.”
“Well, I suppose we should consider ourselves lucky,” I said, laughing softly. “A conversation without being interrupted by an invisible Scot sounds almost... pleasant.”
Darcy looked at me, his gaze lingering a little too long. “It does.”
There was something in the way he said it that made me pause. It wasn’t just the words, but the timber of his voice when he said them. Darcy had always struck me as serious, almost somber at times, but there was a quietness to him now that felt different. Warmer, somehow.
I swallowed. “You’ve learned more from Ewan, haven’t you? You have an odd look on your face just now.”
“More so than usual?”
“Oh, indeed. For your ‘usual’ expression is one of terrified paranoia. Now, you just look annoyed.”
Darcy sighed, then chuckled, his breath misting in the cold air. “Not from him directly, but yes. My grandmother’s journals proved… enlightening, though I’m not sure how much of it is relevant.”
“Relevant to what?”
“To... everything, I suppose.” He looked down, avoiding my gaze for a moment. “It seems I’ve been involved in this tangled story much longer than I ever realized.”
I set down the books I’d been collecting. “What do you mean?”
“My grandmother had a companion,” he said slowly, “a woman named Isobel McLean. Ewan’s sister. She lived at Pemberley’s dower house for some time, though I have no memory of her. Apparently, I met her when I was only four years of age.”
I blinked, trying to piece it together. “Your grandmother’s companion? Interesting.”
Darcy nodded. “Grandmother died in January of 1800, so Isobel McLean would have only been at Pemberley for about three years. I’ve no idea what became of the woman after that, but I was able to find entries about Isobel in Grandmother’s journal... odd ones. Strange things she said, strange behavior. Sound familiar?”
I raised a brow. “Indeed. Strange how?”
“Well, as you might expect, she used to talk to herself. Or rather, she talked to someone who ‘wasn’t there.’ My grandmother wrote it off as harmless eccentricity at first, but then there was an entry that caught my attention. Apparently, Miss McLean used to watch me. Every time I visited Grandmother as a boy, she would mutter under her breath, saying things like, ‘That’s the lad.’ As if she were expecting me.”
I stared at him, trying to absorb it all. “So you’ve been... fated to cross paths with Ewan’s ghost since you were a boy?”
“Apparently.”
“That’s... quite a long game to play for a ghost,” I mused, biting my lip as I tried to imagine how a decades-old plan could unfold so subtly.
Darcy shook his head. “I’ve given up trying to make sense of it. There’s too much we don’t know. Too many pieces missing.”
“Have you considered,” I started, stacking more books into the basket, “that perhaps Ewan doesn’t even know the full story himself? Maybe he’s just... improvising.”
Darcy’s lips twitched, but his eyes remained contemplative. “Improvising, Miss Bennet? I do wonder if you give him too much credit. I suspect Ewan’s version of improvisation would involve throwing more objects at my head.”
“Yes, but think about it,” I said, warming to the idea. “He might believe he’s orchestrating something grand, but he might also be as lost in all of this as we are. What if he only knows half the reason he’s still here, and he’s making it up as he goes along?”
Darcy considered this, the crease in his brow deepening. “That would explain his constant meddling.”
