Left To Follow

Mr Darcy,

I am certain you will understand, given the occurrences of last evening, why I feel obliged to pay a visit to my father and mother. My father is in very poor health and wishes to see his grand-son before either of them dies. We should both be back at Pemberley on the ninth of May.

I remain, your obedient wife

---

Her parents welcomed her home with open, if startled, arms. Her father — who had grown to like her husband in spite of himself — instantly asked, “I hope Mr Darcy is well?”

“Very well,” she said dully. Her father's eyebrows raised; he could hardly believe the pale, shrinking creature before him was his daughter. Yet she had fled Pemberley, which she had loved from the first time he'd seen it, fled her husband — who by all accounts she was very fond of — and come here, begging refuge. The sight of his proud daughter begging had nearly reduced him to tears, not to mention the pale, eerily quiet bundle in her arms. She had stolen the heir to Pemberley into the bargain; her son as well as Darcy's, but there were few who would look at it that way. But she was his daughter, and he gladly welcomed her back into their home.

“Why have you come, child?” She had been the baby of the family for several years, and he had never stopped thinking of her as his baby; perhaps because she had always been closer to him, and to her elder sister, than anyone else in the family. He felt his heart breaking as he looked at her, eyes blank and face ashen. Her child could not be more than six weeks old, and he knew from her one letter that parenthood was already a bittersweet experience; she fiercely loved her son, but he had been born so early, and he was so frail. Even the most hopeful did not expect him to live more than a few years, and she herself had nearly died in the birth.

“I'm sorry, papa,” she said, dark eyes wide and dry. “I didn't know — it was so awful — I —” she stared down at her hands. “I think I shall be able to forgive him this, and go back; just not now. After everything that had happened; we had a dreadful quarrel before it happened, and I didn't know he was still with her —” She looked up at him desperately. “You do not blame me?”

“Oh, no,” he assured her instantly, briefly imagining the tortures he would like to subject his son-in-law to — although it briefly crossed his mind as peculiar that it should be Darcy, easily his favourite among his sons-in-law (although he had no objections to his eldest child's husband, except that he was rather spineless), who had committed this all too common transgression. Even Catherine's stodgy husband had seemed more likely. Darcy was proud, and honourable, and even kind; but he supposed all men could make mistakes. Suddenly, he intensely wished that he had more strenuously opposed the marriage; he had really made no more than a token objection, after her reassurances of affection for the man. And it was by all accounts an excellent match.

His wife fussed over their daughter and grand-son, had her rooms made ready, and called for a nurse. She had had the foresight, despite her distress, to bring a wet-nurse with her (a grim-faced martinent reminiscent of his fearsome childhood governess), and handed the now quietly crying child over to her. “I'm sorry, Sarah, to bring you into this.”

“It's quite all right,” Sarah said sternly, taking the child out of his daughter's arms. She looked decidedly reluctant to be parted from him, and Sarah added, “We must take care of the young master, madam. Wouldn't do to have him catching something, now would it?”

She smiled wanly. “No, of course not. You'll take care of him?”

“Of course, ma'am.” Sarah had been her maid as a young girl, and had gone to Derbyshire with her upon her marriage. There was no doubting her devotion, naturally, but he was still rather uneasy until she had left the room.

“Have you heard from Catherine, papa?”

He smiled. “Yes, she has settled into married life very comfortably; more comfortably than her husband, I daresay, who accedes to her every command. They have a little daughter, not much older than your own child.” He frowned. “To think I don't know the name of my own grand-son. What did you call him?”

“I thought to name him after you, papa,” said she, with a sweet smile, “and Mr Darcy did not protest.”

“Edward?” he asked thoughtfully. “My dear, I am more pleased, and flattered, than I can say.”

She laughed, for the first time since her arrival an hour earlier. “No, not Edward,” said Anne; “his name is Fitzwilliam.”

Anne, Countess of Matlock

The past is beginning to blend together. I remember myself as I was, Lady Anne Leigh, young and handsome and clever; I could have had any man I wanted, I told my children, and depending upon the child in question they sighed or laughed. I did not tell them, not until they were older and knew what the world was like, how it had come about. There was secrecy and deceit and by the end nobody was fooled, so there was scandal as well; and I hated it, I hated it all. Except Edward. They say, my father said, that love turns to hate when that sort of thing happens, that mine would, but it did not, I could not imagine not loving Edward, I think I always did. How they could have thought we disliked one another, I have no idea.

And I thought it should go on and on, but Edward's father died and then Catherine, and within a year I was Lady Matlock, and our little Edward, he always called me mother. Of course I was — it was Catherine's idea to go to Venice, she was so desperate to give him a son, even another woman's son — and he had my eyes, but Catherine had been a Leigh as well, that was no proof. Edward's Catherine was their only child, and she was always an odd girl, I think she must have felt it, although I did my best. I was very fond of her when she was a child, I was so sorry for her; neither Edward nor Catherine seemed to notice her at all. But she was so strange, as she grew older, I could not truly warm to her, nor could any of the others, except Anne.

Anne. My dearest Anne, she was always highly-strung, brilliant and temperamental; and I was afraid for her, because I did not believe any man could ever make her happy. It was only in the family that she could be herself, and her husband, he would force her into a picture frame, demand parts of her until she was broken. George Darcy was lost for her, at first, but he was exactly what I feared; loving but not truly comprehending. He did not understand Anne and he did not understand Fitzwilliam and they were miserable because of it.

No mother should live to see the death of her child, my aunt told me when I tried to comfort her, all those years ago, but it was only when Anne died that I truly understood. I had loved Henry, but he had always been wild, we knew something would eventually happen, his life would catch up with him; Anne, though, there was no expecting it. She was alive and healthy and holding her little girl, she was happy for the first time in years despite her estrangement from her husband, and then she was gone. Fitzwilliam and I, we had known and loved her best, and it was so incomprehensible, I could do nothing but hold my grandson as he sobbed in my arms. It was not real; she would walk out of that room, laughing a little at our stupidity — she would hold out her arms for Georgiana, who could just say `mamma' — and she would ask Fitzwilliam and Ella to play for us — in just a few moments. She could not possibly be gone.

Darcy was grieved, not perhaps for Anne as she had been, but for what had been lost, and that I could understand; but what he said, and did, then, I could never forgive. I thought I had forgiven him when he died, but I was wrong. If Catherine had known, she would have murdered him with her parasol as we took leave; but Edward knew, and that was why he took Fitzwilliam that evening, just as Anne had done all those years before. There was always an emptiness, we felt her loss as we never had Catherine's or Henry's, and Ella and Fitzwilliam and Henry altogether could not fill it.

The years passed, though, and the grief grew fainter. Ella married my great-nephew — a good match, and they did not expect too much of one another — and the others grew older. Henry and Richard and Fitzwilliam, they were always thick as thieves, for all the opposition of character between them; and they remained so all their lives. Fitzwilliam and Henry would still switch places, and although they could not fool me, Elizabeth and I enjoyed ourselves laughing at everyone else. I never knew anyone who could laugh as Elizabeth did, not even Anne. I did not approve of her at first, I thought Fitzwilliam could and should have done better for himself — but they understood each other, as Darcy and Anne had never done, and I had never seen him so happy as when he was with her. Even had it been in my power, I could not have denied him that. She was not good enough for him, of course, but since no-one was, that hardly signified.

Georgiana and Ella gave me three great-grandchildren each, and Fitzwilliam four more. And although I loved them in their different ways, we all knew that Fitzwilliam's Anne was first in my heart, and I hope, I believe, that they understood.

This is probably far too sympathetic, but here goes: the old bat herself as a young woman, circa 1774. The ellipses "..." are what Lady C is tuning out.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh

“My dear Lady Catherine, my dearest Lady Catherine . . . pray forgive the violence of my language, I not know what my dear mother would say — speaking of whom, your ladyship, I was recently meditating on the very great loss I have felt, the loss of guidance and direction, which I assure you has been felt most acutely . . . and, feeling this acute loss, I searched for someone who could properly fill her shoes, a lady who possessed the same greatness of mind, ability to govern, and, if I may say so, sweetness of temper . . . dearest Lady Catherine, I find that none other than you combine these virtues, and that I would be honoured, nay, delighted, were you to consent to my offer.”

Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam eyed the creature before her. “I hope, sir,” she said haughtily, “that this — speech — constitutes an offer of marriage.”

Sir Lewis blinked. “My dearest Lady Catherine, I should not presume to insult a fair and noble maiden such as yourself by any other such thing!”

“Ah,” said Catherine. There was a muffled sound from behind the sofa. “Very well, I accept. You may call at six o'clock this evening, and speak to my father. Goodbye.”

“Yes, your ladyship,” declared Sir Lewis, and dashed out of the room. Catherine sighed. A pity there were not more desirable specimens of easily-led, non-vicious owners of vast amount of property. She had seriously considered George Darcy but alas, he quite failed that first test of persuadability, and was also determinedly wooing Anne. She had warned her about his dangerous lack of tractability, but Anne would go her own way. Of course, Fitzwilliams always went their own way, it was perfectly proper.

Except when they hid behind furniture and eavesdropped on other people's marriage proposals. “Really, Anne,” Catherine said primly, “if you cannot control yourself you should mind your own affairs.”

“I only have one,” Anne said, standing up and dusting her skirt off. “And it is so uninspiringly suitable I must find entertainment elsewhere.”

Catherine sniffed.

“Shall we copy down that proposal for the edification of future generations?”

Catherine stiffened in horror. “Certainly not.” Then, with a despairing look — “Anne, please, don't, you must not, please be serious. You must understand.”

“Of course, dearest sister.” Anne sighed, and clasped her sister's hand. “You shall run mad if you do not have your own establishment, and wealthy men willing to be managed by their wives are few and far between.”

“Precisely,” said Catherine, squashing any trace of uncertainty. “Mr Darcy is not — ”

“Oh!” said Anne, with a laugh, “I do not mean to manage him, it would be quite impossible. You see, I would rather have a sensible husband than a tractable one, and men of intelligence and good sense, with wealth, connections, and property, are also not easy to find. He is a fine man, and it would be a most valuable connection for our family — you know how ancient and respectable they are. I am tired, Catherine, of being looked down on as some sort of interloper, of the insufferable condescension and superiority of these people — ” As her voice rose, she stopped, and looked down, calming herself. “No one would dare look down on Lady Anne Darcy, you know that, and I could do far worse.” Anxiously, she said, “You understand, don't you?”

Catherine looked at her sister's tightly-clenched hands, and thought of the idiotic proposal she had just accepted. “Yes, Anne,” she said gently. “I understand.”

This character is the much-younger brother of P&P's Lady Catherine, Lord ----, and Lady Anne.

Henry Fitzwilliam

Henry Fitzwilliam was, from his earliest hours, an unexpected and unwelcome addition to the family. In this respect, little changed throughout his life. The Fitzwilliams, at least in public, were proud, reserved, distantly civil, and very cold. Henry shared the family pride and wilfulness, but to all appearances, nothing else. He was wild, constantly ran up debts, delighted in notoriety and scandal, and alienated everyone but his mother and sister.

He was better-suited to the continent, where he could live as he pleased without harming his family. His father and brother had always looked at him with a mixture of disdain and pity, and he preferred to avoid thinking about his eldest sister altogether, but mother, she deserved better than that. She cared, and although Henry could not mourn his father he could mourn with his mother, for once upon a time she had thrown respectability to the winds for that man. And Anne, dearest Anne, their father had doted on her as she had doted on Henry, Anne with her charming, kind ways and brilliant eyes; she deserved better as well. Whether he gave her jewels with a long and usually bloody past, or bizarre statues so out of place in the refined elegance of Pemberley that she had to hide them, or whether he was a small child proudly depositing a frog in her slender white hands, she did not care; a radiant smile of gratitude, a graceful touch of her fingers against his cheek, the proud light in her eyes, it was always the same. She was always the same.

Not even for Anne, however, could he stay in England. He visited Pemberley, and despite his astonished admiration for the place, it was too much for him. It was too ideal, he preferred the chaos of a disorderly house and nervous servants and the various other trappings of his life abroad. It perfectly suited his sister, however, and he was pleased to see her again. France was not precisely safe at the time, even for the less financially-advantaged, so he decided for once to avoid trouble by surprising his sister. She was in her parlour, embroidering some dainty feminine thing, and at her side was a slender dark-haired boy, absorbed in a book.

“How very charming you look, dearest sister,” he declared; “I feel quite the rascal next to you.”

She looked up in astonishment, dropped her work. “Henry? Henry, it can't — you aren't — oh!” She stood up, trembling slightly, and with two quick steps he was across the room, lifting her into his arms. He could feel how light she was — lighter than he recalled — but he determined to think about that later.

“I thought to surprise you, Anne,” he said easily, and Anne sniffed, pressing fingers against her eyes.

“You have certainly managed that.” Then she touched his cheek in her old way and gave him a despairing look. “Must you always do everything so — peculiarly?”

“Of course,” laughed Henry, “I should not wish to be taken for granted.”

“That is not a great danger, since I hardly see you,” she said reproachfully, and he felt a twinge of conscience. He had a wife and two children he scarcely ever saw; he had never cared for Cecilia, but he should probably have taken responsibility for the children. Little Henry must be six or seven by now, only a little older than the child solemnly regarding him. But Anne and mother were the only ones he really thought of.

Anne turned. “You have not met my son, have you?”

Henry approached the child, who put his hands behind his back and met his gaze steadily. “I have not yet had that honour. I am Henry Fitzwilliam, your uncle; and what are you called, young man?”

After a brief hesitation, the child extended his small hand. “I am Fitzwilliam Darcy, sir,” he said quietly. Henry knelt down and shook his hand.

“A fine name,” he said cheerfully, looking carefully at his youngest nephew. There was a peculiar striking quality to him; although the Fitzwilliams were indisputably an attractive family, the boy was beautiful rather than handsome, and the gracious propriety of his manners was somehow unnerving in so young a child. His pallor was not solely the consequence, as Henry had initially thought, of a fair complexion with nearly black hair; the hand clasped in his own was nearly transparent, and there was no trace of childhood plumpness in him. He had, in his travels, seen children like this before, but he had never seen one of them grow very old; and his chest ached a little as Fitzwilliam clung to his mother's side.

“Have you any siblings, Fitzwilliam?”

“Not ezactly, sir,” Fitzwilliam said gravely. “Richard and Ella and Henry are just as good, although I would like a little sister. Henry says we can share Cecily though when she grows up a bit.”

“How very kind of him,” said Henry, smiling. “What are you reading of?”

“King Alfred. He was a very good man, like my papa.” Anne compressed her lips and looked away.

Several hours later, once his sister had restrained him from walking into Mr Darcy's study and attacking him bare-handedly, he realised how very fortunate he was. The distance from Anne and mother hurt, it was true; but he had no pestering, prude of a wife (well, he had her, but he didn't have to see her), no ill-fated children to look after, no perfect name to live up to; he was simply himself, Henry, ne'er-do-well extraordinaire. With fond farewells to his sister and nephew (his brother he did not trust himself to look at), he returned with some relief to the continent.

A revolution was always an uncertain business. Perhaps it was for this reason that the Honourable Henry Fitzwilliam was one of the earliest foreign casualties of the war in France.

1792: A pretty conventional look at the enigmatic Miss de Bourgh, aged eight years.

Anne de Bourgh

My mother was at the centre of our world. My father happily obeyed her every command; I rather less happily did the same. I did not believe there was anyone who did not hasten to show their respect and obedience for her. She was not as clever as she was thought, nor as she thought herself; but she made up for it in sheer presence. I had inherited my father's presence, or lack thereof; but next to my mother, even the most alarming of individuals dwindled into insignificance, or so it seemed.

She was not beautiful, my mother, but she had been handsome in her youth, striking rather than pretty. She favoured her father as I favoured mine; she had the same dark, almost black hair, the same dark green eyes, the same severe patrician features grown harsh with age.

I loved her, in my way. She was a difficult person to be fond of, and often I disliked her heartily. But she was my mother, and she took care of me, and I did love her. I remember, whenever I was ill — and it was often — she hardly left my side. Whatever else she may have been, she was a devoted mother; too devoted, probably. I was safe with her, always; for who would dare oppose her?

Then, the summer that I was eight, I discovered the most astonishing thing. My mother did not rule everyone, and everyone did not defer to her. I remember, I sat by her, struggling with my work (mother had decided my health did permit me to learn embroidery) as she read her correspondence. My father was reading a very slender book.

“Lewis,” mamma declared (she never merely said anything), “my sister is coming to Rosings.”

“How nice,” said papa vaguely. I had rarely seen my Fitzwilliam relations; only the de Bourghs, all of whom were very disagreeable, rather stupid, and much older than I, spent much time at Rosings. As mamma was much younger and cleverer than papa, I hoped these ones would be better; although, of course, I knew little of them.

he Fitzwilliams gathered at the ancestral estate, Houghton, every winter, around Christmastime, and mamma usually went; but she judged my health too poor to allow me to attend, so I stayed at home with my father. Father was the opposite of mother; rather delicate, easily swayed, and oblivious to all that went on around him. Mother said he had no head for details, but to be perfectly honest, he had no head for much at all. During those long, dull winters, he noticed me insofar as to say a few words — “Oh, good morning . . . Anne.” I was frankly surprised that he remembered he had a daughter at all, let alone her name.

My aunt had married a Mr Darcy, a man whose fortune, name, and property were considerably greater and older than either of my parents'. I had never set eyes on him, and only vaguely remembered my namesake. So, when the Darcys first stepped into our dark, gloomy parlour, I could scarcely believe my eyes. I blinked dizzily, certain they could not be real — that they had stepped out of a storybook or even my imagination.

My uncle was the one of the handsomest men I had ever seen, tall and slim, with pale hair and bright clear eyes. His face was even nicer when he smiled — it made a dent in his left cheek — and he smiled often. My aunt was as dark as he was fair; her face was rendered especially beautiful by her brilliant dark eyes; she looked like a fairy-story princess. And, of course, they had the requisite son and heir, a small male replica of his mother. I was so completely overwhelmed that I could hardly think, let alone speak; and they had not so much as said a word.

Then they spoke, and it only got worse. Soon after being announced, my aunt was saying, in her sweet, calm voice, “Catherine, surely you are mistaken?” Not thirty seconds later, my uncle added authoritatively,

“I must respectfully disagree, Catherine; sometimes it is best to leave people to themselves.”

In the course of a single half-hour, they had contradicted or argued with my mother no less than eighteen times, and she did not even seem upset. And at dinner, my cousin piped up, “Aunt Catherine, that can't be right,” and proceeded to explain, to explain to mamma, why she was wrong! This from a boy scarcely eight years old, a full two months my junior!

She did not seem angered. In fact, she looked on my cousin with clear approval, and remarked to my aunt on what a fine son she had raised. (She never spoke to my uncle Darcy if she could help it.) The son in question looked decidedly annoyed, apparently oblivious to the honour of being unreservedly complimented by my mother.

The next morning, we were sent away to entertain ourselves while the adults spoke of whatever it was adults speak of. It was terribly awkward, because I had no idea what to say to this strange boy-creature who happened to share half my blood, while he seemed completely undisturbed by the silence between us. He looked around the room with frank curiosity, and finally, when I could bear it no longer, I blurted out, “I am Anne de Bourgh.”

My cousin, who had turned to examine a portrait of some long-dead ancestor of papa's, glanced over his shoulder. His expression turned faintly pitying. “Yes,” he said kindly, “I know.”

“I meant, I didn't properly introduce myself, I couldn't, because I was so nervous, with everyone looking at me.”

“Oh.” He turned around to face me, and I was rather comforted to see the deep red staining his cheeks. He had a very fair complexion, which however fashionable did nothing to conceal embarrassment. “I am Fitzwilliam Darcy. It's nice to meet you.” We shook hands quite soberly, and I desperately tried to think of something else.

“Thank you. Do you, er, like Rosings?”

Anybody else would have said yes or of course without thinking about it, because that is how one responds to such inquiries. Even I knew that. Fitzwilliam, however, was not anybody else. He tilted his head to the side in what I had already recognised as a habitual gesture, and looked around. “Oh, it's very fine,” he said, after a moment's thought. “Your trees have strange shapes, though.”

Having often thought the very same thing myself, I could hardly reply to this. “Thank you,” I managed again. “Is it much like where you live?”

At this, his face lit up with a smile, the mirror image of his father's down to the dent in his cheek. I thought it decidedly unfair that he should be so much prettier than I, when he was a boy and it didn't matter whether he was pretty or not. “Not at all,” he said happily. “Our park is bigger, but I think maybe it only looks bigger, because we have woods and a stream and we don't carve our trees up, oh, and we can see some mountains.”

I thought it rather odd that he had only talked of the out-of-doors. Perhaps it was a boy thing, although the boy de Bourghs didn't seem very interested in that kind of thing. Besides, mamma was very interested in the outside, too. Perhaps it was a Fitzwilliam thing. “Is the house nice?”

“Oh! yes,” he said, suddenly very talkative. “There are more windows at Pemberley than here, I can always see outside, but it looks different from wherever I am. And there are all sorts of rooms, and the library is so big that I went to sleep once in there and they spent three whole hours looking for me before they found me. And the colours are lighter, especially in mother's rooms —”

“You've been in your mother's rooms?” I interrupted, staring in unabashed astonishment.

“Of course. She's my mother. I always go to her room in the morning, and we talk. She likes to see me alone sometimes.”

I blinked. “What for?”

He looked at me as if I'd grown another head. “I don't know. Just to talk, and if she has bad dreams, or if I do, she lets me sleep with her, and it makes her feel better to be with me when she's sad.”

I struggled to wrap my mind around this. The idea of fairytale-princess Aunt Anne ever being sad or having nightmares was difficult enough, but that someone, particularly a someone who was my mother's sister, should want her child with her when she was in such a state, was so very peculiar. “Why?” I asked bluntly.

“Because, when you're unhappy, it makes you — less sad, I think — to be with people, or even just one person, who you know loves you, no matter what you do or think or say. Or someone you love, no matter what they do. Or someone who is like you and doesn't keep on talking about how you should be different. Mother has these fits of unhappiness sometimes, but it's easier when she's with me, or Aunt Catherine, or my uncle, or grandmother.”

“Oh,” I said softly, feeling vaguely ashamed without being certain why — and rather curious about what, exactly, constituted a fit of unhappiness. “I suppose you're right.”

“Of course I'm right,” he said haughtily, then looked at the window. “Do you ever leave the house?”

I shrugged. “Mamma says I'm an invalid, that cold air is bad for me, so I have to stay inside.”

It was Fitzwilliam's turn to stare. “It's summer, Anne. The air isn't cold.”

“Well—”

“Besides, I'm an invalid too. When I was little, everyone was always saying I was going to die. Of course I knew better, and mamma, but it was most vexing.” He sounded exactly like my mother, if mamma had ever spoken in a clear, piping voice. “And so I had to play outside, so I'd get stronger. Besides, has Aunt Catherine said you can't play outside?”

“Well . . .” I tried to think. “Not exactly.”

“Then, it's all right. Come with me, I saw a nice tree that hadn't been cut up yet. We can try and climb it.”

“But — but we're not supposed to!”

“Did anyone say so?”

“No, but — ”

“It's fine then. Come on.” He grabbed my wrist, and as if he had perfect right to do anything he wanted, marched outside after informing a servant that he was going to teach me how to play properly. That was the first day; but it was a long visit, and there were many others. I looked forward to each morning as I never had before; somehow, when I was with my cousin, his force of personality granted me my own sort of strength. He took my side in every argument, insisted that I had just as much right to be heard as anyone else, and whatever my feelings, assured me that they were right and proper. I quite forgot that he was an eight-year-old child like myself; but I was so awestruck, it never occurred to me that they might be anything less than perfect. They could not, they could not err or falter; others might, but not the Darcys, the fairy-tale king and queen ruling over their far-away fairy-tale kingdom of Pemberley, with my cousin as the fairy-tale prince. Not them.

I hope I'm not lynched for this one. It's 1797, just after the death of Lady Anne. In one of my reviews I mentioned that George Darcy made two colossal errors. This is the second one. But I leave exactly what he did up to your imagination.

George Darcy

The dowager stared at me without saying a word, her eyes dark in her white colourless face. Lady Catherine was not so circumspect, and hurled epithets at me, eyes blazing in righteous fury. Her brother walked about in a hazy sort of unreality, unable to even comprehend what had happened. The children were by turns distressed, devastated, and merely bewildered.

And I? The memories slammed into me, with such force that I thought I should go mad. The misery of our last years seemed distant and remote, and I could only think of how I had loved her, how I had thought of nothing but Lady Anne Fitzwilliam for months on end, of her brilliance and beauty and singular sweetness. What had happened? She had not loved me, perhaps I had not truly loved her, but there was something, why had we not done better? I had wanted to possess her in every way possible, but she always remained unattainable, I could not comprehend why she would not understand that she was no longer a Fitzwilliam but my wife.

It came to me, then, that I had killed her, as much as if I had held a pistol to her head. I could not bear it. I sent for more wine. First a glass, then another, and finally a whole bottle; and then another after that.

“You shouldn't be here,” a clear voice said dispassionately. I peered up, catching a glimpse of vibrant blue eyes and untidy black hair, the slim figure and the room spinning around.

“Anne?” I managed to croak, vaguely wondering if the past fortnight had been nothing more than a nightmarish dream.

A thin hand snatched the two empty bottles and another half-full one away, impervious to my feeble protests. “No,” the voice said coldly — it was deeper, not a woman's voice at all, yet it had the same intonation and timbre as that which tortured me, echoing through my mind no matter how much I drank. “It's Fitzwilliam. Mother would be ashamed of you.”

I laughed shrilly, and grabbed one of the bottles from him — an empty one, unfortunately. Fitzwilliam took several steps back.

“Give it back,” I said unsteadily.

“No,” said Anne's son. I could not make out his face. As far as I was concerned, it was Anne's face and Anne's voice and Anne's —

I never remembered what happened next. The first thing I recalled was waking up with the most acutely painful hangover I had ever experienced. None of the servants acted as if anything was different, yet I knew something was very wrong.

“The earl,” I persisted, “where is he?”

“He left early Saturday morning with his mother,” Roberts said obediently. Further questions betrayed that the Fitzwilliams had apparently up and vanished two days prior, and that I had lost the memory of an entire four days. The thought provoked a vaguely disturbing impression. Fitzwilliams, Fitzwilliams, Fitzwilliam — Fitzwilliam! I straightened and swallowed more coffee. Although Fitzwilliam had made himself scarce since Anne's death, I was well accustomed to his quiet presence by now.

I set down my cup. “Where is my son?” I demanded.

Roberts looked surprised. “Lord Matlock said the matter was arranged, sir. He took Master Fitzwilliam with him when he left.”

I was somehow horrified and unsurprised at the same time. Anne had been taken from me, and she was so inextricably bound with Fitzwilliam in my thinking that it was only logical that Fitzwilliam should be gone as well. As for my erstwhile brother-in-law, he had never liked me, and was probably crowing over me from Yorkshire while my son — well, did whatever it was he did in his spare time, accompanied by the omnipresent pair of Henry and Richard. “I see,” I said numbly. “Did he say anything else?”

“He left a letter, sir. He wished you to receive it as soon as possible.”

“Well?”

Roberts looked pointedly at my unfinished coffee. I grimaced and gulped the rest down, and he retrieved the letter from heavens-knew-where. My brother's close, precise hand was unmistakable, yet there was an uncharacteristic slight unevenness to his script, and I felt a chill as some of his phrases leapt out at me.

. . . your vicious conduct . . . your own son . . . debt to my sister . . . I have always cared for Fitzwilliam . . . let him be . . . she deserved better . . . look at her portrait and remember —

Dear Lord, I thought in horror, what is it? Anne — Fitzwilliam — oh, my God; what have I done? I stood in front of her portrait, and once again felt the darkness of despair overwhelming my mind. The spectre of her living gaze I found in the painting and in her son's face, and I could not bear either.

I destroyed the portrait.

This one is Lord Matlock's -- Lady A and Lady C's brother -- daughter, Colonel Fitzwilliam's elder sister. The year is 1801.

Lady Eleanor Fitzwilliam

“Lady Eleanor, your eyes are as the sky on a midsummer's day — ”

“Lady Eleanor, what an unexpected pleasure!”

“Tell me, Lady Eleanor, is your brother in town this season?”

“What a lovely bonnet, Lady Eleanor, where did you find it?”

“May I request the honour of the third set, Lady Eleanor?”

What fools they were. So stupid and so funny in their way. When I came out, I could hardly believe the absurdity. No wonder the entire family was grave and proud and proper in public, it was the only way to keep our faces straight. I was exactly the same. How could one take these people seriously, with their inane conversation and abysmally poor poetry, their vapid self-consequence and superficial deference? We none of us could manage it. There were some, there were sensible, well-bred people we associated with and even befriended; but even they were always they, others, not-one-of-us.

It was odd how insidious the sheer triviality of life was, though. When I danced with my seventeen-year-old cousin at my wedding, I remember saying something about the opera we had attended the week before, just making conversation as all people did, something about how lovely the hall was and how charming the performers —

“I thought the hall ostentatious, the performers mediocre, and the plot dull and fashionable,” he said dismissively. “Ella, you will still come to Houghton this Christmas? Grandmother will be terribly disappointed, if you both stay away; I'm sure it will be very dull.” He looked at me earnestly and I understood what could not be said.

“I will come,” I promised, and thought of his acerbic response. He was not one to bow to conventionality, not when it did not suit him; there was no disguise or pretence in him, it disgusted him. I remembered being the same, long ago when I was still a girl and free to do what I liked. “Fitzwilliam,” I said, “please, do not — always remember who you are — do not ever become one of these fashionable gentlemen, all manners without substance, do not change.”

“Oh! there is little enough danger of that,” he said, smiling, then added more gravely, “I shall always be myself, I promise.”

I was afraid, that when I married, I would simply become another society matron. Why did I marry Richard? I liked him well enough, he was relatively handsome, neither stupid nor vicious; but mostly, because he was one of us, he was grandmother's great-nephew, and with him I need never exchange loyalties. Loyalty to his family was loyalty to mine, and he was not demanding, he did not wish to carve a piece out of my heart for his own, and he did not care that the affection I felt for him as husband was far eclipsed by the intense devotion to grandmother and father and brothers and cousins and aunts and uncles. I was afraid, though, even with him; that I would somehow become one-of-them, that there would somehow be a gulf between the us of my family and myself as Eleanor Leigh.

It was, oddly, Aunt Anne who gave me comfort. Everyone had always said how much I resembled her, that it was like seeing her again, and because I truly believed Aunt Anne was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, I had always been proud of it. I've seen her portrait, the one my uncle very nearly went mad over when she died, and whoever painted it was a good artist; I could see myself in her face. She had always laughed in private too. And when she married, she did not become a them; she named her son for us and if someone asked who she was, the response was always something to the effect of, “Oh, that tall proud woman? She's Lady Anne Fitzwil — Darcy, that is, she was married about five years ago.” She had always been one of us, and her son as well — my cousin was more like my father's son than my own brothers. Later on, she had spent almost as much time with us as she had at Pemberley, she was very nearly another mother.

No, I was like Aunt Anne, as we had always said. I would not be estranged or absorbed, one of those dreadful nonentities floating on their husbands' arms. And now that I was married, I was free to be myself, and if I thought the opera dreadful, I would say so. If I liked, I could be another Aunt Catherine, offending wherever I went but too grand and powerful to be gainsaid. No, not Aunt Catherine; grandmother, who with her imperious well-bred ways, had terrified grown men into submission. But I would not pretend any more, I would be like I had been, like my cousin, like Aunt Anne, myself without disguise.

Richard could not understand why I insisted that my little cousin be made godfather to my children, when he was not even of age. [I]Fitzwilliam could not understand; none of them ever did, except Elizabeth.

This is Henry Fitzwilliam, son of the previous Henry Fitzwilliam. (Not too confused, I hope?) He, the colonel, and Darcy are the nearest and dearest of friends.

Henry Fitzwilliam

Ever since our memorable first meeting at the respective ages of four, five, and seven, we three had been inseparable. (It looked perfectly innocent, a small grey kitten of somewhat dubious breeding, with an innocent face and fluffy white paws, and we had not truly intended any harm to our baby cousin.) Richard, the eldest, was in trouble more often than not, running rampant over our grandfather's estate and charming the servants into giving him pastries. Fitzwilliam and I, two peas in a pod in grandmother's phrase, followed his lead with admiration and reluctance, until we went into the schoolroom. There Fitzwilliam, who had never seemed more than moderately clever, outshone us all, easily winning over our tutor with his boundless curiosity.

Of course, our lives diverged as we grew older. Richard went into the army, I into law, and Fitzwilliam, who had been somewhat estranged from his father since my aunt's death, was summoned home to be master of Pemberley and father, at twenty years old, to little Georgiana. As soon as we could be spared, we joined him at Pemberley, to do what we could for him and our dying uncle. Never were we so shocked, as we were at the transformation that had taken place. He was no longer soft-spoken, even-tempered cousin Fitzwilliam, but Mr Darcy of Pemberley. His face, which I had so long regarded as simply a variation of mine, was suddenly unlike — pale and proud and grave. Richard and I blinked stupidly for a moment.

Then, when the servants were gone and it was just the three of us, he managed a small smile, and held out his hand. “I am glad you are here,” he said, which, translated out of Fitzwilliam-speech, meant Thank God you came, I thought I was going to run mad all by myself; what took you so long? My uncle died by bits and pieces, while Fitzwilliam, who had always had a talent amounting to genius for what we diplomatically called `administration', adapted to his newfound authority while we entertained Georgiana, kept our cousin properly fed, did what we could to help him, and eventually returned to our own lives.

Such as they were. As the relatively poor offspring of an earl's younger son, I was very much persona non grata among the ladies of town, even ladies my firstborn cousins would not so much as consider. Richard, with his uniform and charm (although regrettably his mother's bland looks), did far better socially, eventually marrying an admiral's niece with twenty thousand pounds to her name. I never liked her, although she was lovely and witty and charming and everything desirable. I suspect it was largely due to her habit of flirting with the various Fitzwilliam cousins when her husband was not present. My dislike was nothing, however, to my cousin's — the loathing between Elizabeth Darcy and Mary Fitzwilliam remained the stuff of legend long after they reconciled.

Richard died first. They had no children, and despite her ways, Mary was devastated. I was never so shocked in my life as when Elizabeth invited her to stay at Pemberley until she had somewhat recovered. Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam, who to all appearances led a charmed life, had four perfectly well-behaved children, two boys and two girls, with their father's beauty and their mother's charm, all of whom married well. It was only Richard and I, of all the family, who saw beneath the surface — that the marriage of two such people could never be completely simple and comfortable, that there were trials and struggles just like ordinary people, for all that they were not themselves ordinary. But they were never like my parents, who were together only long enough to create two children, nor like his, who could hardly bear the sight of one another. Elizabeth was passionately devoted to Fitzwilliam, it stood out a mile; and for all his wealth and brilliance, the only time in our lives that I envied my cousin was when I first set eyes on them together.

A real P&P character! In the P&P timeline, too -- it is about a month after Hunsford.

Georgiana Darcy

“Georgiana, am I ungentlemanly?”

I stopped looking through my music and stared at my brother. He did not look drunk. He had been rather dispirited of late, but neither now nor at any other time had I ever seen him inebriated. I knew from my friend Miss Grantley that most young ladies were not so fortunate. Her brothers woke up with dreadful headaches from drinking the night before, and then drank some more to get rid of them. “Of course not,” I said. “Did Richard say so?”

Our cousin Richard was a very singular person. I could not imagine anyone else saying something so absurd. My brother could not possibly come to such an erroneous conclusion on his own, I had never seen him so much as falter. No-one was perfect but if my brother had flaws, I hadn't seen them. “No, no,” Fitzwilliam replied absently. “Not he.”

So someone had told him, as I thought. How ridiculous. If my brother was not a gentleman no-one was. “Well, whoever it was, he cannot have been very sensible, to say such a thing,” I said. “I do not know a better man than you. What shall I play?”

I was not looking in his direction, but I could feel his smile from across the room. “You are too good for me, Georgiana,” he said affectionately, and I laughed.

“Fitzwilliam, I am not — ” honesty compelled me to amend, “I am not especially good. You are the one, my dear brother, who is too good for the rest of us.”

“Oh no, Georgiana — ”

And no doubt we would have continued our mutual admiration ad infinitum if the Marquess of Westhampton had not been announced at that moment. Lord Westhampton was one of my brother's dearest friends, a cousin on my father's side, but as I had only just come out I had scarcely seen him, he had no sisters.

“Darcy.”

“Westhampton.”

My brother sprang up and, with a warm smile, shook hands, and I quickly excused myself. Too curious for my own good, however, I hesitated at the door.

“— young lady,” Lord Westhampton was saying.

“Georgiana?” Fitzwilliam sounded sincerely surprised. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“That was little Georgiana?”

Little Georgiana indeed! “Miss Darcy to you,” Fitzwilliam replied, his voice acquiring a trace of coolness. Lord Westhampton laughed heartily.

“Surely you do not suspect me of designs on your sister, Darcy?”

“Of course not — as such,” said Fitzwilliam. “But, you know, one can never be too careful.”

“I do not know, I have no sisters or daughters, and my only eligible cousin is the lovely Miss Darcy, who I have just been expressly warned off from.”

“I did not say so,” Fitzwilliam said calmly. One of the nicest things about my brother was that he was never cross and never raised his voice. “You may speak to Miss Darcy all you wish, if you do so with propriety, but I will not have her upset. She is not like other young ladies, with nothing but dances and millinery in their heads, she is sensible and sweet-natured and she deserves better.”

“I see,” said Lord Westhampton, almost gravely, “you are a most conscientious brother.”

I slipped away, but the conversation rang in my ears, and as I lay in bed that evening, I felt I could have danced all night for all that I disliked it more than anything. I could not have said which gave my greater joy, my brother's sincere commendation, or my cousin's casual remark, the lovely Miss Darcy. I hugged my pillow to myself and laughed softly.

This is the six-year-old younger daughter of Mr and Mrs Gardiner. We're still in 1812, but jumping ahead to just after the Wickham/Lydia business has been dealt with.

Amelia Gardiner

At first, we were shy of this great tall man who had come on business with papa, but he who was so distant and reserved in public had no difficulty in making himself agreeable to three children. He talked away, as if we were only small and innocent adults, deeply flattering Margaret and entertaining Edward. We knew he was a good man, because our parents liked him.

The second time he came, we ran to him right away. Papa remonstrated with us, but Mr Darcy smiled and said he didn't mind, and when I held up my arms he picked me up. He was the tallest person I had ever seen, and I loved the feel of the air swishing past and the ground so far beneath me. I knew he would not drop me. I did not like Mr Wickham, who was marrying cousin Lydia, because I never knew whether he would drop me or not, and he talked to us like we were kittens or mice, not people.

When Mr Darcy came for dinner that last time, I ran ahead to meet him. Margaret and Edward were sleeping, and papa had some business with Mr Haggerston, and John was sick so mamma had to take try and put him to sleep so he could get better.

“I am to entertain you,” I informed him, and he smiled and said he did not doubt but that I would do an exemplary job of it. Working my way through Mr Darcy's words was often a challenge. He used a great many of them. “Do you have any children?” I asked. Mamma and papa did not let me ask questions, they said it was not polite, but I was very curious.

“No,” he said, with a rather peculiar look. “I am not married.”

“You have to be married to have children?”

He winced. “Usually, yes,” he said.

“Is cousin Lydia going to have a child? Is that why she is marrying Mr Wickham?”

He stared at me for a moment. “No, she — she loves him,” he said. By the expression on his face, he found this concept as bewildering as I did.

“That's very strange,” I said. “I do not like Mr Wickham. Do you like Mr Wickham?”

“I — no, not particularly,” he said, “but it's not polite to say so.”

I pouted, and he bit his lip, looking away. “It's not polite to say most things. That's not fair. I don't like Mr Wickham 'cause he's bad, I heard my papa say so, and you shouldn't like bad people, should you? My cousin Jane says you don't know if people are really bad because there's too much you don't know, but if papa says that Mr Wickham is bad it must be so because he is never wrong.”

Mr Darcy smiled again. “Sometimes you cannot say all you think, Miss Gardiner, even if it is true.”

“I am not Miss Gardiner,” I said immediately, “that's Margaret, I'm Amelia. Like cousin Jane is Miss Bennet but Lizzy is Elizabeth.”

He straightened, his hands laced quite tightly together. “Miss Amelia, then;—do you know, you are very like my Amelia?”

“You said you don't have any children because you aren't married, sir,” I said primly.

“My Amelia is my god-daughter and cousin, not my own daughter,” he informed me. “She is just about your age, I think.”

“I am six years old,” I said proudly. “Is your Amelia as tall as I am?”

“She is perhaps a little taller, although she is only five,” he answered.

“Oh. Is she pretty like my cousins?”

“I believe so,” he said.

I considered this. “Does she look like you?”

“Yes.”

“Then she must be very pretty,” I said decisively. Mr Darcy blushed and dipped his head slightly. “My aunt Bennet says that if you're pretty you have rich gentlemen coming to see you, like Mr Bingley and cousin Jane, although he went away” (Mr Darcy turned pale at this) “— so your Amelia will have lots of gentlemen. Do you think I shall have that many?”

“I am certain you shall,” he assured me gravely, and I would not find out until much later that the little girl I always thought of as Mr Darcy's Amelia was a duke's daughter with fifty thousand pounds to her name.

I clapped my hands. “That shall be nice, but I do not wish to be married just now.”

“That is very wise of you.”

I blinked at him. “Do you not wish to be married?”

“I — I — ” For the first time, he seemed utterly at a loss for words. “I do not wish to be married to just anyone,” he said, after a moment's awkward silence.

“Mamma says you and cousin Lizzy are going to be married sometime, I heard papa asking if she knew if Lizzy understood you and she said she thought you did but it was impossible to be sure.”

Mr Darcy started, turned red, then white, then red again. “Don't you like cousin Lizzy?” I asked.

“I — I do,” he said softly, and just then, mamma and papa walked in to the parlour, both looking just as pleased as they had when the Wickhams had finally left, which said a great deal about how much they liked Mr Darcy.

“Mr Darcy, I hope we have not kept you waiting too long,” mamma said, and he instantly got to his feet.

“Not at all,” he said, smiling at me. He smiled a great deal now that Mr Wickham and Lydia were gone, but I had never seen or heard him laugh. Perhaps he would do so more when he married Lizzy, I thought, because one could not help but laugh when Lizzy was there.

Somehow I doubt that Darcy could "rant and storm" to save his life. So a spin on the conversation between Mr Bennet and Darcy regarding Lydia and Wickham.

Thomas Bennet

Thomas Bennet was not certain whether to be relieved, discomposed, or distressed. He settled for a combination of all three, as he gazed at the self-possessed young man he had — apparently in common with the rest of the country — so severely misjudged. Mr Darcy himself did not seem remotely perturbed at the awkward silence his future father-in-law felt so acutely.

“Ah, Mr Darcy,” he said pleasantly, “thank you for sparing a few moments of your time.” His delight in folly made the interview, uncomfortable as it was, a matter of some anticipation. He knew little of this particular man, but he knew the ways of young lovers, and seeing the grand Fitzwilliam Darcy fallen prey to the little absurdities that plagued those in this position should be vastly amusing. On the other hand, he had no desire to owe the man anything, son-in-law or not.

Darcy said something polite and waited, still to all appearances perfectly content and composed. Of course, he had every reason to be content, given Elizabeth's openly and consistently affectionate manner with him. Any man loved by such a woman must be happy, at least for a time. Mr Bennet sighed.

“It seems, sir,” he said deliberately, “that I am greatly indebted to you — indeed, that our entire family owes our current respectability.”

Mr Bennet watched as Darcy coloured, looking rather more like the young man he was than the haughty master of Pemberley. “I will not pretend to misunderstand you, Mr Bennet,” he said forthrightly. “You speak of your youngest daughter's recent marriage?”

“I do.” With a grave expression, he said, “I am a gentleman and must insist upon paying my debt. How much do I owe you? It was no paltry sum, I am certain.”

He waited with scarcely concealed delight, only catching a hint of something in the other man's eyes — impatience? annoyance? mere discomfort? — before Mr Darcy began speaking. “You are quite right, sir,” he said quietly, much to Mr Bennet's astonishment and dismay, “it was no paltry sum. However, I must insist that you do nothing of the sort.” (Mr Bennet breathed again, upon which occurrence he reflected, with some amusement, that happiness had not substantially altered the man's character.) “If my pride had not kept me from making Mr Wickham's character public, the entire affair could not have happened. I am also a gentleman, sir, and I willingly accept culpability for what occurred, and have remedied it as best as I can.”

“Mr Darcy,” Mr Bennet said, “you, of all people, are not responsible for this event. I do not believe knowledge of Mr Wickham's character would have been likely to deter my daughter from her course.”

Darcy's features settled into familiar obstinate lines, strikingly reminiscent of Elizabeth when she was set on something. What a pair they would be! Mr Bennet pitied any who should cross them. Only today a luckless Lucas had professed some controversial opinion or other and had his argument promptly if courteously torn to shreds by the newly-engaged couple. “I know my responsibility, sir,” Darcy said stubbornly.

It struck the older man that the entire discussion had passed without a single mention of Elizabeth's name. How singular. “I am persuaded, sir,” he said, “that your intervention is not solely the consequence of your sense of culpability. Am I mistaken?”

Darcy blushed faintly. “I will not deny,” he said steadily, “that my partiality for Miss Elizabeth added force to my pre-existing motivation for — intervening; but no more than that, I hope.”

It was a far cry from ranting and storming, Mr Bennet reflected with a quiet sigh. Darcy still had not ceased calling his fiancée by any but the most formal name. If this was love, it was a very peculiar way of going about it. A peculiar man altogether, but Elizabeth loved him and presumably he loved Elizabeth, and they certainly seemed well-suited enough, against all odds.

“Very well, young man,” he said flippantly, “you must answer your conscience, stringent as it may be. We will speak no more on this. I daresay you would much rather be enjoying my Lizzy's smiles than debating with an old man.”

Darcy shrugged, refusing to be provoked. Whatever embarrassment he had felt seemed to have passed, and Mr Bennet felt as if he understood the other man even less than he had at the beginning of the interview. Ah, well. Lizzy was content with her choice, and it was not as if they lacked time to become acquainted.

It struck me that these characters, who suffer more than any other in P&P, are really not all that different; and also that Darcy steps into informality when he calls his fiancée "Elizabeth" -- but there is one other person he also speaks of by her Christian name alone:

Jane Bennet

“Why did you tell me?” Jane asked, after what felt like a very long silence. She did not dare look at him.

“I did not believe it right to keep such a thing from you, now that you are to be my sister.”

Now that you are to be my sister. Jane drew a deep, shaking breath. Somehow, that was the worst part. Elizabeth had known, had known since April, and had never said anything. Why? It would have been painful to hear of him, but nothing to the anguish of unrequited love. She would have known that he had truly loved her, that she had not mistaken him; at that time, nothing could have eased her heart more. How could Elizabeth have kept this from her? Elizabeth, her sister, who knew her better than anyone, how could she not have understood? Bingley she could excuse, he did not know her so well, a newly-accepted lover was naturally cautious and fearful of saying the wrong thing, but Elizabeth? That Mr Darcy should see what Elizabeth could not, Mr Darcy who scarcely knew her, was somehow frightening and terrible; she felt as if she had been stripped bare, that she no longer knew herself or anyone else.

She knew not what to think; but then Mr Darcy was speaking again. “I — I do not have the words to express how very sorry I am, Miss Bennet, for the pain I have caused you, and Bingley.”

Jane looked up at him blankly. He was quite pale, his eyes fixed on the ground, yet stood as confidently upright as always. She envied him that. “You truly believed me to be indifferent?” she asked wonderingly.

“I did.”

“Mr Bingley believed me to be indifferent also?”

He hesitated. “He did not believe your feelings to equal his, but no, he did not believe you wholly indifferent until I persuaded him.”

Jane's brow furrowed.

“Miss Bennet, there was never — I never had any objections to you, nor did his sisters. I feared for my friend's happiness. I felt that in marrying so disadvantageously, he would be made unhappy once his infatuation with you faded.” His voice caught slightly as he added, “I did not wish him to give his affections where they would not be returned. Regardless of my intentions, however, it was wrong of me and I apologise.”

She was fumbling for purchase, and somehow it was the distant pain in his voice that steadied her. It had not been that Elizabeth had so greatly misunderstood her. She could not know, she could not understand, because although she too had had her share of suffering, she had been spared this. Poets spoke of unrequited love, the greatest of mortal afflictions, but words on a page were never the same thing, and she could not understand until she had experienced it, and Elizabeth never would. And Mr Darcy understood, because he knew, and because in this strange way they were alike. Elizabeth and Bingley would make the best of things, would heal and continue on, but they, they could not, they could not forget and did not wish to, for there was a joy and pleasure in loving so deeply and intensely and hopelessly, as well as the pain and fear that it could never be returned in equal measure.

It had all turned out well, after all. And if she was a little uncertain about her intended's strength of will, she would guide him, and she had never seen him influenced in such a way by anyone other than herself and Mr Darcy, and that was all for the best. She would speak to Elizabeth, try to make her understand, for although she did not wholly understand the man that would be her brother, she knew that Elizabeth might very well attempt to protect him by keeping things from him, and given their history and his character, that would not go over well at all. And as for Mr Darcy himself —

“When Lizzy told me that you were engaged,” Jane said, “I — please forgive me — I did not believe she cared for you.” Uncertain, she waited.

“I could hardly believe it myself,” said Mr Darcy calmly, and she found the courage to go on.

“I tried to persuade her against marrying you, unless she felt sincere affection.” Jane looked up, to see how he took her words, and was reassured by his faint smile.

“It is not the same, Miss Bennet.”

“The intent was the same,” she insisted. “If she was indifferent to you, or if she had not been able to convince me of her feelings, I would have done everything within my power to persuade her against continuing in your engagement. I cannot, I will not, blame you for that.” She waited, and relying solely upon her instincts, added, “But if you require my forgiveness, sir, you have it.”

“Thank you, Miss Bennet.”

As they walked a little further, Jane said, “If I may ask, sir, how did you know that Lizzy had told me of — of — ”

“I did not know.” Again, he smiled slightly. “I simply assumed that she had, with my knowledge of your close relationship.”

Jane flinched. “That is why you were surprised, at first, that I did not know everything?”

“Yes. It seemed odd that she should tell you only part of what occurred, and at that the part which did not concern you.”

She looked directly at him. “I thought so as well. You would not have done so, then?”

“I did not do so, no.”

Jane puzzled briefly over this, then lifted up her eyes in astonishment. “You told Miss Darcy?”

“Not all, of course, but we did speak of what directly concerned her.”

“Would you be greatly offended, sir, if I say that I hope Lizzy picks up some good habits from you?”

He looked startled, then smiled slowly. “No,” he said, “I am not offended, Miss Bennet.”

She held out her hand to him then, looking into his eyes. It was odd, she had never noticed before; they were very nearly the same colour as her own. “If we are to be brother and sister, sir,” she said, “we should not be so formal. I would be honoured if you called me Jane.”

From Darcy's great feeling of "family obstacles" in his relationship with Elizabeth, I never thought it could be possible that the family would simply welcome her with open arms. So, here's his conversation with the head of the family, his uncle.

Edward Fitzwilliam, Earl of Matlock

“Fitzwilliam,” said he, “what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be offering for this girl?”

Lord Matlock had long recognised the similarity of temper and mind, as well as countenance, between his nephew and himself, more pronounced than with any of his own children. He had never been less than perfectly forthright and honest with him, and he had no intentions of starting now. It was inconceivable that Fitzwilliam, of all the children, should have entangled himself in this manner — and yet it had happened!

“No, I am not,” Fitzwilliam replied, literal-minded as always. “I know what I am about, sir.”

The earl pressed his fingertips against his forehead, feeling a headache brewing. “I am sure your Miss Bennet is everything amiable and lovely,” he began, as tactfully as he could, “but that is not enough, Fitzwilliam.”

“I am aware of that,” Fitzwilliam said quietly; “but Miss Bennet is not — she is not what you think.” With a faint smile, he added, “Your phrase would better suit her elder sister.”

Lord Matlock raised his brows. “You are determined to have her, I suppose.”

His nephew blinked. “Those are not quite the words I would choose,” he said reluctantly, “but I am determined, yes. My dear uncle, surely you do not think I would be caught by a common fortune-hunter, however beautiful, now?”

“I do not know what to think, Fitzwilliam,” Lord Matlock replied sternly. “You have been very peculiar, very unlike yourself, this entire year. Tell me about your Miss Bennet. Is she very beautiful?”

“I cannot say,” Fitzwilliam said neutrally. “I do not believe anyone else would find her so. I did not, at first.”

The earl sighed. “If she is neither stunningly beautiful nor charming, with no fortune, family, or connections, what qualities has she to recommend herself?”

“I have not the time to ennumerate them all,” said Fitzwilliam, smiling.

“Just a few will suffice,” the earl replied dryly.

“She is clever, friendly, witty, and she has — integrity. She loves her sister and she will be able to love mine.” With a peculiar look, rather like that of a bewildered but contented child, he added quietly, “She loves me.”

The outcome had been inevitable. Almost, it seemed a script that had been written before either walked into the study. Lord Matlock could not fight the feeling of having somehow experienced this all before, nor the dread overshadowing him as he looked at his nephew's face, the familiar features set in obstinate lines, the expression just this side of defiance. “Then she may deserve you,” he said reluctantly, not quite convincing himself, let alone his sceptical nephew. “When they come to London, I hope you will introduce her to us.”

“I shall. I hope you will give her the welcome my fiancée deserves.” The warning was clear. He would tolerate no disrespect to the young lady. He had already thrown off Lady Catherine. Infatuated as he was, he might very well do the same to all but Richard, Henry, and Georgiana. Lord Matlock sighed once more.

“Of course,” he said morosely. “Whatever I may think of Miss Bennet myself, I have no intention of encouraging talk outside the family regarding your choice.”

He had never seen his nephew's eyes so cold, and wondered why.

Another Fitzwilliam cousin, the Hon Henry's daughter and niece to Lady A, Lord ----, Lady C.

Cecilia Fitzwilliam

There was a peculiar combination of pride and joy and wistfulness on her face as she watched my cousin swing her cousin into the air. It was not too difficult to guess where her thoughts had gone. Fitzwilliam was unmistakable even from this perspective, but the slight, dark-haired child in his arms, her face turned away from us, could have been anyone: our own Amelia, another Miss Bennet (not that they needed one), the small Miss Gardiner that she was — or perhaps, as she was clearly imagining, the next Miss Darcy.

“He is very fond of children,” I remarked, and Miss Elizabeth started. She managed a guarded smile. Our family's welcome had been perfectly civil, most of us even cordial, but no more. There was a distrust, disapproval, even dislike, that was only thinly veiled beneath habitual good manners. For my part I liked her. At first, admittedly it was nothing more than a combination of pity and approval for her good taste in loving my cousin; but as I observed her, I understood Fitzwilliam's rational as well as passionate regard for this young lady from the country.

“Miss Fitzwilliam.”

“Miss Bennet. Would it be very inconvenient if I intruded upon your solitude for a few minutes, until my cousin comes? I have enough Bertram in me to make conversation with tolerable ease.”

“Oh, of course not,” said she, and that settled, I walked over to the window she stood by.

“I have never been to Hertfordshire before, it is a lovely country.”

“Thank you,” Miss Elizabeth said, looking faintly surprised. “I have a great fondness for it myself;—although a rather greater one for Derbyshire as of late.”

I smiled at her. “I hope you do. It is — a rather wilder sort of beauty, don't you think? And yet ordered.”

“Yes,” said Miss Elizabeth simply, “I quite agree. Have you spent much time there? I thought I understood you were from Yorkshire, Miss Fitzwilliam.”

“Lord Matlock and Lady Anne were very close. We spent a great deal of time at Pemberley when I was young, until my aunt died.”

This expression was easier to read — clear curiosity. “Of course,” she murmured. “Mr Darcy does not speak of Lady Anne. Was she very like her brother?”

“Well, we are all quite alike,” I said frankly. “Oh, you mean in character? I was only nine when she died, but from what I remember and have heard, she was very proud and reserved, even haughty, and yet, there was a kind of sweetness to her; and there was brilliance as well, she was so very clever. We loved her, but she was a difficult woman to love and an even more difficult one to understand. Yes, I think she was quite like my uncle, particularly when he was younger. My cousin favours them both a great deal.”

“Somehow,” said Miss Elizabeth, “I had thought he was like Mr Darcy.”

“He has something of his father's character,” I agreed. “It was my uncle Darcy who taught him — a great many things. He could never tolerate injustice or deceit, either, and he had — I don't know, ideals, dreams, but he was not practical. I always liked him, though. He had the most charming manners, very open and engaging, and quite lively. Grandmother says he was a bit wild in his youth, although he settled down once he married my aunt.”

“They must have an interesting pair,” Miss Elizabeth observed.

“They were not very well-suited, I understand,” I said. I gave her a sideways look. From the first we had not wished to like her, this unknown girl from the country who had somehow managed to capture my cousin's invulnerable heart. He could never do anything by halves, and he had fallen in love with the same earnest fervour he applied to all his concerns, whether of the heart or the pocket. We were afraid for him. Fitzwilliam was so detached, he almost seemed to inhabit a different world from the rest of us. There was a need to shield and protect him, as they had his mother before him, and we all feared for him the same fate that had befallen her.

“It is not that we dislike you, Miss Bennet,” I said, deciding quickly. She loved him and she deserved to understand, for she would be part of our family soon enough. “We wished someone of our own rank for him, I confess it, but that is not all.”

“You wished to see him marry within the family?” she asked shrewdly. I hesitated.

“Fitzwilliam is — he is not — yes, we did, we wished that. But not because, not how you are thinking.” I took a deep breath. “My aunt and uncle, the Darcys, I said they were not well-suited, but it was more than that. They were desperately unhappy together. They were perhaps infatuated at first, particularly him, but they grew to hate each other by the end. My aunt, I think she was glad to die, she was miserable and tired and — it was dreadful, Miss Bennet, and Fitzwilliam is so like her. There are no portraits of her at Pemberley, they are all at Houghton and the house in town, because my uncle, when she died, he went a little bit mad, he could not bear to see her face.” I looked at her steadily. “Fitzwilliam is not like other men, other people, you know that, Miss Bennet.”

Her rather sharp features softened noticably. “Yes,” she said, “I know.”

“He is very strong and confident and clever, but he needs looking after. They, we, were terribly afraid that you would not understand, that you would be like my uncle — you are very like him, in some ways. Lord Matlock and grandmother especially, they simply adored her, and they were devastated when she died. They loved Fitzwilliam all the more because of it, but Mr Darcy could not love him, he could hardly bear to look at him. It is only, we do not wish to see him hurt or broken. And we resented you, because he has always been — there, very devoted and loyal and reliable; you know how he is. We were afraid you would take him from us.” I looked at her plaintively. “The others still are afraid, except Richard and, perhaps, Henry.”

Miss Elizabeth sighed. I could not read her thoughts; perhaps it had been unwise, and imprudent — if Fitzwilliam had wanted her to know, surely he would have told her. But perhaps, he had simply put it out of his mind for too long, and he would not speak of it, not even to her, and she needed to know what had made him the man he was today, who she had fallen in love with. And I wished for myself that she could understand us.

“When I was at Pemberley, I hardly recognised him. I thought he had changed, transformed, into someone new. I did not dare fall in love with him. We were too different, he would not understand me, I could not give him what he deserved.”

“I have never noticed any great change,” I said indifferently.

“No,” she said, “I understand that now.” She smiled with a sudden brilliance, that single look telling me more than hours of painstaking observation had. “Thank you, Miss Fitzwilliam. I would never dream of taking Fitzwilliam — of trying to take him — from those that love and appreciate him.” She laughed. “They are few enough.” I was comforted. It was the first time I had heard her use his Christian name, in public or private.

“Please, Miss Bennet,” I said, clasping her hand, “I hope we shall be friends as well as cousins, whatever the rest of us think. My family calls me `Cecily.' ”

“It is an easy enough name, I daresay I could manage it,” she said lightly; “and may I hope that `Lizzy' is not too great a trial for you?”

I laughed. “You may, Lizzy.”

This is a set of four, but they're all the same story cycle. The year is 1834.

George Wickham

She was beautiful.

She had always been so, of course; not flamboyant, like Betsey, nor quietly handsome, like Jane and Cathy. No, she was her father's daughter, and with the haughtily well-bred manners and sharply critical eye came the sort of beauty that turned heads when she walked into a room. Yet it had never mattered before. Why should I care about my proud cousin? She certainly did not care for me. She might quarrel with Alexander or Betsey or Peter, but I, I was beneath contempt. I did not care, I knew her sort well enough, I knew that I was greatly her superior in all the ways that mattered. I had charm and cleverness and knowledge of the world, but stripped of her beauty and fortune, she had nothing of consequence.

Yet I could scarcely keep my eyes off her. Pride, temper, a sharp scathing wit; what were these to the charms of a pleasing, womanly figure, the white slope of shoulders and neck? I was no better than those fops who hung on her every word, for all that I concealed it better. I felt I had been struck a blow when I first set eyes on her this time, standing tall between her brothers. I had once stared directly into the sun, because Mrs Bingley had told me not to. It was much the same feeling. I was dazzled by her, and although I thought it would pass, as so many infatuations had, it only grew worse. I found myself admiring not only the fine slender lines of her hands but the strength in them — her eyes allured me not merely for the lustrous colour or heavy lashes, but the flash of spirit and intelligence.

More than one woman had imagined herself in love with me, I had taken advantage of it, I had enjoyed doing so. I was my father's child as much as she. I had seen love, but I had never known it. And yet — here I was, mad with it. She looked at me often, and I could easily detect that there was more than disdain in her gaze, a softness. She knew. Nothing mattered, as long as she was here, with me. Not that my sister had caught William Collins and would be mistress of Longbourn, nor that father had vanished again; nor that hers was not the only pair of intense eyes frequently observing me.

Still, there was disdain, there was derision, and I was determined to annihilate it. Surely I, with my knowledge and experience, could win over the heart of a sheltered girl? I took her for walks, admired Pemberley, entertained her small sister, read her favourite books with enthusiasm and interest. I confessed my tragic past, apologised for the sins of my parents, spoke feelingly of how insurmountable the gap between us was. I had never cared for poetry but the animation with which she defended Byron and Keats enticed me into spending hours in the library. My young cousin Elizabeth was everything charming in my mind as well as hers. Pemberley was, of course, splendid. My parents were two of the most worthless people in England and my misfortune in being born to them was incalculable. And so on and so forth.

I had always disliked Mrs Darcy, yet I discovered, as her daughter seduced me, that it was quite groundless. She was not malicious, but witty; not pretentious, but content. She was not flaunting her peculiar relationship with her husband, she was as fascinated by him as I was by her. That my vivacious aunt should love this severe, austere man seemed vastly unlikely, almost as unlikely as the equally austere Miss Darcy of Pemberley enchanting me. Beauty and wealth could only go so far. I was her nephew and I had never understood that before.

I had often boasted that I feared nothing, neither poverty nor beast nor man; but that was not strictly accurate. For as long as I could remember, I had been intensely afraid of my uncle, Mr Darcy. I didn't know why. There was none of the quick violence of my own father; my uncle was deliberate and remote. He was invariably quiet and soft-spoken; I had never heard him raise his voice. His temper was even and not easily roused. My current prosperity was due in great measure to his generosity. Yet I still had to restrain myself from jumping if he unexpectedly appeared near me. I could not conceive of how easily my cousins approached him, even little Elizabeth who frequently clambered up on his lap. My childhood awe of this tall imposing man had waned over time, but in its place came a dread I could not comprehend.

Even as she pressed her hand against her father's cheek and embraced him, she flinched from me. When we were together, she was cold and pale; but I once caught a glimpse of her, vibrant and flushed, as father and daughter eagerly dissected his newest acquisition. It was as if I had never seen the real Anne, but only a hint of a shadow, and there would never be anything else.

I was summoned to Mr Darcy's study towards the end of my visit. I passed a stranger, a young man of about my own age, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a familiar aristocratic cast to his features. A nauseatingly poised and wholesome creature, he nodded coolly to me as I entered my uncle's room. I met Mr Darcy's piercing blue eyes — her eyes — unsteadily, the dread coiling in my throat.

Without preamble, he said: “She is not for you.”

Anne Darcy

I had never been uncomfortable at home. Pemberley was always a haven for us, papa and I. Mother loved it, but she did not need it as we did. I was safe and protected and loved, it was full of memories. Although the building only dated back to Queen Elizabeth's reign, my family had lived on this land for over seven hundred and fifty years. Sometimes I imagined that I could feel it, seven centuries' worth of Darcy births, weddings, and deaths, sinking into the land. Papa always said that he belonged more to Pemberley than it did to him, and he was right — he always seemed somehow displaced when he was not here.

But since my cousin, George Wickham, had come, everything was different. Even Pemberley was different. Somehow everywhere I turned, he was there. The worst was late one evening, when I could not sleep. I put on my dressing gown and went into the library to find something to read, and he was there. Of course he had every right to be there, but the way he looked at me — it was odd, because his colouring was fair, that he should seem so dark, intense and brooding, like the hero of a novel. For the first time in my entire life, I was at Pemberley, and I was afraid.

If felt like everywhere I went, he followed. And yet there was no reason to fear him. He was always gentlemanly and courteous — remarkably so, since we had loathed each other through childhood. We were no longer children, but we had not become different people. My mother told me, once, that after she married my father, she discovered that people altered but they did not change, they could not, they were always themselves. Logically, George must be George still, unless the George I had known in childhood was not the real one. I wish I could know what mother really thought, but he was her nephew; I could not ask her.

I was sorry for him, of course. To be the child of my aunt and uncle Wickham! I would not wish that fate on my worst enemy, let alone a fairly pleasant cousin. And he truly seemed to regret them, and the way he had been raised. I could not know for certain — my parents were always very strict about making judgments of people, mother especially. So I did not dare say anything.

Still, I tried to avoid him, as circumspectly as I could. He always found me. Places that had once been sacrosanct, the library where Edward and Alexander and I had played as children, the portrait hall where the Darcys from papa on back, through generations uncounted, stared down at us, even the bridge over the stream that led into the woods, where mother had once walked and desperately wondered what my father was thinking of her — always George was there, I could not escape him. I was afraid that someone would see; I had always been very good at hiding my feelings — too good, mother said — but they knew me, and always I had to pretend. I did not want them to see that I was afraid, I who had always been so fearless, and what was I afraid of? My gentlemanly, if low-born, cousin, who had never done or said anything remotely offensive, and was nothing more than properly attentive to me. No, they must not know.

The only time I was safe was at evening, in the library, with papa. Mother usually went to bed early, but he did not need so much sleep, and spent the time poring over estate matters or some new acquisition. Ever since I was very small, I would join him for as long as I could. There was no doubt that he loved all of us, but we all knew there was a special bond between my father and I. Mother used to say that she had done little more than give me birth, everything else was papa. When I was a very small girl, I would toddle over to his desk, and tug at his trousers, and he would swing me into his arms and set me on his lap while he did whatever he did. Then, when I was older, I would ask questions about this matter or that, and he always gave me some sort of explanation, which grew longer and more involved as I grew older. He loved books, my father, and ideas, what he could construct in his mind — my mother used to laugh at him and say, “Fitzwilliam, come back to us” when he had not so much as stirred from his chair — and I either learnt or inherited it from him.

Our evenings were inviolable, even George knew that much. Only once, as papa and I gazed at the intricate illustrations of a medieval book, did he intrude; he had passed, and looked in the door at us, and papa nodded briefly and curtly, clearly dismissing him. The door was shut and I went back to admiring the book in safety. Yet I felt my composure and manners growing more brittle by the day, as George paid me determined, relentless attention. Papa asked me, several times, if I minded, if the constant attention bothered me at all — he would put a stop to it if I still disliked him, but I assured him, I was quite content, George knew nothing could come of it, so there was no danger. He did not believe me, I think, although I had never in my life lied or indeed concealed anything from him. For the first time there was a distance between us, a distance created by George Wickham, and in that moment I hated him for it.

There was a clearing beyond the coppice-wood, well off the main path, which our family had discovered on a long-ago walk through the park. The boys were free to wander where they would and forgot it, but often my father or I would escape company for a few hours of blessed solitude. I had feared to come lately, for I did not wish this last sanctuary to be discovered, but George, whose attention was beginning to be more equitably distributed between the three ladies, was occupied with mother. I managed to slip away. Yet as I approached, desperate for some relief, I caught sight of a man's tall figure seated quite familiarly against the roots of one of the trees. Somehow it was the last straw, that he should have found me even here, and I gave a small cry, feeling tears roll unheeded down my cheeks —

“Anne? My dearest Anne, what is wrong? Are you unwell?” The voice was lighter and deeper, the figure leaner and taller, and as he approached I clearly made out the familiar features. Quite beyond endurance, I ran into the clearing and flung myself, sobbing, into my father's arms.

Stephen Deincourt

She was beautiful.

Anne had always been beautiful and, at nineteen, was very much as she had always been. She had grown up, of course, but in manner and temper and character she had not changed at all. And I loved her as I always had. We had been friends as well as cousins, all our lives. I loved Pemberley, in a way that I could not love my own ancestral estate, for all its grandeur. Pemberley was not so splendid, not so grand; but there was a peculiar quality that I never found elsewhere, more than elegance, an almost otherworldliness. For me, it was like a slice of paradise. I could escape, for a fortnight or six weeks or three months, however long I needed; and it was as if time stopped. I could recover, I could gather my reserves, and then I could face the world again. And in a strange way, Anne and my uncle Darcy and Pemberley had all become intertwined in my mind, I could not think of them separately.

At first I assured myself that what I felt was proper fraternal pride and fondness. She was my mother's niece. She reminded me strongly of my sisters, particularly Georgiana. The jealousy I felt of the fops and dandies who courted her was the natural resentment of a neglected brother. She would dance the night away with them and then confide to me that she hated dancing and only wanted to go home and where was her father? It was only at the Cartwrights' ball that I suffered a revelation of sorts.

I was jealous of Charles Bingley. He was not even present, but she talked about him a great deal;—she was very fond of her obliging, indiscriminately friendly Bingley relations. Certainly they were a pleasant surprise considering their situation in life, but frankly I could only bear so much cloying sweetness before becoming decidedly ill-tempered. Nothing is so exhausting as an inexhaustible surfeit of good-will. Charles was handsome, he was agreeable, he understood — he did not expect scintillating conversation but simply kept other men from forcing her to dance when she did not wish to. In my considered opinion, Charles Bingley was a vapid, spineless bore. What right did he have to her good opinion? She was one of the most critical, perceptive people I had ever met and yet she could admire the likes of Charles Bingley. It boggled the mind.

The attachment between father and daughter was such that where one was found, the other was certain to be nearby. Sure enough, after Anne suffered herself to be led away by the Cartwright heir, my uncle seemed to materialise behind me, with some dry, clever remark and a decidedly forbidding expression. Then he, for no apparent reason, invited me to stay at Pemberley, an invitation I gladly accepted.

“I should warn you,” he added casually, “Mrs Darcy's nephew is also paying a visit. You may remember him — George Wickham.” Was it just my imagination, or was there something like distaste in his eyes as he spoke?

“I remember,” I said tersely. “I understand he has made something of himself, to the astonishment of all.”

“Yes,” said Mr Darcy, austere and remote as ever. As my mother's son, however, I was more than accustomed to enigmatic reserve, and smiled faintly at him. “He seems to be quite taken with Anne.”

I could feel blood pounding in my ears, and hardly recognised my own voice when I heard it. “I beg your pardon? I was not aware he was on speaking terms with Anne.”

“He seems to have reconciled himself to her eccentricities. I have nothing to complain of in his conduct.” My uncle looked into the ballroom, perfectly still and somehow apart, his blue eyes intent on the stately whirl of dancers. “He also seems to sincerely regret his parents' — deficiencies.”

“Is he still terrified of you, sir?” I grinned up at my uncle.

“I rather think so.” He seemed faintly pleased. I had never in my life had cause to fear him. “Anne is sensible, of course.”

“Of course.” Even if she is infatuated with Charles Bingley.

“I would also enjoy your company. I am starting to feel a sneaking sympathy for my late father-in-law.”

“I understand, sir.” A vivid mental picture flashed into my mind, of that man touching Anne, my beautiful, pristine cousin. I looked at Anne, at my uncle, thought of Pemberley, and once again failed to convince myself that they were not all part and parcel of the same thing. I thought of Eden and Eve spoilt by the serpent, of pride fallen — and somehow that seemed the worst of all. “I would be honoured to stay at Pemberley, sir, as long as you will have me.”

“Thank you.”

John Wickham

“Aunt Elizabeth sent some money for your wedding clothes.” John handed the letter and enclosure to his sister.

Elizabeth Wickham smiled. “I told mamma I would need wedding clothes, and she told me that she hadn't had any and her wedding had been perfectly fine.”

Seventeen-year-old Frances snorted. “Her wedding? She was married at St Clement's with nobody but the Gardiners and my uncle Darcy. No clothes, no attendants, no anything. It was hardly a proper wedding at all, and they had been living in sin for weeks before!”

“Fanny, please!” John looked up from his book and fervently wished for his brother's return. Betsey was the eldest but no good at all, and so the burden of responsibility fell to him. He would much rather read his beloved books and practise sermon-making, but his ordination was still some years away. If only he could go somewhere, as George had; but he hadn't George's active temperament. He only wished to be left in peace, away from the chaos that was his family. Someday . . .

Fanny subsided, and John turned to the next letter, this one from George himself. His brow furrowed as he read. “Betsey,” he said, “have you heard from George lately?”

Betsey reluctantly turned away from the mirror and stared wide-eyed at him for a moment. “I didn't read very much,” she said. “It was all Anne-this, and Anne-that, really very dull. I can't imagine what he sees in her.”

John uneasily repressed his first thoughts as unworthy of a future clergyman. He could perfectly imagine what George saw in Anne Darcy — beauty, wealth, spirit, and above all, the lure of the forbidden fruit. Yet their tempers were so dissimilar. She was not at all the sort of woman George was usually attracted to — she was elegant, aloof, haughty, every inch a Miss Darcy; even her striking beauty was of a distant, remote sort. Besides, even were he to win their austere cousin over — highly unlikely, in John's opinion — no attachment between them would be tolerated. John looked again at his letter.

“What is he thinking?”

“Probably s'not,” slurred Thomas, sprawled across a chair and, per the usual, shamefully intoxicated. At least he was home. John had never been drunk in his life and had no intentions of ever being so. George he had admired as a child but once able to see past his brother's civilised veneer, he'd been determined to go his own way. Into the Church. “Good old George,” mumbled Tom. “Always knows what he wants.”

Yes, thought John, he knows what he wants. And he does anything to get it. Father'd be proud of him if he could even remember that he had a son.

“Fanny, put him to bed, will you?”

“But John,” whined Fanny, “it's Susan's turn this evening!”

“Susan's asleep. She's been helping Betsey. Do as I say, Fanny.”

“I don't want to!”

John set both letter and Bible down. “I don't really care, Fanny. Shall I have to tell mother not to give you any allowance this month?”

Fanny sulked but obeyed, and John went to his desk — really his father's, but he was the only one who used it. He knew his brother, and Anne, she was a nice girl, she deserved better than this. And John himself would never have been able to pursue his dreams and leave this place behind, someday not too far away, were it not for Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth Darcy. He bit his lip.

. . . If I may be so bold, sir, I do not believe George's continued presence at Pemberley is beneficial to anyone concerned, particularly Miss Darcy. My sister, it seems, is in desperate need of her brother's support as her wedding approaches.

John made a mental note to inform Betsey of her great misery at George's absence. She hummed a little as she admired her reflection.

I remain your respectful nephew,

John Wickham

The last of these. I'm not saying when, exactly it is, but the character is Elizabeth and Darcy's eldest child.

Fitzwilliam Edward Darcy

There had always been something untouchable, inexplicable, about my mother. An intense vibrancy of spirit, something that had always drawn people to her. Her brilliant dark eyes, her slender restless hands, her clear light voice which grew very quick, the words tumbling over one another, when she was excited. She was someone who seemed to radiate joy, a joy which became quieter but no less profound as she grew older.

My uncle spoke, his sombre, sorrowful voice carrying to all corners of the chapel. “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.” Had he been very devout? I could hardly remember, my thoughts overwhelmed by loneliness and grief. He had never spoken the Lord's name casually. There had been reverence if not great humility. Could he be content in calm serenity of paradise? How he had loved a good debate, although quarrels he disliked intensely. Was he even now insisting on some obscure doctrinal point with the angels of heaven? Was he really there, somewhere? Or had he left utterly, gone beyond recall?

“Hello, Edward,” she said dispassionately. I stared. I knew not what I had expected, but it was not this. She was pale and colourless, but utterly composed. Yet the feeling of wrongness did not abate, it threatened to overwhelm me, I did not know what to do. It was as if everything that had made her mother had been drained out, and this white indifferent creature was left in her place. She truly seemed not to care about anything.

“O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” I thought of Anne's face, frozen in a mask of beauty and despair. My dearest Anne, she had been so like him, she loved intensely and immoderately and kept no part of herself back. Father had been the world to her and she was lost without him. We were all lost. But she had become cold and remote, speaking to no-one, not until one day when I pressed food on her and she said, quite clearly, “I wish I were dead. Why could it not be me?” My aunt always said that men did not cry, and I had never seen my father do so, but at that moment I could not contain myself and sobbed like a child in my sister's arms.

“Mother,” I said, and pressed my lips against her cold cheek. Her hand was quite steady, and she managed the household as efficiently as she had ever done. “Are you well?”

“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ.” No-one thought much of Elizabeth during those dreadful weeks. In that great house full of people, she was left to herself. Only Amelia thought of her, found her in the library where, as a child, she had waltzed with our father, whirling high above the floor in his arms. She was trembling so violently she could not stand, and Amelia wept with her.

“Yes, of course,” mother said, her voice utterly without inflection. She went about her duties, having rooms opened for the guests, the entire family pouring in to pay their respects. I could not see that she cared at all, and the very foundations of my world were shaken. In his quiet, austere way, my father had loved her, as much as any man could; and it seemed somehow an insult to his memory that she did not even seem affected by his passing. It was Mrs Gardiner, my great-aunt, who sombrely told me, “You do your mother an injustice, Edward. She cannot grieve — yet, she does not dare.”

“Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil. Amen.” If Anne was devastated, my aunt Georgiana was desolate. She had always been a reserved, elegant woman, with a quality of stillness, of containment, that reminded me very much of my father. Now she was like a child, bewildered and unhappy beyond reason or recall. Her grief only seemed to increase as time passed; she withdrew more and more, her temper becoming erratic, despair settling more deeply on her until we hardly dared let her go anywhere by herself. “Aunt Georgiana — ” I said, and she looked at me, her hair loose about her shoulders, eyes wide and blank and dark, and said, “Fitzwilliam?” “No, no, it's Edward, I'm Fitzwilliam's son.” She burst into noisy tears and ran away. We knew not what to do — what could be done? Nothing would bring him back to her, to any of us.

Even once most of the family had been disposed of, mother seemed incapable of feeling. She embroidered, day in and day out. She never touched the pianoforte. My aunt Jane did not leave even once her husband and children did. “She needs someone,” she told me, and I replied sharply, “She has us.” Aunt Jane smiled in her gentle way, and said kindly, “I'm sure you mean well, Edward.” Dear Aunt Jane. Mother did seem a little better when she was there, not quite so empty.

“We give thee hearty thanks, for that it hath pleased thee to deliver this our brother out of the miseries of this sinful world; beseeching thee, that it may please thee, of thy gracious goodness, shortly to accomplish the number of thine elect, and to hasten thy kingdom.” If there was one thing I could not do, it was give thanks. Gratitude? For this? Perhaps he had been elevated beyond the temporal world, but he had been happy here, he had not wanted to die, he had loved mother and us and Aunt Georgiana, and he had loved Pemberley, and I had heard him say more than once that if he had any choice he would never leave it. When Mr Collins expressed his condolences to my mother and siblings and I, I almost thought something flickered in her expressionless eyes. Alexander and Elizabeth had no such scruples, and lashed out at him. When he peered at me and began sanctimoniously, “Mr Darcy — ” somehow it came crashing down. Not only was father dead, but Mr Darcy was dead, and I was Mr Darcy, the head of this family, and — dear Lord, how had he done it? How would I do it? No-one was left sane in this world — how could the world be sane at all, a world that would take a man such as my father with no warning? If there was any justice it would have been one of the Wickhams or Collinses or Elliots. Even one of the Bingleys or Fitzwilliams. Anyone but father.

She never went outside, although she had always loved Pemberley's grounds. She used to laugh that she had begun to love father when she first saw his grounds. They had hardly changed in the intervening years, father never bowed to the dictates of fashion, only propriety, and the family liked Pemberley as it was, thank-you-very-much. I'm not certain why I asked her to accompany me for a walk that day, perhaps I thought it would do her good to get out of the house. I talked away incoherently, about my cousins, how John and Jane were faring, did they have any children yet, George was doing very well, young Reynolds seemed a little nervous, could something be done for her; and mother mm-hmm'ed and nodded at appropriate moments, until we reached the little bridge over the stream.

“You walked here once,” I said.

“I have walked here many times,” she said disinterestedly. “Shall we continue?”

“Yes, of course.” There, the other path came towards us; and I stopped again.

“Edward — ” mother said tightly, but I pressed on.

“This is where he came back — you did not think he would, did you? He could not see you, but you could see him. Ironic, isn't it?”

“Edward, I would like to return to the house.”

“No, I think we had better stay here.” Where the strength of purpose came from, I didn't know. Perhaps, once upon a time, my father had been just as lost and overwhelmed as I, and only sheer strength of will had kept him afloat. When I was very small, mother would pick me up, and point to my father as he went about being Mr Darcy, and say, Do you see your papa, Edward? He is the very best of men, and someday, you shall be just like him. And then she would laugh, because she always laughed after making any grave pronouncement.

Mother stood very still, but she was still such a little delicate thing, in frame if not character, and I held her where she was.

“Today is the fourth of August, mother. The same day, all those years ago, that you met him at this very spot. You were very young, weren't you? You didn't really care about what he felt, except as it related to you. He told me, once, what he was thinking then. He wanted to please you, he could not think of anything else. But he was very young himself, wasn't he? He did not think you would ever come to love him, because —” I smiled humourlessly — “you had told him so yourself. But he hoped you would respect him and that would be enough.”

She turned pale, and said, in a steely voice, “Edward, you would do well to remember that I am still your mother.”

I went on, raising my voice. “Did you ever regret saying that? Did you think of it at all? Or were you so certain that you understood his character, even after his letter, that you dismissed any feelings he might have as unworthy of your notice or regret? What about my uncle Wickham? You were angry at grandfather, but you did the same thing, didn't you? Did you ever care about that?”

I could see, now, how brittle her composure was. She trembled, not a great deal, not like Elizabeth, but just a little, as she stared at me. I softened, reached out a hand to touch her cheek. “Perhaps you were not worthy of him, although he would laugh if you said so, but you loved him. You loved him beyond reason, and he never understood how it had happened, but you made him happy. He never really knew how to be happy before you. You gave him that.”

“Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, looking away, at the path he had walked out of all those years ago. Then, with a bewildered, wounded expression, she turned to me. “Edward,” she said, astonishment creeping over her face, “he's gone.”

“Yes, mother,” I said gently, and in that moment, she fell to her knees, covering her face with her hands, gasping for breath as sobs tore out of her throat. She rocked back and forth, and after a brief awkward moment, the sun shining brightly through the trees, I knelt beside her and put my arms around her. “Mother,” I whispered, resting my cheek against her hair, “I love you — I'm sorry — I'm so sorry — ”

“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore. Amen.”

“Edward,” Aunt Jane began sternly, and I gazed at her, catching my reflection on the opposite side of the room. It was easy to forget that I was my father's son as well as my mother's, until I looked in the mirror.

“Please don't call me that,” I said abruptly, and she stopped, stared.

“I beg your pardon?”

I sighed, and set down the letter I had been reading on my desk; and now, somehow, it was my desk. I was no longer an interloper playing some ridiculous game. “Aunt Jane,” I said calmly, “my name is Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

Chapter 2

She was thirty-four years old, but just now, her dark hair tangled around her shoulders and the strong, handsome features of her face set in grim, determined lines, she seemed hardly altered from the girl she had been, climbing trees and stamping her hair ribbons into mud puddles.

Ten years of marriage to Lewis de Bourgh had left Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam remarkably unchanged. As she walked down the hall to make certain the servants had taken proper care of her daughter, Anne — one could never trust servants to do things quite right, and most of those her father had hired since her marriage were incompetent fools — she heard a woman's raised voice.

Catherine's native curiosity quickly won out over maternal paranoia; it was not that she wanted to hear the conversation, just to make certain that no servants had the temerity to quarrel in such loud voices. She approached the source of the conversation quietly, but such circumspection was not required. The woman's clear voice raised even more, leaving no doubts as to her identity.

“I suppose that's what you told Mrs Wickham last week?”

George Darcy said something in a low voice. Catherine sighed in relief. Anne's quiet, pleasant manners to that wretched husband of hers had quickly put a strain on the entire household. Even Catherine's ironclad nerves had been a little upset. She stayed put for a few minutes, as they quarrelled loudly, then turned to leave, deciding no intervention on her part would be required. Then her sharp ears caught another sound, a soft, albeit determined, wail from the next room.

Catherine was instantly enraged. She had no objection to a good quarrel — engaged in them regularly, in fact — but she had strong feelings about the proper way to go about parenting. Nothing should come before one's child, ever, and here these two fools were so involved in their own concerns that they paid no attention to their own son.

“You didn't seem to care about him before!”

“Anne, they didn't expect him to live the hour! Why must you persist in deceiving yourself? He is not going to live!”

Not with a father like you, he won't. Catherine sniffed, and instantly whirled away to find the housekeeper. “Lady Catherine!” she exclaimed, in some surprise. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” said Catherine coolly. “Please send someone — someone reliable, mind you — to make certain my nephew is quite all right.”

Mrs Fairchild looked bewildered. “Which nephew, ma'am?”

“Fitzwilliam.” At the housekeeper's blank look, she elaborated, “Lady Anne's son. Thank you.” Her duty done, Catherine marched to her daughter's room, made a minor adjustment to the draperies, and loosened the blanket slightly (they had of course tucked it too tightly), considering the situation. Clearly Anne and Darcy were not proper parents, even of a small and undemanding child. His education would undoubtedly be lacking in several essentials, if left to their obviously inept hands.

How fortunate that he had Lady Catherine de Bourgh for an aunt.

Chapter Two

“You're a fool.”

George Darcy grimaced in his uncle's generation. “With all due respect, sir, I do not require anyone to tell me that.”

“Then perhaps you're not quite as foolish as I thought you.” Sir James Darcy looked thoughtfully at his nephew. George's saintly good looks had not deserted him, but he undoubtedly looked rather the worse for wear. His wife was letting him suffer, then. Good. This business boggled the imagination, as far as he was concerned. Anne Fitzwilliam was an elegant, clever, beautiful woman, far superior to that painted trollop George had entangled himself with. He could not imagine what his nephew had seen in Mrs Wickham. For that matter, he could not imagine what his nephew's steward had seen in Mrs Wickham.

“I wasn't really with her,” he said unexpectedly. Sir James raised his eyebrows.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Anne — she didn't see what she thought she saw.” Then he flushed and dropped his eyes. “At least, not exactly what she thought she saw.”

“Really?” The judge could not keep a certain amount of scepticism from entering his tone. He was a perceptive man, prided himself on that, and there was absolutely no doubt in his mind about what role Mrs Wickham had played in his nephew's life.

“I told her, afterwards, I told her I didn't want to see her again — like that, I mean. I still don't know how it happened exactly — I was angry with Anne, and with myself, and then I happened across her — across Fanny. She was crying, apparently some servant had slighted her in some way — I don't recall exactly — and I tried to comfort her — just in an ordinary way. I'm fond of Wickham, you know, and she was his wife, and she looked very beautiful —” Mr Darcy shrugged, looking miserable. “Somehow we ended up — together. I was infatuated with her for a little while — I must have taken leave of my senses — but it was hellish. She always wanted things — jewellery, dresses, that sort — and there's no way to be circumspect about that. Then she stole some trinket of Anne's — I hadn't even given it to her, it was her grandmother's — and we argued, then, the next day, Anne told me that she had conceived.” He smiled faintly at the memory. “I was delighted, of course, and I knew I'd have to break things off with Fanny. But it felt like — well, a sacrifice of sorts, until I saw them together. It was like —” he passed a hand over his eyes — “I can't describe it. I had no idea what I had seen in her — Fanny, not Anne — why I had even thought her handsome. She's not — she can't hold a candle to Anne.”

“As you say, nothing to Anne, but I daresay she's an attractive enough woman,” Sir James allowed, “if you care for that . . . type.”

Mr Darcy shuddered. “I never thought I would,” he said, “but I didn't think she was. I felt — well, rather sorry for her. Well, I broke it off with her — I thought she understood.” Frowning, he added, “I was fairly clear.”

“She probably did understand,” murmured Sir James, “at least your intentions — or lack thereof — as pertained to her.”

Mr Darcy looked uncomfortable. “In any case, about a month after Fitzwilliam was born — it was a difficult enough time as it was — she tried to, well, convince me to carry on our affair. I told her how sorry I was about the whole business, but I wasn't interested. She didn't seem to understand, she kept trying to — well, convince me, but I knew what I wanted, and it wasn't her.” He shrugged. “And then Anne walked in, just as Fanny had —”

“That's quite enough information, I think,” the judge said dryly. “What did Anne do?”

“I threw Fanny out. Anne was furious, naturally, and we ended up quarrelling. Again. We'd had a particularly unpleasant one only the day before.” Mr Darcy sighed. “She left and I tried to calm down — I hadn't meant to be so blunt —”

Sir James' grey eyes narrowed. “Blunt about what?”

Mr Darcy blinked. “Fitzwilliam, of course. I had no less than four physicians brought in, and they all said he had no chance of surviving, but she insists upon hoping, and acting as if he was like any other baby.” His hands clenched. “She thinks I don't care, but it's not that. It's just — difficult. The endless waiting, not knowing, every morning waking up to wonder if this is the day I'll go into the nursery to find my son dead — and Anne blathering about which piece of jewellery she'll have set for Fitzwilliam's bride. His bride! We both know perfectly well he will never live to be married, have his own children—” His throat closed, and he quickly changed the subject. “And then there's young George —”

Sir James frowned. “And who is this?”

Mr Darcy sighed. “Wickham named me godfather to his son. You know how much I like children; he's a delightful boy, bright and cheerful. There's no reason I shouldn't be fond of him. And Anne refuses to be reasonable about him.”

“Reasonable?” Sir James' eyebrows shot up.

“It's not as if he's mine,” Mr Darcy hurried on, “he's too old — but whenever Anne sees us together . . . well, I can't help wondering which sister I married.”

The judge chuckled, and Mr Darcy scowled at his uncle. “I fail to see the humour in the situation,” he said stiffly.

“I don't doubt it. Really, my boy, how do you manage it?” He shook his head admiringly. “I must confess to being in error; rare though the occasion may be, it does happen. You needn't look so surprised. I had thought that your penchant for trouble would mellow with age; but clearly that was wild optimism on my part. I cannot help feeling a certain degree of awe at your unparalleled talent in this regard.”

Mr Darcy sighed. “I am myself astonished, sir.”

Chapter Three

George Darcy was a slender man of middling height, and his step was light. It was undoubtedly for this reason that his presence escaped the detection of his sleeping wife (hardly a heavy sleeper). He was careful to avoid all signs of the brooding lover (not that he could really carry it off): deeply-felt sighs, long monologues, sudden impassioned outbursts. He didn't really want to wake Anne up; she would be startled, he would be humiliated, and a quarrel would inevitably result. Then Catherine, an even lighter sleeper than Anne, would overhear, and feel obliged to intervene on Anne's behalf, and Sir Lewis would eventually come, and they would have to dispose of that utter nincompoop, and talk of the estrangement between the master of Pemberley and his wife would spread from their servants' halls across Derbyshire, and soon all would know of it.

No, it was much better to avoid whatever inclinations he had in that area. George carefully set the candle down, berating himself for at least the thousandth time. How could he have been so abysmally stupid? Gross stupidity was permissible in lesser beings, but he was a Darcy of Pemberley, a gentleman with an ancient lineage and excellent education, and not lacking in looks or brains. He should know better. For the entirety of his thirty-four years, he had known better. That such a creature as Frances Wickham could entrap him boggled the mind.

What were you thinking, boy? For a bachelor, it might be understandable, if foolish — getting involved with the likes of that woman! But you, with a wife like Anne Fitzwilliam; that you could sink to such despicable depths!—I am disappointed, George, and if you cannot feel shame, I am ashamed on your behalf.

His uncle's voice still echoed through his head; but through the wash of guilt and shame, there was a tendril of annoyance as well. It was such a silly thing, and a characteristic trait of all Fitzwilliam women; but they had been married for nearly seven years. His wife had been Lady Anne Darcy for nearly ten years. Yet she still had to remind herself not to sign letters, Lady Anne Fitzwilliam, and most of his acquaintance still referred to her by that name. Not that he had any right, now, to insist that Anne associate herself only with him and his.

Catherine's first remark upon arriving had been to remark upon Anne's thinness. (She had not deigned to acknowledge his presence, except for a brief glance that had left him in no doubt as to where he stood in her estimation.) George at the time had been naturally furious, but Anne seemed to feel this was ordinary and perfectly admissable behaviour. Now he looked more closely, and realised that, as usual, his sister-in-law had been tactless but correct. She had lost weight quickly after Fitzwilliam's birth, so quickly that they had feared for her survival as well as his; there was no fear of that now, thank God, but even the weight of her hand on his arm seemed lighter than he recalled.

She would be fine. Of course she would. There was nothing wrong with her, unless temper and irrational wilfulness counted. George drew in his breath slowly (and quietly), and turned to leave the room. It was only a few steps to the nursery. The large, open room seemed to dwarf the child sleeping peacefully in his cradle. For the first time, George Darcy looked at his son and heir, and did not think of what he lacked, or reflect with shame, or any other feeling, on his first thoughts; that it would have been a blessing if he had been stillborn, as the physicians had first thought. Fitzwilliam slept peacefully, one small hand curled under his cheek, the fine, straight lines of his face already reminiscent of Anne's. Sir James had been a little disappointed at how little of the Darcys there was about him (and Catherine, needless to say, utterly delighted).

What if Anne had carried to the end of her confinement, if he had been born easily, if he'd had the fairer hair and stronger constitutions of his fathers before him? It would be simpler, no doubt; easier, even. Would he spend most of his waking hours quarrelling with his beloved wife then? It seemed unlikely.

George couldn't imagine it. Despite the grief and anger, he could not say he wished it had been different; except for wishing that Fanny had been drowned at birth, obviously. Yet he could not wish that Anne had stayed; that they could go back to the peace of their first two years of marriage. He could not even wish Fitzwilliam different. He recalled how his mother had spoken of the dreadful thoughts that came to one in the dark hours, but George took comfort in the thoughts that had come to him now. Perhaps it would be all right. He and Anne would patch things up, if only for appearances; and Fitzwilliam was growing stronger by the day.

He bent down and pressed his lips against his son's dark hair, picked up the candle, and returned to his own bedchambers.

It did not even occur to him to look in on his godson.

Chapter Four

Two years later

“And what does your retrobate nephew have to say for himself this time?” Anne asked coldly. Sir James was not a judge for nothing, however, and he clearly perceived the spark of interest in her dark eyes.

“He is very sorry, remains rather bewildered about what possessed him, and has told the steward that he must control Mrs Wickham or else he will not answer for the consequences.” He could not help relishing the astonished expression on her face, as well as how the sharp lines of her face softened minutely.

“Mrs Wickham,” she mimicked; “Do you know what she had the utter impudence to say to me? Oh, please call me Fanny, Mrs Wickham is so formal. I'm certain we shall be the best of friends; we have so much in common! Foul creature. Does she really think I can't see past those sweet manners of hers? At first she seemed sincere, of course; she hasn't changed, but I have, and now it's just—tiresome. I can hardly carry on a civil conversation without becoming exhausted. I hope she—what are you doing here?” Her voice had risen slightly, and Sir James turned to look at the newcomer with interest.

It was a small, toddling child, well-dressed with a mop of dark hair and bright blue eyes. He peered up at them both, biting his lip thoughtfully. “Lay-dee?” he asked, pointing at Anne; his other hand was clutched about something.

Anne managed a faint smile. “Sir James, this is Mr Darcy's godson, George Wickham. George, what are you doing here?”

The child tilted his head, then slowly approached Anne, almost fearfully; although he did not seem fearful by rule. When he was within a few feet of her, he extended his closed hand, and opened it. Resting on his jam-smeared palm was a necklace set with a single small emerald; nothing much, at least not compared to the sort of jewellery Mr Darcy's wife would normally possess, but elegant and clearly very old. Anne gave a small cry and snatched it out of the boy's hand.

“I thought I'd lost—where did you get this?” she exclaimed, staring down at George Wickham, who instinctively backed away.

“Mamma,” he said brightly, then his small brows together in a puzzled frown. “Not mamma. Lay-dee.” He stared up at Anne, and said forcefully, “you. Mamma . . . take?” Clearly he was frustrated by his inability to communicate. “Not mamma,” he said again. “Lay-dee.”

Anne's eyes widened in comprehension and anger. “Thank you, George,” she said with admirable calmness. “It was very good of you to bring this to me; but you should not have left your nanny. Go find her, and stay with her. Do you understand?”

The child nodded. He was clever, no doubt. “George good?” he asked plaintively.

“Yes, George is very good,” Anne tiredly repeated. “Now, go find nanny.”

“Yes.” He smiled brightly and turned, toddling away. As soon as possible, Anne whirled around, clutching the necklace between her thin, trembling fingers.

“How dare she? What right has she—how could he let her? This was—is—mine, it was my mother's and her mother's before her. What insanity could possibly be passing in her mind, to think that she could simply take it?”

James chuckled humourlessly. “Anne, Anne, calm down. You mustn't let her affect you this way, it's only what she wants; if indeed her motivations are that complex. It was probably very simple; she saw it, and she wanted it, so she took it. That it was yours only added to its attractiveness. And she would have assumed that you would not miss it, as the monetary value is fairly small. The boy must have noticed you wearing it, and wondered why his mother had it.”

Anne stopped, holding the necklace against her stomach. “I have to talk to Mr Darcy,” she said shakily. “I will not have that woman close to my things, or my husband, or my son. Oh!—I forgot, in the excitement.” Her distress seemed to abandon her for the moment, and she turned to face the mirror, clasping the necklace around her neck. “The physician was here earlier, to examine Fitzwilliam; since he did not expect him to live even this long, he wanted to see him—I suppose to try and understand how he managed it.”

Sir James tensed. “What did he say?”

Anne smiled radiantly. “He said that Fitzwilliam is much stronger than he expected. He is still too small, and quiet, but he's much better. Mr Davis said we should not hope too much — that he is still very frail and his chances are not good — but how can I not? And, last night he woke me with the most blood-curdling scream imaginable.” She shuddered. “I thought someone was murdering him. It turned out he was hungry.” She laughed. “He shall be perfectly fine, Sir James. I am certain of it.”

Chapter Five

1788

Lady Anne Darcy stared at her son in horror. “Fitzwilliam Darcy, what have you been doing?”

Fitzwilliam jumped guiltily. His clothes were torn and dirty (and, Anne realised with a purely maternal sigh, too short), a leaf had lodged itself in his tangled (and suspiciously damp) dark hair, and there was a long scratch down his left cheek. She utterly ignored the taller boy running in the opposite direction, who as usual looked rather worse, and barely noticed that her son seemed to have his hands clutched around something vaguely furry.

“Fitzwilliam?”

He bit his lip, held whatever was in his hands more tightly against his chest. “I'm sorry, mamma.”

“Sorry about what?” She placed her hands on her hips. Fitzwilliam took a deep breath.

“George saw him up in the tree so he jumped on the branch to see if he'd hold on and he didn't and felled in the water and George was going to leave him there so I jumped in and got him and he tried to scratch George but I held him and so he scratched me instead but he likes me now and can I keep him?”

Anne took in a deep breath, mentally cursed George Wickham — who always seemed to incite these incidents in some unsavoury fashion — and pressed her fingers against her forehead, which was starting to ache. “Fitzwilliam, do you remember how sad you were last spring when your bird flew away?”

Fitzwilliam looked briefly unhappy, but instantly cheered, looking up at Anne hopefully. “But mother, he can't fly.”

Think — calm — thoughts. “What is he, Fitzwilliam?”

“Who is he, you mean. What isn't nice.”

Anne briefly shut her eyes. “Yes, of course. Who is he?”

“I don't know,” said Fitzwilliam brightly. “I haven't named him yet.”

“Fitzwilliam Darcy, show him to me this instant!”

Fitzwilliam held whatever-it-was against his chest protectively. “You won't hurt him?”

Anne sighed. “Of course not.” Reluctantly, Fitzwilliam opened his small hands to reveal an underfed ball of dirty grey and white fur. It was quite possibly the most unattractive beast she had ever laid eyes on. As she reached out to touch it, the kitten hissed (“pthh”) and bared its teeth. Fitzwilliam snatched it back, and the kitten peacefully sprawled out on his hands.

“Please, mother?”

“Excuse me, your ladyship, but there's a Mrs Reynolds here to see you.”

Fitzwilliam and his kitten squeaked and dashed behind Anne's legs, only daring to peer out after an awkward silence. Anne drew herself erect, and smiled at the plain, sensible-looking woman before her, dismissing the servant.

“Good afternoon, Mrs Reynolds,” she said pleasantly. “Welcome to Pemberley.”

Chapter Six

George Darcy clapped his steward on the shoulder. “My thanks, Wickham. You're certain you don't mind?”

“Of course not. I have some business of my own, and Fanny loves London.” He frowned, not entirely certain how he would cover his wife's likely expenditures in town, or even in Lambton if she was left here without supervision, and George gave him a sympathetic look. Between Pemberley's ten thousand a-year and the Darcys' lack of vice, they never wanted for money, and George did what he could to help his friend; but Wickham was proud, and George knew better than to trespass on another man's pride.

“Good, then.” The two men parted, and George settled down with his accounts in his study. Not five minutes had passed, however, before he heard a nervous tapping at his door. “Come in,” he called, and was startled to see his four-year-old son slip in. George was proud of his son and Fitzwilliam idolised his father; but for all their mutual affection, they were not close, and Fitzwilliam rarely sought his father out. He was not certain why; but he had no doubt that Anne could and would explain at length why it was his fault, should he desire to know.

“Fitzwilliam? Is something wrong?”

He shook his head, gravely fixing his eyes on his father. George sighed, summoning up his reserves of patience. Fitzwilliam had a deeply frustrating habit of assuming that if he knew something, everyone else knew it as well, and therefore there was no need to explain himself. It was almost impossible to get an entire story out of him. “What is it, then?”

“Mother said to ask you,” said Fitzwilliam. He had recently been bathed; George idly wondered what mischief the boys had gotten up to this time.

“What did she want you to ask?”

“If I can keep him.”

Dear Lord, not again. They had just managed to clear Pemberley of Fitzwilliam's array of injured pets. George felt a headache brewing. “Fitzwilliam, you remember the bir—”

“He can't fly,” Fitzwilliam said promptly. Clearly the matter had already been canvassed. George sighed.

“Let me see him.”

Fitzwilliam shyly stepped forward and opened his hands to reveal a small, filthy kitten, clearly the runt of its litter. Remarkably enough, it seemed free of any injury, although it was clearly an ill-tempered beast. After it spat vituperatively at him, George was left with no doubts as to where his son had acquried the scratch running down one cheek. “Are you quite certain you want him?”

Fitzwilliam blinked. “Of course, papa.”

What was one more pet? It was a small enough favour, and Fitzwilliam was hardly a demanding child. “Then you may have him.”

Fitzwilliam smiled brightly. “Thank you, sir.” George wondered if most four-year-olds routinely called their parents “sir” and “mother,” but as his son had yet to follow customary behaviour in any regard, he dismissed the concern as baseless. Fitzwilliam glanced up at his father, hesitating as he held the cat against him, clearly considering some momentous choice, then making a decision and turning to leave. He glanced over his shoulder. “May I tell mother?”

George spared but a moment to wonder what he had missed before settling deep in the accounts again. “Mm,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. Fitzwilliam frowned slightly, sensing that something was not quite right, but as he could not imagine what, he shrugged the thought off and fled his father's presence with the newly-christened Alfred.

Chapter Seven

Anne kept her eyes fixed on her embroidery. Unlike her sister, she enjoyed it; it made her feel useful, gave her something to do with her hands. “You're his father,” she answered calmly.

He suddenly wished that Fitzwilliam and Anne were different, that he needn't always struggle to comprehend the complex pair that was his family; that his son, at least, was a little more like his god-son, would just walk up and ask him for something if he wanted it, would not struggle for words even when he did speak. Then he hated himself for the thought. “I hardly know him. We rarely talk to one another,” he said.

Anne raised her cold dark eyes to look him directly in the face. “And I suppose that is Fitzwilliam's fault?”

“No, of course not.” George exhaled slowly. “It's just — he was clearly afraid. You're his mother, you know him far better than I. Why did you send him to ask me?”

Anne carefully, calmly, stitched the thorns on a rose, careful to think before speaking. “He should become accustomed to seeking your permission, even if the trivial concerns of a four-year-old boy — of this four-year-old boy, at least — do not interest you. He is not afraid of you; he merely seeks your approval, and fears being found wanting.”

“Why?”

Anne gave a soft, humourless laugh. “Why does he look for your approval? I have often wondered myself; but it is simple enough, I daresay. Since at the time I had not the wit to choose a better father for him, you are all he has.”

“No; why should he fear—”

“Oh, that.” Anne stabbed at the white material, then hated herself, and him, for the brief loss of control. “Because, Mr Darcy, he is four years old and does not understand why his father seems barely aware of his existence.” George flinched. “I am glad you allowed him the cat, however. It was good of you.”

He felt vaguely guilty, as he had not given the matter much thought. “What did he name it?”

Anne's fingers slowed slightly, as she resumed the careful, steady pattern of before. “Alfred. I told him a story about Alfred the Great a few weeks ago. He was apparently impressed.”

“He has a good memory,” said George; then he added rather bitterly, “like his mother.”

“Yes, he is like me,” said Anne, folding up the embroidery. Thank God. She stood, carefully smoothing her skirt. “If you wish to see me, sir, I shall be instructing Mrs Reynolds — that's our new housekeeper, if you hadn't heard. I would prefer to be left in peace for some time.” She paused on her way to the door. “Fitzwilliam is in the library, should you desire to speak with him this week.”

“What is he doing there?”

“Reading; why else would he be in a library?” Anne walked out and quietly shut the door behind her. The days of slamming it had long-since passed.

Chapter Eight

It was not the first time she had seen Lady Anne. The first twenty years of her life had been spent in the village of Houghton, and she had watched, with the same fascination as the rest of the villagers, as the Earl and his family passed through. They did not spend a great deal of time there, but she had never forgotten the day when Lady Catherine and Lady Anne, both giggling like a pair of schoolgirls, had come into her father's shop. The Fitzwilliams were a fine-looking family, and these two were no exception, with Lady Anne rather the handsomer but not nearly so striking as Lady Catherine. She had not been certain which she had envied more; but she had certainly not expected to ever so much as lay eyes on them again.

Lady Anne did not seem the same at all; but more than ten years had passed, and Martha Reynolds thought with some amazement that she seemed rather handsomer than before. She was very slender — far slenderer than she had been as a girl — with piles of lovely dark hair, and very dark eyes. At her side was a young boy, slightly-built, about three years old, and the very image of her ladyship, clutching a disreputable-looking cat in his arms. Mrs Reynolds knew perfectly well that children, particularly children of the upper classes, were never so angelic as they seemed; but she was nevertheless instantly charmed.

Now, as she considered the menu (for Lady Anne was not very much interested in such things, and already Mrs Reynolds had gathered that dinner was an awkward event), she glanced up, and briefly caught a glimpse of shining blue eyes, the only respect in which the young master differed from the other Fitzwilliams. The eyes were perhaps a little too bright, but his cheeks were dry, his small face set, and the faithful Alfred tailed his footsteps. “Master Fitzwilliam, shouldn't you be with your mother?” she asked reproachfully.

He shook his head and began chewing on his thumbnail. It had been made abundantly clear within a few days at Pemberley that the young master was a withdrawn, quiet, nervous child, and thus, some care had to be taken, particularly given the unfortunate situation with Mr Darcy and Lady Anne. Mrs Reynolds automatically slapped his hand away from his mouth, and he stared at her in utter amazement.

“If someone asks you a question, young man,” she said sternly, “you answer, with words.”

He flinched slightly, and Alfred made the pthh noise that passed for a hiss with her. “No, ma'am,” he said, in a bare whisper. “I went to see her but she's busy.”

“Did she say she was busy?”

Fitzwilliam shook his head. “She and father were . . . talking.” He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the ground. “I didn't want — I'm not s'posed to intir — intra — talk when they're talking. I just wanted something to eat.”

Mrs Reynolds felt an upwelling of sympathy, but was careful to keep him from seeing it. It didn't do to overindulge children, particularly at such a young age. “You won't be hungry for dinner if you eat now,” she told him. He picked Alfred up and pressed his face into her fur. His next words were muffled.

“Look me in the face when you speak to me,” said Mrs Reynolds, with a sigh. Fitzwilliam took a step back, but obediently raised his eyes, fixing them in the general vicinity of her chin.

“I said, I'm not hungry. I just wanted something to eat. I don't feel very good.” Even before she could raise her hand to check his forehead, he added crossly, “And I'm not sick!”

“Then what's wrong?” she asked gently.

“Nothing,” he said sullenly, resting his cheek against Alfred's head. “I'm fine. It's all right, nothing wrong!” By the end of this, his voice had risen shrilly. Mrs Reynolds raised her eyebrows and put her hands on her hips. At her stare, Fitzwilliam took another step back, and blinked rapidly, rubbing his nose with his free arm. “It's not my fault,” he burst out. “I didn't do nothing!”

“What didn't you do?”

He stamped his foot, clearly exasperated with her stupidity. “I don't know!”

Clearly more was going on here than a child's fit of the sulks. Mrs Reynolds, after placating the little boy and sending him to play with young Wickham, concluded that she needed to consult Lady Anne. Perhaps it would be best if he were not always at Pemberley, particularly not during this difficult time, while his parents ironed out their worst difficulties.

My dear sister, Lord Allington wrote, Eleanor and I would be delighted to have Fitzwilliam stay with us this summer . . .

Chapter Nine

Fitzwilliam clutched Alfred very tightly against him. He missed his mother and father and George and even Mr Wickham the steward, who always smiled kindly at him; and most of all, he missed Pemberley. Newbury was the first place he had seen that was anything as big as Pemberley, but it was different and he did not like it. The trees had grown up all in neat little rows, and the bushes had been cut into strange shapes, and the house was very large and grim, and the grounds full of carvings and fallen rocks. There were no hills, let alone mountains, and —

I want to go home, he thought miserably. The village had been nice, so much like Lambton that he could hardly tell the difference — not that that meant very much, as his mother did not like him to talk with the sort of people that lived in villages (or the sort of people that lived most places). But it was at least a little like home. He liked his aunt well enough, but she was so very stern that he could not help being a little afraid of her, and she was not his mother. He was glad that his uncle, Sir Lewis, had not come with them. Fitzwilliam was not at all afraid of him — who could be? — but it was somehow very uncomfortable riding in a carriage with someone who had to have everything explained to him. Sir Lewis was nothing like father, father was clever and witty, and much nicer-looking than Sir Lewis.

It was a tall, dark-haired gentleman who lifted him out of the carriage. There were two boys at his side, both much older and bigger than Fitzwilliam, and a lady with silver hair but the same dark eyes as his mother and Aunt Catherine, and the gentleman too. Suddenly Aunt Catherine didn't seem nearly so fearsome, and he stepped back towards her and held her hand tightly, trying to remember what his parents had told him. Alfred, who did not like Aunt Catherine, hissed a little, but so quietly that nobody else could hear.

The gentleman was talking to Aunt Catherine. “. . . I hope your journey was pleasant?”

“Very pleasant, thank you,” Aunt Catherine said sharply. “May we please go inside now, Edward?”

The gentleman called Edward laughed and escorted them all in, leaving the three boys to follow them. Fitzwilliam desperately hoped they did not actually expect him to talk, but they obviously did, both turning to stare at him as he struggled to keep up.

“Hello,” said the shorter one. He was a little odd-looking, because his face did not quite match -- his hair was fair like father's, but not so curly, and he had very light eyes.

“Hello,” whispered Fitzwilliam, keeping his eyes trained on Aunt Catherine. The boy tried to reach over and pet Alfred, but she hissed angrily, and he snatched his hand back, blushing.

“I'm Richard Fitzwilliam,” he said. Fitzwilliam blinked.

“I'm Fitzwilliam too,” he offered shyly, loosening his grip on Alfred. “Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

“Oh, good,” said Richard, with a broad smile. “Papa said you would be coming to stay with us for the summer. Did you really ride all the way from Derbyshire with Aunt Catherine?”

“Yes,” said Fitzwilliam slowly. “Aunt Catherine is your aunt too?”

“She's papa's big sister,” said Richard, grimacing. “I couldn't have done it — I would have jumped out before two miles!”

Fitzwilliam flushed. “She's mother's big sister too. Would you really jump out?” He considered that a moment. “Could you?”

“Of course. Aunt Anne is much nicer. She never scowls or anything. And Uncle Darcy is very nice, and not nearly so stupid as Uncle de Bourgh. He always would wink at me when Aunt Catherine and papa were scolding me, and when I was bigger he took me and Edward fishing. Oh, this is Edward.” He poked the silent, dark-haired boy at his side. “My older brother. He used to be much more fun, but not since he was sent away to school.”

“Don't be silly, Richard,” Edward said loftily. “You shall be just the same when you go to school.”

“No, I shan't.”

“Yes, you shall.”

“No, I shan't!”

“Yes, you shall!”

“No, I—”

With a ferocious glare, the gentleman turned and settled a glare on the boys. “Be silent, you two, unless you wish to go without your dinner!”

“Now, look what you've done,” whispered Edward.

“I didn't do anything!”

“Richard!” bellowed the gentleman, without so much as turning his head.

Richard stuck his tongue out, while Fitzwilliam watched in horrified wonder. “Papa's in a dreadful mood these days,” he confided. “He didn't even kiss mamma this morning when he went out.”

Fitzwilliam stared. “Is that — does he — I mean —”

“Well, he usually does,” said Edward. “Not always. I'm sure he just forgot because of the fire. Sometimes he does.”

“There was a fire?” Richard asked curiously. “No-one told me about it.”

“That's because you're a baby.”

“No, I'm not!”

“Richard!”

“I'm not a baby,” Richard said, more quietly. “I'm three years older than cousin Fitzwilliam, and he's not a baby — are you, cousin?”

Fitzwilliam wasn't sure how to respond to this, but fortunately, nothing seemed required from him. “That's different,” insisted Edward.

“No, it isn't.”

“Yes, it is.”

And so the conversation continued all the way to the house. Fitzwilliam could not help wondering if all brothers were like this; if so, he was glad he'd never had one. But they made very nice cousins.

Hertfordshire:

“I, Thomas, take thee, Frances, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.” Did he really feel a sudden weight upon his shoulders, or was that only in retrospect?

“I, Frances, take thee, Thomas, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.” She did not give much mind to the ceremonies, nor to her serious husband's expression. He was a handsome man, and a rich one, and she did not much care what else.

“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

“Let us pray. O Eternal God, Creator and Preserver of all mankind, Giver of all spiritual grace, the Author of everlasting life; send thy blessing upon these thy servants, this man and this woman, whom we bless in thy Name; that, as Isaac and Rebecca lived faithfully together, so these persons may surely perform and keep the vow and covenant betwixt them made (whereof this ring given and received is a token and pledge), and may ever remain in perfect love and peace together, and live according to thy laws; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.” Reverend Beresford cleared his throat. Fanny Gardiner was a pleasant enough girl, pretty and obliging; but Bennet was clever, perceptive, something more. He had not been able to persuade his friend against the match, despite his best effort. In this as in all things, Bennet had stubbornly gone his own way.

“Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”

Mrs Gardiner burst into noisy tears.

Miss Gardiner's were quieter but no less heartfelt; as the elder daughter, if not the prettiest, surely it was her right to be mistress of Longbourn and Mr Bennet's two thousand a-year? Why should silly little Fanny have caught him? How unfair life was! And she was five-and-twenty, practically an old maid, now. Perhaps Mr Bennet had some friends, handsome and rich like him . . . although perhaps a little less eccentric. Soon she was beaming happily and vacantly once more.

Mr Gardiner wondered if his wealthy son-in-law could be prevailed upon to loan him a few hundred pounds.

Edward Gardiner grinned at his sister and her new husband. Bennet was smiling broadly, and Fanny was laughing. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he could not help but wonder why Mr Bennet was marrying Fanny anyway.

Chapter Ten

“Oh!” The tall, dark-haired girl who had just knocked him over helped him up, acquiring a scratch from Alfred in the meanwhile. “I'm so sorry.”

“Ella's terribly clumsy,” Richard whispered conspiratorially. “Papa says she's going through a stage.”

“Richard is very rude,” retorted Ella. “He talks about people as if they aren't there.” She turned a friendly smile on Fitzwilliam. “I'm Eleanor Fitzwilliam, but everyone calls me Ella, because mamma is Eleanor too.”

If his mother had ever been a little girl, she would have looked like this girl. Fitzwilliam instantly liked her. “I'm Fitzwilliam Darcy,” he said quietly, then smiled. “This is Alfred. I'm sorry she scratched you.”

Ella clapped her hands. “I've been waiting weeks and weeks for you to come. Do you knock things over, Fitzwilliam?”

“Er, not much,” said Fitzwilliam uneasily. He'd knocked an ugly old vase over once, and his parents had been so angry that he didn't dare go near things of that sort anymore.

“Good. It would be dreadful if you did, because then I couldn't play with you, we'd always be breaking things, and then papa would be angry. But it shall be fine this way.”

“He didn't come to play with girls,” said Richard loftily. Ella glared at him.

“He didn't come to play with babies either.”

“I'm not a baby!”

Ella ignored him, and turned to smile down at Fitzwilliam. “You haven't seen the house yet, have you?”

He shook his head.

“Richard is a very bad host then, and so's papa.”

“Ella!” Richard looked as horrified as Fitzwilliam felt. “You can't talk about papa that way!”

Ella tossed her head. “He's my father. I can talk about him however I like. So can you, if you weren't a coward; and so can Fitzwilliam.”

“He's not my father,” Fitzwilliam pointed out, trying to avert the inevitable quarrel. He did not like quarrels. “It would be very rude.”

“He's your uncle,” said Ella firmly, “and that's practically the same thing. Come on, Fitzwilliam, I'll show you my room first.”

“Why yours first?” demanded Richard. “Mine is nicer.”

“But mine's bigger.” With a triumphant look, Ella took Fitzwilliam's hand, carefully keeping from touching Alfred (who hissed anyhow). “Is your room nice?”

“Very nice.” Fitzwilliam liked it much less than his room at home, but that would not be polite; besides, it was a nice room. It just wasn't his room.

“That's good. Richard, are you coming?”

I've seen your room before,” said Richard sullenly, but he hurried to catch up with his sister's longer legs.

Fitzwilliam had always wanted a little sister, but he thought he might be changing his mind about siblings altogether. Although Ella was Richard's big sister. Big sisters were doubtless very different from little sisters. With that comforting thought in mind, he gripped a little tighter to Ella's hand, and thoughtfully held Alfred away from her.

---

“He heard?” George stared at his wife. “But — oh, Lord.” He groaned. “He must think — who knows what he thinks?”

“Certainly not you,” snapped Anne.

He sat up straight, pulled his hands out of his hair, and stared at her. “Anne, I've apologised. I said I'll try to do better when he comes home, didn't I? This is not helping anything.”

She softened slightly. “I'm sorry. Although I'm not the one you should be apologising to.”

Apologising to his four-year-old son would no doubt be a singular experience. Would Fitzwilliam even understand what he was apologising for? Perhaps by then, with the example of the Viscount before him. Allington was an excellent husband and a devoted father, whatever his other failings. Would Fitzwilliam expect the same when he returned home? Or would he so prefer his uncle to his father that he would no longer wish to return home at all? It would be easy enough to let Allington take him on more permanently, he always claimed to desire more children, and had welcomed Fitzwilliam as if he were his son. Anne wouldn't stand for it, of course, unless they were together; and Allington would doubtless be only too happy to have his favourite sister close.

The prospect was somehow depressing. But Fitzwilliam was, despite everything, a Darcy; and the Darcys belonged with Pemberley. How would he understand what it meant to be heir of such a place if he was raised by the Fitzwilliams in Yorkshire? It might be different if there were other sons, even other children, but there were not, not yet.

George glanced at his wife. Anne's thin hand was lying on a pillow. She had been a healthy, robust young woman; but now the frail veins were clearly visible through the pale, almost transparent, skin of her wrist. She had never regained the weight and health she had lost at Fitzwilliam's birth.

For the first time, he admitted the truth to himself: it was entirely possible that there would be no other children. She had her nieces and nephews, he had young George; but Fitzwilliam was all that they had. He sighed.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I will speak to him when he returns.”

Anne glanced up, surprised. There was something almost like approval in her gaze. “Good,” she said simply.

He hesitated, then went full ahead. “What is he like? He is my son, but I can't say that I know much about him. And I know it's my fault, so you needn't tell me so.”

She actually laughed. “He — he's — I don't suppose one can ever really describe another human being. Children should be less complicated; but they aren't. At least not Fitzwilliam.” Her expression faintly bewildered, she added, “I can't understand him most of the time; he's nothing like I was.”

George stared. He had assumed that Fitzwilliam was like her, since he was so unlike him; but in this as in many other things lately, he had been wrong. He sighed. “Then we still have something in common,” he said with a grimace. “I hadn't realised he was so — old, actually. He's so quiet, I had forgotten that if he could talk, he could almost certainly hear.”

“He's very quiet,” Anne said. “I didn't think about it, either.” Rather shyly, she looked over at him, and girlishly clasped her hands. “I suppose we were both wrong.”

Chapter Eleven

Fitzwilliam was certain he must have done something wrong, by the way his uncle was looking at him, but he could not recall having done anything bad today. Well, he and Ella and Richard had snuck into the kitchens and begged some treats off the cook, but that didn't really count as bad, whatever Mrs Reynolds might think. He was still hungry anyway.

“Please sit down, Fitzwilliam,” the Viscount said sternly. Turning pale, Fitzwilliam obeyed, desperately wondering what he had done. “Did you have a pleasant day?”

Fitzwilliam stared, unsure what his uncle meant. “Yes, sir,” he managed, in a bare whisper.

“I hope Richard and Edward's . . . disagreements do not bother you a great deal,” he continued, not seeming at all upset. Fitzwilliam relaxed slightly.

“No, sir.” Not much.

“Good, good. I remember when I was growing up with Catherine and Anne, I sometimes thought I would go quite mad with all their quarrelling. They were a pair of terrors as children.” He laughed. Fitzwilliam found it hard to imagine that his mother had ever been anything other than perfectly calm and elegant. She had quarrelled with Aunt Catherine? And if mother could not have been a terror, it was impossible that Aunt Catherine had ever been a little girl. Yet his uncle could not be lying. It was all very strange. And he had laughed.

“It's all right, sir,” he said, smiling daringly. The Viscount smiled back, and Fitzwilliam relaxed that much more. Even his mother did not smile like that; even when she was happy it seemed that there was also something she was unhappy about. Perhaps his father did; he smiled at George sometimes, and seemed almost happy then. But not like this.

“Yes, I daresay it is.” After a moment of comfortable silence, he continued, “I hope your room is comfortable?”

“Oh, yes.” His bed was so much bigger than he was, that he felt a little lost, but that was only because it wasn't made for little boys. And the room was very nice, if not quite so nice as his at home.

With a sympathetic look, the Viscount said, “You must miss Pemberley. It's quite all right, you know.”

Fitzwilliam unaccountably felt tears pricking at his eyes. He held them back with a valiant effort, and looked up into his uncle's kindly face. He bit his lip. “It is?” he asked uncertainly, feeling rather silly. His uncle put his arm around him, and Fitzwilliam shifted a little bit closer to him.

“Of course it is. Pemberley is your home, after all. I hope you become fond of Newbury as well — you're as much Fitzwilliam as Darcy, after all — but it's perfectly right, and proper, that you should miss Pemberley. It would be very strange if you didn't.”

Fitzwilliam brightened. “I do like Newbury,” he said, carefully stroking Alfred's head. “But mostly it's not — not the building and gardens and things. It's nice to be with people who —” he frowned, not sure how to say it properly, without being indiscreet or rude or just wrong. “— who like — like . . . things.”

His uncle didn't say anything, and Fitzwilliam correctly interpreted his silence as confusion. “Not things, ezactly. Flowers, and people like Alfred, and people like Mrs Reynolds, and — and mother and father are not — they don't — it's different.” He looked up hopefully, and his uncle pushed a strand of dark hair out of his face.

“I understand,” he said, with a quiet sigh. “It may be better when you go back.”

It suddenly crossed Fitzwilliam's mind that it was a very strange thing, his uncle holding him and talking to him like a real person, and it not seeming at all awkward or uncomfortable or — well, anything other than perfectly normal. It was not disagreeable, though, so he curled a little closer. “I hope so,” he said, feeling a bit sleepy. Perhaps he shouldn't have drank the warm milk, it always made him a little tired. “Maybe I can have a sister then.”

He could feel the Viscount's smile, although he could not see it. “After two days with your cousins, you still want a sister?”

Fitzwilliam nodded. “Mm-hmm,” he said, but his honesty compelled him to add, “a little sister.”

His uncle laughed, and Alfred purred, sounding as contented as Fitzwilliam felt. Uncles are as nice as cousins, he thought vaguely, and much nicer than aunts.

Chapter Twelve

“Mamma, Fitzwilliam's cat scratched me!”

“It's not her fault!”

“Is so!”

“Isn't! You stepped on her tail!”

“On accident!”

“How's she s'post to know that? You should've watched!”

“I can't always be watching for a silly cat's tail!”

“Don't call Alfred silly!”

“Silly, silly, silly!”

“Aunt Eleanor!”

“Richard, what have you done now?”

“I didn't do anything! Why do you always think it's my fault?”

“He called Alfred silly!”

“She is silly!”

“See? He's hurting Alfred's feelings!”

“Mraow!”

Eleanor Fitzwilliam briefly shut her eyes, and set down her pen.

“Fitzwilliam, take Alfred outside and leave her there.”

“But—”

“I was not asking.”

“But—”

“Fitzwilliam Darcy, do you wish to spend the rest of this week in your bedroom?”

“No, ma'am.” He collected his cat and left the room with all the dignity a four-year-old can muster, but not before throwing his aunt a reproachful look. She sighed.

“Richard, how old are you?”

Richard looked sulky rather than self-righteous. She wasn't certain it was an improvement, and gathered her fragments of patience.

“Seven,” he mumbled.

“Look at me when you speak.”

“I'm seven,” he shouted, staring her in the face.

“Shall I have to send you to your room?”

“No, mamma.”

“How old is Fitzwilliam?”

“Four. Just a baby,” he mumbled.

Evidently Richard caught the look on his mother's face, for he stepped back and kept his eyes fixed on her hair. “He's four, mamma.”

“Then, which of you should be the responsible one?”

He shuffled a bit. “Me, mamma.”

“Perhaps you should remember that from now on. There shall be no dessert for you tonight, and you may not play with Fitzwilliam for two days.”

“But, mamma! That's not fair!”

“It was hardly fair for poor Alfred to get her tail stepped on, was it?” She softened slightly. “Now, let me see your scratch.”

---

“Wickham should be back today,” said George.

Anne glanced up at him, and smiled tightly. “How nice.”

He shrugged. “Keeping up with the paperwork has been rather difficult. And it'll be good to see young George again.”

Anne did not quite trust herself to speak. The truce between them was still rather fragile, and young Wickham remained a subject they had not come to any agreement about. “Yes, it will,” she said neutrally.

“I wouldn't take such interest in him, you know, if I thought there was a chance of his own parents taking much of a role in his life. Wickham's a good man, but he's never had anything to do with children, and he was such a serious one himself — George is so high-spirited that he doesn't know what to do with him.”

— Anne, I'm terribly sorry if it seems I'm usurping your place, or your husband's, but Fitzwilliam was so quiet and nervous, I felt I had to do something.— Edward had been very carefully not to directly criticise her or George, but it was certainly implicit in his repeated apologies. Anne sighed. It was not in her nature to show affection easily, but still — perhaps it was not only George who had been a poor parent.

“I understand,” she said calmly. The two boys were so different. Perhaps young Wickham's influence would not be wholly bad; but it had been a great relief to hear of Fitzwilliam's friendship with his cousins. George would not hear a word against the Wickham boy, but Anne did not like him, and she did not approve of his close friendship with her son. Richard and Ella were far superior playmates; perhaps it could be arranged for Fitzwilliam to spend more holidays with her family.

Anne smiled absently at her husband — with whom she had not quarrelled in over a week — and paid half a mind to his conversation, the rest concentrating on her plans for her son.

Chapter Thirteen

Edward Fitzwilliam gave a sigh, and lifted his nephew up into his arms.

“I don't want to go home,” Fitzwilliam said.

“Don't you want to see your mo—parents again?”

He sniffed. “They could come here.”

“What of Pemberley?”

As if from far away, Fitzwilliam remembered his home; the lake that he always swam in, the woods that he had run through for as long as he could remember, the hills and the river and the little arching bridge, and the house with the portraits of all the Darcys since forever, and the long halls with windows looking down onto Pemberley for as for as he could see, and his mother's gleaming pianoforte. And there were all the people he knew; mother and father, and George and Mr Wickham, and even Mrs Reynolds the housekeeper, and Mr Davis the doctor from the village.

Then he looked up at Uncle Edward, who gave him hugs and always wanted to know what he was thinking, and Aunt Eleanor smiling tearfully at him — he remembered that he'd had a bad dream and she had found him and told him a pretty fairy-story. Then there were the three children by them, Edward who always answered his questions nicely, and Ella who laughed and sang and always took his side, and Richard who played with him and never ran away when he didn't get his way.

“I don't want to go,” Fitzwilliam said again, but quietly and uncertainly. He could feel a steady thumping under his ear, and it comforted him, because he knew he had to go. But Uncle Edward would still be here, and Aunt Eleanor and Edward and Richard and Ella, and he would come back again.

Aunt Catherine tapped her foot impatiently. Fitzwilliam wondered if it was very bad that he didn't think he would miss Aunt Catherine very much.

“I'm ready now,” he said, looking up into his uncle's dark eyes, and gave him one last hug. He stepped back, took Alfred from Ella, and rubbed his sleeve against his eyes.

“Be a good boy for your aunt,” said Aunt Eleanor. Fitzwilliam nodded.

“Come back and visit!” shouted Richard.

“Remember who you are,” Uncle Edward said.

“Don't be too good,” cried Ella.

“Goodbye,” said Edward calmly.

“Goodbye,” Fitzwilliam called, and waved from inside Aunt Catherine's carriage. “I'll miss you!”

He looked up at Aunt Catherine as the carriage started moving, and surprisingly, she patted his hand. “I'll talk to your mother,” she promised, “and see if you can't come for Christmas.”

Fitzwilliam mournfully thought that he'd miss Aunt Catherine after all.

---

George Darcy looked into his son's clear eyes, and found them as unreadable as Anne's; they might be the only physical trait Fitzwilliam had not inherited from his mother, but certainly the expression was strikingly like her and hers. He himself was — not afraid, certainly, but perhaps a little intimidated. How did one apologise to a four-year-old?

Cautiously, Fitzwilliam had answered his queries about Allington's family. Were they in good health? Yes, sir. Had he enjoyed himself? Yes, sir. Would he miss them? Yes, sir. Eventually, George had used the simple expedient of asking questions that could not be answered by “yes” or “no,” and Fitzwilliam eventually relaxed enough to wax eloquent about his holiday.

George had not missed his son's passing reference to the Fitzwilliams as his family, nor the informality Fitzwilliam described, which seemed so contrary to everything he himself had observed over the years. He had not missed the difference in greeting, either. A bare inclination of the head, a brief, cold “Mr Darcy,” from Catherine — the first time she had condescended to acknowledge his existence in the last four years — was a striking contrast to the proud affection in her face as she turned to embrace her sister. Fitzwilliam had cried “mother!” and flung himself into Anne's arms, but had barely managed a “hello, father,” before fleeing behind his aunt's ample form.

The father in question sighed. This was not going to be easy. Not for the first time, he guiltily hoped that some measure of George's open and engaging ways would rub off on Fitzwilliam, before he grew too old to change.

Chapter Fourteen

The next few months passed in relative peace. A bewildered Fitzwilliam was apologised to, the Wickhams returned from London (much to Anne's private displeasure), and George and Anne remained civil. Christmas came — the entire Fitzwilliam clan congregated for the holiday. Anne was welcomed with pleasure, Fitzwilliam with joy, and George with tolerance. He was not certain whether to be pleased or disturbed by how much happier both wife and son seemed in the company of the grave, proud Fitzwilliams. Anne was once again the vivacious, high-spirited girl he had married, or nearly so, and more than once George heard an unfamiliar clear laughter from where Fitzwilliam played with his cousins, or uncle, or grandmother.

In February, not long after their return, Fitzwilliam once again fell ill, with some sort of respiratory ailment. George did not feel he had achieved much of a relationship with his son, although he had certainly grown easier with him; yet the same gloom fell over him as the rest of Pemberley. Even his ever-cheerful godson had became decidedly melancholy. He was certain he caught their martinent of a housekeeper discreetly wiping tears out of her eyes. George himself had not realised how accustomed he had grown to Fitzwilliam's incessant questions, usually puncuated by indignant commentary from Alfred (who spent most of her time sleeping on her master's bed). Unpleasant as the time around his birth had been, this was somehow worse. He had forgotten how frail Fitzwilliam was; that this illness, or another one, could easily carry him away, before he had so much as passed into adolescence.

Those dreary months he spent in almost complete solitude. Anne was seldom out of the company of Allington and Catherine, both of whom had descended upon Pemberley immediately upon hearing of Fitzwilliam's precarious state, while he could not summon up the energy to so much as write to any of his relations or friends. Eventually, however, Fitzwilliam began to recover — about the middle of May — the Fitzwilliams returned to their respective homes, and the Darcys' lives settled back down.

---

Fitzwilliam's expression was one of deep concentration as he stared at their reflections. Anne smiled involuntarily. She had not realised how alike they were, she and her son, not since he was an infant when she could not tear her eyes from him. But there was hardly a feature in his face that she did not see mirrored in her own; the small straight nose, the high slant of his cheekbones, the arch of his brows — they were all hers, but for the eyes. Impulsively, she put her arms around him and rested her cheek against his brown-black hair — and that was hers as well. Fitzwilliam instantly curled against her body, wrapping his arms about her waist.

“Mother,” he said, “why don't you and me look like father?”

It seemed that most of their days began with some sort of difficult question. Had she ever been like this with her mother? No, they were not close, not until she was herself fully-grown; her father, then? She remembered being read to, spending hours in his study; but her sister had always been the inquisitive one, always taking things apart to see how they worked, and demanding answers to impossible questions. At least Fitzwilliam had not inherited Catherine's childhood tendency towards mischief.

“We're Fitzwilliams,” she said. “Our family is dark. The Darcys are fair, like your father.”

Fitzwilliam digested this. “Is George a Darcy then?”

Anne's fingers tightened.

“You're hurting me, mother.”

“I'm sorry, dear.” She pressed her lips against his hair. “No, George is most certainly not a Darcy.”

“But he has blue eyes, like father.”

“So do you, Fitzwilliam.”

“I forgotted that.” Fitzwilliam looked up at her thoughtfully. “Father and George have light eyes, though, and mine are darker.”

“Some people just have light eyes, dear.” Anne sighed, loosening her grip on her son, and reached for her comb. “Sit still, your hair is a mess.”

“Like Richard, he looks more like father than I do, too, but he's a Fitzwilliam.”

“Just like that.” She yanked at a tangle.

“Mother!”

“Don't `mother!' me, young man. You should have had someone brush your hair after your bath last night.”

Fitzwilliam grumbled before pursuing his thoughts with typical single-mindedness. “Richard and Henry and Edward and Ella are called Fitzwilliam, so that everyone knows they're Fitzwilliams, right?”

“Yes, dear.”

“But if we're Fitzwilliams, why are we called Darcy?”

Anne hesitated. “So that everyone knows we belong to your father. All little boys have their fathers' names, and ladies have their husbands'.”

“Then that's why you named me Fitzwilliam, so that people would still know I was a Fitzwilliam!” He looked as if some great puzzle had finally been cleared up.

“Something like that, dear.” She turned him around. “There, you look very nice. Are you ready for today?”

Fitzwilliam tilted his head to the side and thought it over. “I think so. I promised I'd play with George this morning.”

Anne frowned slightly. “You must keep your promise, then.”

“Why don't you like George, mother?”

Anne stared at him. “I never said any such thing, Fitzwilliam Darcy!”

“But you don't like me to play with him,” he persisted. “You always look — not angry, but not happy, when I go to play.”

Anne carefully set the comb down. “I do not dislike George,” she said precisely, and somewhat truthfully. “I simply would prefer you to associate with children of our class.”

“What's 'sociate?”

“Play with.”

“What's class?”

How did one explain to a five-year-old? Anne sighed. “People like us.”

“Oh.” He looked briefly torn. “Well, I did promise.”

Anne instantly reached out to touch his cheek. “You needn't worry about it, dear, until you're older. Go play with George and have a nice time.”

He smiled brightly, much relieved, and kissed her cheek. “All right, then. Goodbye, mother.”

Chapter Fifteen

The summer passed tranquilly. Fitzwilliam once again recovered his health. Anne and George found themselves agreeing on more subjects than usual. John Wickham, in desperate straits, only kept out of debt by the strictest economy, upsetting both wife and son. Fanny returned to London, disgusted with her husband and his benefactors, while young George discovered how little he cared for the disgrace of poverty.

It was about halfway through July that the Darcys first heard news of “that dreadful affair” in France. George was particularly upset, as he had a number of relations still living across the Channel. Overshadowing that distant threat, however, was a more immediate concern: at the beginning of August, Mr Wickham was forced to take his wife's petulant complaints more seriously, when she began coughing up blood. A horrified Anne sent Fitzwilliam to Yorkshire with almost indecent haste.

Mrs Wickham clung to life with the tenacity of the young. It was not until February that Mr Wickham entered the parlour, ashen-faced and dead-eyed. “Darcy, Lady Anne,” he stammered. “Forgive me, I didn't mean to intrude . . .” His voice trailed off blankly. “She's gone.”

Their eyes met over his bent head, relief starkly etched on both faces. It was immediately followed by some measure of shame on both sides, George's share rather more heartfelt; but the mutuality of feeling remained with them both. Soon arrangements were being made for the body, the remains of Frances Mary Thorpe Wickham were disposed of, and Mr Wickham discovered just how deeply in debt he was. He swallowed his pride and borrowed money from George (who would have been only too happy to simply give him enough to cover his debts and then some).

Anne could not help rather approving of Wickham, despite his sometimes painfully common ways. There were many, she knew, who would take advantage of her husband's generosity and easy, trusting temper, but John Wickham was not among them. That did not appreciably soften her attitude towards his son, however, who she instinctively distrusted. He was too much the perfect son, too saintly, too guileless and even-tempered. She had never seen a burst of genuine feeling from him, nothing of anger or surprise or delight, and there was an insinuating insincerity about his ostensibly unaffected manners that set her nerves on edge. It did not escape her notice that Fitzwilliam's worse scrapes all seemed incited by young Wickham, yet while Fitzwilliam was always punished severely, George received nothing more than a light reprimand.

Wretched boy, she thought, feeling a little guilty for her aversion to a six-year-old child. She could only hope that some measure of Fitzwilliam's forthright honesty and compassion would rub off on him, before he grew too old to change.

Chapter Sixteen

“I don't understand,” said Fitzwilliam, glancing furtively over his shoulder.

“You wouldn't” was his friend's lofty reply. Fitzwilliam sighed. He liked George, he really did, but sometimes it was very awkward being with him. He always seemed to be getting into trouble, and he didn't always tell the truth — and sometimes he seemed to expect that Fitzwilliam would also not tell the truth. Some days he wished he could just stay at Newbury always. He didn't like Newbury half so much as Pemberley, but his cousins' company was much nicer than George's, not that he would ever say so.

“Just—” He couldn't find the words. How could he make him understand? “Why'd you have to steal them?”

“It wasn't stealing,” George said indignantly.

“Was so. You didn't mean to give them back, did you?”

“You can't give back tarts after you've eaten them, stupid,” said George, looking down his nose at Fitzwilliam. It was vastly unfair that George was taller, although already he was not so much taller as he used to be. But that was probably because he didn't stand up right. If Fitzwilliam didn't stand up right, Mrs Reynolds or mother would swat him across the knuckles, but George never got in trouble. Of course, he had enough trouble as it was.

“Then you stealed them,” Fitzwilliam said, nobly overlooking George's poor manners on account of his “troubles.”

“Fine, I stole them then.” George looked over at him defiantly. “How else was I s'posed to get them?”

“You could've just asked. They always give me whenever I ask.”

George scowled, looking angry and rather unpleasant. Fitzwilliam stepped back involuntarily, feeling — not afraid, for he was a Fitzwilliam and a Darcy and he was not afraid of the likes of George Wickham, but perhaps a little . . . alarmed. “Well, you're the master's son,” said George. They like you better than me, especially that Mrs Reynolds.” Fitzwilliam thought that Mrs Reynolds always treated them pretty much the same, but there was no point in getting into another argument before they were finished with this one.

“That's only 'cause I don't put frogs and snakes and things down their clothes. If you just asked, I'm sure—”

“What do you know?” interrupted George sharply, and Fitzwilliam's temper snapped.

“More than you, since I don't have to steal to get treats,” he said angrily. “I'm not eating these.”

Several hours later, he found himself on the wrong end of his father's disapproving stare. He could not remember doing anything wrong, but he had learnt since coming back from visiting his uncle that it didn't always matter whether he had really done anything or not. But mother always interfered whenever father thought he'd done something really bad. Fitzwilliam was very sorry for George; he could not imagine what it would be like to not have his mother anymore. Although to be perfectly honest, he didn't think Mrs Wickham had been a very good mother.

“Fitzwilliam, would you mind telling me why George is ill?” his father asked, his blue eyes clearly accusing.

“I don't know,” Fitzwilliam said immediately, then as he remembered their quarrel earlier, he bit his lip. “I mean — I don't know for sure.”

His father watched him carefully. “George claims you are responsible.”

Righteous fury welled up in his breast. “George always says it's my fault!” he burst out. “It's not, I didn't do anything — that's why he was mad at me — and I told him he didn't need to steal, he could just ask —”

Mr Darcy laughed in spite of himself. “Fitzwilliam, slow down. Tell me what happened.”

Fitzwilliam shifted uncomfortably. “George stoled some tarts. That's all.”

“George stole them?” his father asked doubtfully.

Fitzwilliam felt all the weight of his two names and lifted his head proudly. “Yes, sir.”

“Why would he do something like that?”

“He didn't think they'd give him any if he asked. Like he should've done.”

“Did you have anything to do with it?”

“No.” It was a very nice feeling, Fitzwilliam reflected, knowing that he'd done exactly what he should've. He always tried, of course, but often he was a little unsure about what, really, was exactly the best thing to do. But he had known he shouldn't eaten the tarts, and he hadn't. He met his father's eyes unwaveringly, absolutely certain in his own correctness.

“Why does George think it's your fault, then?” Mr Darcy asked patiently. Fitzwilliam frowned, thinking it over. George was very difficult to understand these days.

“I don't know.” Then he remembered some of Mrs Reynolds' lectures, and blinked in surprised understanding. “Oh, well, he would only have had some of the tarts if I'd had some, and then he wouldn't have stuffed himself too much, and then he wouldn't be sick. But,” he added self-righteously, “I was right not to eat them. It's wrong to eat stealed food.”

“You certainly had no compunctions about eating them last time,” his father said coolly.

“I didn't know they were stealed,” Fitzwilliam retorted. “That's different.”

Mr Darcy sighed. “George's mother has just died and his family is much poorer than he is accustomed to. You should be more understanding.”

“That doesn't make it right to steal,” Fitzwilliam said stubbornly, “and that doesn't have anything to do with me, anyway. George's mother being dead doesn't mean I should be eating stoled food.”

Both jumped as a quiet voice interrupted. “There you are, dear. I was looking for you. Mr Darcy, is there anything more you need to speak with Fitzwilliam about?”

His father and mother stared at one another over his head. Fitzwilliam glanced from one to the other uneasily, not quite certain what was wrong, but aware that something was. His father was pale and his mother flushed. Her chin was raised, his jaw set; his eyes were cold, hers flashing with anger. Fitzwilliam shifted uncomfortably. “May I go now?” he asked, with as much meekness as he could summon up.

Whatever held them seemed to have broken. Mr Darcy waved a hand dismissively, and Fitzwilliam gratefully seized the opportunity to leave his father's disturbing presence, reassured by his mother's light touch on his shoulder.

Chapter Seventeen

Anne stirred, groggily uncertain of what had woken her; and found herself staring into a pair of unblinking blue eyes.

“Fitzwilliam?” she asked sleepily. “What are you doi—” She looked more closely at him. Her son was perched on her bed, shivering in his thin nightshirt. His small face was pale and strained, tears rolling unnoticed down his cheeks, and Alfred was clutched to his chest. “Fitzwilliam, what is it?”

Fitzwilliam sniffed and rubbed his nose. “I was just seeing that you were fine,” he said unconvincingly, lips trembling with either cold or distress. Anne sighed.

“Get under the covers, you'll catch your death of cold,” she said, and was startled as he burst into noisy sobs even as he complied with her command. Alfred crawled around to curl by his side.

“Fitzwilliam, what is it?” she asked softly, putting her arms around him. He pressed his face against her waist, shaking his head before crying more loudly. “Fitzwilliam?” She stroked his dark head as comfortingly as she could.

“You get cold,” he said incoherently. Her fingers stilled.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I don't get cold, you get cold, and she caught her death of cold, and you —” He burst into tears again. “I don't want you to die!”

“Fitzwilliam,” Anne said, quite firmly, “I am not going to die.”

He sat up, rubbing his eyes (which were now more red than blue). “You're not?”

“Well, someday,” she said lightly, “but not for a very long time.”

“Really?”

She smiled, and pushed his hair out of his eyes. He needed a haircut, she thought idly, and he had grown again. He would have his grandfather's height at this rate. “Yes, really. Why did you think I would die?”

Fitzwilliam dropped his eyes. “George said that Tom said that Mary said that Aunt Catherine said that you had a poor consumption and it was all father's fault. And Mrs Wickham had consumption, and she died.”

Anne pressed her fingers against her eyes. “Fitzwilliam —” She stopped, and sighed. “You shouldn't listen to gossip, Fitzwilliam.”

“What's that?”

“People talking about other people, when they don't know what they're talking about.” She stopped and looked down at his bent head. “And I think somebody must have misheard your aunt. She said that I have a poor constitution, and that just means that I get sick sometimes, like you do.”

“Oh.” Fitzwilliam hesitated. “I dreamt you had died, like Mrs Wickham. It was dreadful.” He tightened his grip on her waist. “I just wanted to see that you weren't dead. Father won't be angry at me, will he?”

A sudden flood of anger rushed through her. “No,” she said steadily; “he won't be angry.”

“I'm glad,” he said sleepily, lying down again. “Shall I go back to my room then?”

Anne rested her head against a pillow, trying to ease the pressure in her head. “No, you may stay here tonight. Just tonight, and only if you don't tell anyone.”

“I won't,” Fitzwilliam promised, and feel asleep at her side.

Chapter Eighteen

The rest of the spring passed away with little occurrence. Anne and George managed to avoid any dreadful fits of incivility, for the most part, and the boys managed to (mostly) avoid trouble. The French business continued to escalate, and many of Mr Darcy's relations fled across the Channel before it could get any worse. They did not realise their own foresight.

Edward and his family were invited to spend the summer at Pemberley, and gladly assented. Fitzwilliam was delighted, Anne was delighted, and George was not much displeased. Fortunately for all concerned, Mrs Wickham's family invited the Wickhams to Bath, which they both thoroughly enjoyed. George found himself approving of his nephews and niece almost in spite of himself, as they were moderately well-behaved, were not terribly spoilt, and exerted an excellent influence on his own son, who acted like a normal, high-spirited child for the first time in George's memory.

He also was indefatigably curious. When George heard him demanding answers from his eldest cousin on, it seemed, every possible subject the young man could be expected to know and then some, he couldn't help wondering how on earth he would guide this child of his when he grew older and — if the elder Fitzwilliams were anything to judge by — less accomodating.

“Anne,” he asked that evening, “how old is Fitzwilliam?”

Her composure was not quite equal to the task of disguising her contempt. “He was six years old in March, Mr Darcy,” she said gravely.

“I had thought he was older.”

She gave him a brief glance. “He's tall for his age.”

“He's clever for his age,” George said. “I've never seen — any other child ask such questions. I certainly didn't.”

Anne hummed a little under a breath, turning to look into her mirrror. “What sort of questions did he ask?”

He laughed. “It sounded like everything between the stars and the sea. Then he wanted Edward to teach him Latin.”

She smiled proudly. “He's very intelligent,” she murmured. Far more intelligent than that wild creature you dote on so much. “Did you just now notice?”

George shifted uncomfortably. “I was thinking that — it's a little early, but — perhaps I could arrange for a tutor for the boys?”

Anne tapped her fingers briefly. “I think that would be an excellent idea.”

So, when the Fitzwilliams were gone and the Wickhams returned, George found a young man recommended by his brother, with pleasant, unassuming manners, and willing to informally begin Fitzwilliam's and George's education.

Chapter Nineteen

John Hancock was a young man of about thirty, not so fortunate as to have yet received a living, but clever and sensible. He was also sincerely fond of children, which characteristic had recommended him to the Allingtons. Although he was himself a Derbyshire native, he knew of Mr Darcy only by his reputation as an agreeable man, a liberal master, not given to any of the customary vices a man of his position might well indulge in, and much-liked by all who knew him. The two men were predisposed to think well of one another, and so they did upon a better acquaintance.

Lady Anne was a different sort altogether. Mr Hancock thought her a fine-looking woman, but her manners, though well-bred, were not at all inviting. She was imperious as well as elegant, and although the servants thought well of her, she was considered much less generous than Mr Darcy. Nor was she unkind, but very particular; also she was said to be scrupulously fair, and so Mr Hancock decided to withhold judgment on the lady. She certainly bore a distinct resemblance to her brother, whom he had not cared for at first, either, but had grown to admire greatly.

The two boys posed no such difficulty. George, Mr Darcy's godson, appeared all that was likeable and good-natured, but Mr Hancock quickly determined that while not unintelligent, he was lazy, thoughtless, and rather sly. He had never disliked a child before, but young Wickham he could not bring himself to care for. The Darcys' only child, Fitzwilliam, a slender, dark-haired boy of six, was the very image of his mother, and as unlike his companion as could be imagined. He lacked George's careful charm, but his intense desire for knowledge and natural quickness of thought could not but endear him to all but the most indifferent of teachers.

Mr Hancock was startled, therefore, by Mr Darcy's unwillingness to believe ill of his godson, and vague distrust of Fitzwilliam. “Mr Darcy, if I may speak plainly?”

“You may.”

Mr Hancock felt that some tact would be called for. “George is not — he is not deficient in any way, I assure you. He seems intelligent enough. But he lacks discipline.”

“He is very high-spirited,” Mr Darcy said. Perhaps that was agreement of a sort.

“Yes, I daresay.” He took a deep breath. “But I fear you may perhaps have underestimated your son's intelligence.”

“I'm aware that he is very clever,” said Mr Darcy. Then he laughed shortly. “He gets that from my wife.”

Along with everything else, apparently. “I was particularly impressed, sir, by his memory.” Seeing that Mr Darcy's countenance did not seem particularly forbidding, he continued: “even when he does not understand what he reads or hears, he is still able to repeat it, with remarkable accuracy. I'm afraid that the likeliness of he, er, imitating George's answers is extremely slim.”

Mr Darcy leaned back slightly, looking rather strained. “George has been rather — disturbed, of late. Since his mother's death, in February.”

“I am aware of that, er, regrettable occurrence.” Mr Darcy glanced sharply at him. “It is certainly an unfortunate circumstance, but with all respect, I cannot in conscience accept George's ill behaviour, nor his attempts to pin the blame on Fitzwilliam, who is certainly blameless.”

Mr Darcy sighed deeply. “I shall speak with George.”

“Thank you, sir. I shall continue to notify you of their progress.” He stood up as Mr Darcy bade him farewell, and turned to see Lady Anne standing in the doorway, her expression surprisingly warm. He bowed, feeling deeply uncomfortable to be caught between such strong, and often conflicting, personalities.

“If it is convenient, Mr Hancock, I should like to know how my son progresses,” she said quietly, gesturing for him to walk with her. He felt faintly nervous.

“Well, he and George—”

“I am well aware of George's deficiences,” she said brusquely. “I have not my husband's interest in him. Please, how does Fitzwilliam fare?”

There was a curious intensity about her expression, similar to her son when he was particularly interested in a lesson, but in a lady it was somehow disturbing. Mr Hancock sighed. “Very well, your ladyship, he . . .”

Chapter Twenty

“I do not mean to intrude,” Mr Hancock said, “I simply wish to avoid — mishaps.”

“Mm,” said Mrs Reynolds, a tall, angular woman in early middle age. She was possibly the most fearsome woman he had ever met, but his keen eye had caught, and admired, her single-minded devotion to the family, as well as her observance of them. “Don't talk about young Wickham to her ladyship. In fact, it might be best to avoid talking about the Wickhams altogether. She doesn't care for them.”

“So I observed,” said Mr Hancock dryly. “Are there any other pitfalls to avoid?”

“If Master George misbehaves, make certain there's no way for Master Fitzwilliam to be blamed.” The housekeeper's grey eyes narrowed. “He's a very good sort of boy — Master Fitzwilliam, that is — I haven't had a cross word from him, nor the other servants —” Mr Hancock privately wondered if that was all for the good — “but he's not close to the master, not like the other.”

“I understand there was a recent tragedy?” he prodded. Mrs Reynolds' sniff left him in no doubt as to her opinion of the late Mrs Wickham.

“Yes, sir. Mrs Wickham, she had consumption. It's lucky no-one else did, although her ladyship sent Master Fitzwilliam away as soon as she found out.”

Mr Hancock hesitated. “Is he often away from Pemberley?” At the housekeeper's sharp look, he elaborated, “I might adjust my lessons, if he is to be absent for long periods.”

“Oh. Well, it depends on the year. But in the bad times, her ladyship always sends him to Lord Allington. Lady Catherine usually comes to take him, although not when Mrs Wickham was ill.”

“I was with Lord Allington for a time,” he observed. “He's an excellent man. It was certainly a pleasant time, for all of us, I daresay. Is her ladyship much like her brother?”

The housekeeper considered. “Oh, yes;—though not so much as she looks. But they live differently; Lady Anne is very retiring. She keeps to herself.”

“They do not spend much time in London, then?”

“Mr Darcy will go for a few weeks, but her ladyship doesn't care for town; I don't believe she's gone these three years at least. The Wickhams go more often, Mrs Hawkins is Master George's godmother and very fond of him.”

“Hawkins? I don't believe I know—”

“Oh, just a cousin of Mrs Wickham's, a widow who lives in town,” Mrs Reynolds said dismissively. “She was Miss Thorpe before she married.”

“I see.” He thought for a moment. “Does Master Fitzwilliam have godparents that might be expected to take a part in his education?”

“His godfather is an old friend of Mr Darcy's, Sir Percy Blakeney, but he is — otherwise occupied during most of the year.” Mr Hancock struggled to keep from laughing out loud at the very idea of Sir Percy, surely the most ridiculous man in England, so much as carrying on a conversation with his grave, clever godson. Mrs Reynolds by her expression was in utter agreement with him, on that point, at least. “His godmother is mostly at her husband's estate in Somersetshire; she corresponds with Lady Anne, but her constitution is weak and she seldom travels. Her husband is Mr Darcy's cousin, his grandmother's nephew.”

“Who is she, if I may ask?”

“Lady Elliot, sir.”

“Ah.” He set down his glass. “I only have one more question. Master Fitzwilliam insists upon bringing a cat with him everywhere he goes — and not exactly the finest specimen of the race, either. Even when he doesn't bring it, it shows up anyway. As the creature detests young Wickham, it's rather a disturbance to the lessons.”

“That's Alfred,” said Mrs Reynolds. “You could speak to Mr Darcy about it, I suppose, if she's that difficult, but she always seems to end up wherever Master Fitzwilliam is. When he was so ill last year, she hardly so much as left his side.”

Mr Hancock frowned. “Is he often ill?”

“Yes.”

------

With a relative scarcity of incidents, the fall passed away. George Wickham was so discomfited by a lecture from his affable godfather that he behaved very well for several weeks, and at least maintained the appearance of good behaviour from then henceforth. Mr Hancock he placed with Lady Anne in the category of those who he disliked but was forced to tolerate. Fitzwilliam had rarely been so happy in his life. No matter how many questions he asked, Mr Hancock never told him he was to be seen and not heard, nor lectured him on the dangers of too much curiosity, nor said that he would understand when he was older.

Being liked by an adult who was not family was also not unpleasant. Mr Hancock was not at all indulgent, he was strict, like mother; Fitzwilliam had been late once, and a single disappointed look from his tutor was enough to instill an abiding respect for punctuality for the rest of their acquaintance. Now if only Uncle Edward and Richard and Ella and everyone were here, he would be perfectly happy. But in November, they were invited to spend Christmas with the Allingtons, and so he was very content, indeed.

Mr Darcy and Lady Anne teetered between pleasant neutrality and cold civility. They avoided quarrelling through the simple expedient of avoiding one another at the times when one seemed imminent. There was a brief time in late September when matters were especially bad. Their only conversation was by way of their bewildered son: “Fitzwilliam, please ask your father to pass the salt,” “Fitzwilliam, please tell your mother she left her embroidery in the parlour last evening,” and so forth. Eventually the utter ridiculousness of the situation reconciled them, much to Fitzwilliam's relief, and they managed to restrain themselves from such silliness in the future.

All returned from their various holidays intact and in good spirits. Lady Anne had been able to reassure herself of her father's good health (he had been briefly ill), Fitzwilliam basked in the sincere affection of his family, Mr Darcy was comforted to know that no matter how foolish he might be on occasion, he would never reach the heights attained by Sir Lewis, young George felt properly appreciated by his aunt Hawkins, and Mr Wickham found that his financial affairs were not quite so dire as he had hitherto believed.

---

May 1791

“There will be time enough for sons,” said Mr Bennet soothingly. Mrs Bennet's tears slowed, and eventually stopped; and for a time, she looked with pleasure at their second child.

Chapter Twenty-one

Fitzwilliam, as was his custom, clambered onto his mother's bed. “Good morning,” he said brightly. Anne opened her eyes.

“Good morning, dear,” she managed. “Did you miss us?”

“Oh, yes,” he said cheerfully. “I was very sorry for you, too, since you hate London so much.”

“So was I,” Anne said ruefully, shielding her eyes. Her head was pounding, and Fitzwilliam's quiet, light voice seemed painfully loud. She never wanted to see another glass of wine so long as she lived.

“Did you have to go to parties?” he asked curiously.

“Yes,” Anne whispered.

“It must have been very unpleasant.”

It had been so unpleasant that she drank herself into oblivion as soon as possible. In retrospect, that may not have been very wise. “Mm,” Anne mumbled. The pillow and two blankets did not seem to impede the wretchedly bright sunlight in any way.

Fitzwilliam eyed her doubtfully. “Are you well, mother?”

“Urrgh,” said Anne, pressing her face into the sheets. “I think I'm going to be sick.”

------

“Mr Hancock?”

“Yes?”

“If I asked very nicely, would mother and father give me a sister?”

The tutor coughed. “Er, probably not, Fitzwilliam. It's a rather complicated business.”

Fitzwilliam sighed deeply. “I'd really like a sister, or even a brother, but mother and father don't have any other children. I don't think that's fair.”

“Much of life isn't fair, Fitzwilliam.”

“George thinks it's silly to want one, because I'd have to share mother and father, but then I'd have her too, and I think she would be worth sharing with, don't you think?”

“Yes, certainly,” Mr Hancock replied, smiling down at the small boy walking beside him.

“And then mother and father would be happy, because people are happy when they have babies, or at least Ella said so. That's why Aunt Catherine is never very happy, because she wants a son and she can't get one. She only has me, and nephews aren't so nice as sons.”

“I see,” Mr Hancock said, rather awkwardly, and they walked in comfortable silence for awhile.

“Mr Hancock?” Fitzwilliam asked suddenly.

“Yes?”

“How do people make brothers and sisters anyway?”

Mr Hancock made a strangled sound.

“ 'Cause I asked Aunt Eleanor how I'd know if mother was going to have one, and she said if she was sick in the morning and called the doctor, and she was sick this morning so I asked Mrs Reynolds, but she said that mother was just sick from something she ate, so I was thinking that maybe she and father were doing something wrong and so that's why they can't get any more.” He blinked up at his tutor. “Do you think so?”

Mr Hancock, blushing to the tips of his ears, cleared his throat loudly. “I think, perhaps, that you should ask your father about that.”

Fitzwilliam considered this. “He said I could ask him any questions I liked, if I wanted, after that time when he was so angry with George. It was a long time ago, though, and he might not remember. Do you think he'd mind?”

“I think,” Mr Hancock said carefully, “that he would prefer to be the one you ask about — brothers and sisters.”

---

As he looked at her, he observed, for the first time in a long while, that she was a very beautiful woman.

“Anne,” said George, “I have just had the most interesting conversation with our son.”

---

Chapter Twenty-two

Somersetshire, April 1792

“Well,” said Elizabeth, “if papa hadn't said so, I would never have dreamed you were family.” She was a pretty girl with grey eyes and fair hair, but Fitzwilliam thought that she and her father were two of the most disagreeable people he had ever laid eyes on.

“Oh,” he said indifferently, glancing at Anne, who was blushing fiercely.

“You haven't a bit of the family looks,” Elizabeth added, apparently in case he hadn't fully understood the first time. Fitzwilliam sighed.

“That's 'cause I look like my mother,” he said. It was the clear disdain in her face which provoked him to add, “I'd rather look like a Fitzwilliam than an Elliot any day.”

Elizabeth gasped, and sputtered for a moment. “Why, you — you silly boy!” she pronounced. Fitzwilliam stared straight at her, easily meeting her contempt measure for measure.

“It's not silly. The Fitzwilliams are handsomer than the Elliots.” He had not actually given the matter much thought, but it was worth saying it just to see the look on her face. She was much less pretty with her cheeks splotched red with anger.

“We are the Elliots of Kellynch, my father is a baronet, your family doesn't even have a title or anything —”

“— what do you know, the only reason the Elliots have a title at all is because they bowed and scraped to get a piddling little baronetcy —”

“— I can't see why Aunt Georgiana was allowed to marry your great-grandfather at all —”

“— no proper pride at all, accepting titles and land from a German upstart; my family has had Pemberley for over seven hundred years — ”

“ — we are cousins to a viscountess — ”

“— my grandfather is an earl — ”

“ — and you have the — ” Elizabeth stopped midrant. “What did you just say?”

“My grandfather is an earl,” he said smugly. “My mother's father, the one that I look like.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth considered this fact, and abruptly changed her position. “Well, that's all right then. Anne, what are you doing just standing there? We're supposed to be entertaining our cousin.”

“But, Elizab —”

“Anne, why do you always have to argue?” Elizabeth's fury was immediately directed at her sister, who cringed.

“Oh, don't worry,” Fitzwilliam assured her. “You've done a very good job of it all on your own.” Elizabeth's mouth opened and shut, and he turned to Anne. “What are you reading, cousin?”

------

“I like Anne,” Fitzwilliam informed his father, “but Elizabeth and Sir Walter are very silly.”

Mr Darcy laughed. “Yes, they are, but they are also family, and you are too old not to pay your respects when we come into this part of the country.”

“Lady Elliot is nice, and she seems very clever.”

Mr Darcy, who hardly thought of his cousin's rather insipid wife at all, shrugged.

“Although she married Sir Walter, so she can't be that clever.”

Mr Darcy managed a strangled cough.

“Shall we often come into this part of the country? I don't like it here very much, it's dreadfully warm and there aren't any mountains. Pemberley is much nicer. Of course, Pemberley is much nicer than everywhere, even Houghton.” He considered. “Father, you said you have property here?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Could you leave it to George?”

Mr Darcy looked at his son with a frown. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I was just thinking, that George doesn't have anyone to leave him anything, except us, so he'll always be poor like Mr Wickham. But since Pemberley is enough for me, you could leave him the land in Somerset, and we'd both be rich.”

“You will inherit the property in Somerset, Fitzwilliam,” Mr Darcy said tiredly, wondering just what Hancock had been teaching the boys. “George will be taken care of, he is to have a living. Do you know what a living is?”

“That's what Mr Hancock doesn't have?”

“Yes, exactly.”

He considered. “I don't think George would make a very good parson. He doesn't even like church.”

Mr Darcy chuckled. “People change, Fitzwilliam; but if he doesn't wish it when is grown, then I will give him enough money to live off of until he finds something he does like. He will be taken care of, I promise you.”

“Oh,” said Fitzwilliam sleepily, “that's good.”

Chapter Twenty-three

Lady Catherine and Lady Anne stood at the window, watching as their children attempted to conquer a smooth-skinned tree. Both ended the endeavour by tumbling to the ground.

“Let her be,” Anne said, resting her hand on her sister's arm. “Surely you can see that a week of playing with Fitzwilliam has done more good than all the doctors and medicine in the world?”

Catherine hesitated. “Fitzwilliam has a very good effect on her,” she admitted grudgingly, the harsh lines of her face softening as she heard her daughter's shrieks of laughter. “I will confess, Anne, that although I always thought highly of him — he's such a well-behaved boy — I had no idea he was so . . . so . . .”

Anne smiled. “Anne is a delightful girl. I have rarely seen Fitzwilliam so unreserved and — happy, as when he is with her.”

The sisters stood in silence for a moment. The cousins seemed to be concocting some sort of strategy, their heads bent together; then he stood back and by dint of much effort, managed to lift her into the tree. When he began sliding back down the tree again, Anne held so tightly onto his hand that he was able to scramble onto one of the lower branches. Catherine sighed.

“I worry about her, Anne. She is so frail; what of when she comes out? And when I die, Rosings will fall to her.”

“Not if you have sons,” Anne pointed out.

“I will not have any other children,” Catherine said coolly. “There will only be Anne. And how can a girl, and such a girl, be expected to run an estate such as Rosings?”

“Perhaps you underestimate her, Catherine,” Anne said softly. “And she is hardly friendless.” She nodded her head at the children, who were laughing as they triumphantly reached the tree's upper branches. “It seems she will always have one friend, in any case.”

“Yes,” Catherine said, smiling at her nephew proudly. “He's a good boy, Anne.”

“I know.” Anne hesitated. “I was surprised by how well they got on. They are very alike.”

“I do not see much likeness,” Catherine said, frowning. “Anne is very fair, like her father.”

“They are alike in temper, Catherine,” Anne said patiently. “Fitzwilliam has never been a leader. I have been rather concerned that he would allow himself to be trampled on to avoid conflict. I do not believe he has ever been in trouble on his own account.” She watched as her son gesticulated wildly from the tree. “I don't think I shall worry any more — about that. He has always wanted a sister, you know.”

“Yes, he told me,” Catherine said, not certain whether to be pleased or horrified at her daughter's antics.

Anne hesitated. “They shall be excellent friends, I think.”

“Yes, they shall,” her sister decreed. “And perhaps someday, they shall be more.”

Anne turned to look at her sister, and considered the matter. “What a lovely idea, Catherine,” she said, with perfect sincerity. “They would make an excellent couple; and it would be a very good match, for both of them.”

“Yes, indeed,” Catherine agreed, her expression making it clear that that consideration had not escaped her.

“I shall speak to Fitzwilliam about it,” Anne said decisively, “when he is old enough to understand. For now, we shall leave them to what they have now.”

“Yes,” said Catherine, “they are too young to understand, now.” She sighed. “I cannot tell you how much comfort it gives me to know that Anne will be taken care of when I am gone.”

“You have many years left in you yet, Catherine.”

Catherine glanced at her sister, handsome as ever but as frail and pale as her namesake. “So we all do,” she said, determined not to show any uncertainty.

Chapter Twenty-four

“Your father will be furious with me if he finds out,” George hissed. Fitzwilliam sighed.

“I don't know why you didn't just do the work. It's not that hard.”

“Stupid King John,” George mumbled. “I don't see why it matters, anyway.”

Fitzwilliam's eyes widened. “But it was very important! He signed the Magna Carta, and that was in 1215, and it made it so landowners could have say in what happened, and —”

“What do I care about landowners?” George said grumpily. “It's not as if I'll ever be one.”

“If it weren't for the Magna Carta,” Fitzwilliam said primly, “you probably wouldn't even have a living set aside.”

“What's a living?”

Fitzwilliam stared, appalled at his friend's ignorance. “Well — the Kympton living, you'll get it when you're grown up, and it means you'll be the parson and you'll have the parsonage and the I-forget-what-they're-called from those people, and — ”

“Oh, never mind. I hate church.”

“You shouldn't say things like that.”

“You shouldn't say things like that,” George mimicked. “I don't suppose you do anything you aren't supposed to do?”

Fitzwilliam considered the question quite seriously. “Not if I know better,” he said gravely.

“What's the point in being rich and powerful if you always do what you're supposed to?”

Fitzwilliam looked horrified. “That's why we're rich and powerful, because we do what we're supposed to do, and we take care of the people who don't.” People like you, a voice whispered, and he repressed the thought as unworthy. “Father gets his money because he's such a good master.”

“He'd get it even if he weren't,” said George sourly.

“But, there probably wouldn't be as much. Everyone is much happier when they all do what they're supposed to. You never get in trouble for doing what you're supposed to, except with silly people who don't know right from wrong.” Fitzwilliam frowned. “There are people who don't — they gamble and do other naughty things — but they're bad and they usually run out of money and are always in debt, father says so.”

George scowled. “My father's in debt, he says so, that I must always remember how much I owe your father because he wouldn't have been able to afford any education for me otherwise.”

“That's different. It's not because he gambled or anything. It's not his fault.” It's your mother's, he thought, but prudently kept his mouth shut.

“Aunt Hawkins says it's because he made a bad choice when he was young. Do you think maybe he bet everything on a horse and has been paying for it ever since?”

Fitzwilliam did not think it remotely likely that stolid Mr Wickham had ever done any such thing, although it would probably please George. He would doubtless find it romantic or something equally ridiculous. “Maybe it was something like that,” he said vaguely. “George, will you be able to remember for the lesson?”

“Oh! yes, I shall do very well. It was 1066, wasn't it?”

“No, George,” Fitzwilliam said patiently, “it was in 1215. 1066 was the Normans, that's when my family came here from France.”

“Your family,” George muttered; “were they ever on the wrong side?”

“No,” said Fitzwilliam, “or we wouldn't be here now, would we?” He frowned. “Are you sure you're quite well, George? You've been acting strange lately.” George grunted. “You could go to bed and I'll tell Mr Hancock, if you're sick.”

George leapt at the opportunity. “You're right, I have been a little sick lately.” He gave a small, theatrical groan. “Perhaps I should . . .”

“Only if you're really sick.”

“Oh, I am . . . I'll just . . . go on up. Thank you very much, Fitzwilliam, you're a good friend, even if you like those cousins of yours better than me.”

It was a common complaint; at first, Fitzwilliam had assured his friend that it wasn't that he liked his cousins more, just differently. Later he made a token protest, unable to truthfully demur. This time, he watched him leave, his small face peculiarly expressionless, and thought, I do like my cousins better than him, even that horrid Elizabeth.

------

Fitzwilliam was not an easy sleeper. Many nights he spent padding towards the library, careful to avoid his parents' notice; for they often were awake in the early morning themselves. His mother he could avoid easily enough, but his father was a greater danger. He was not entirely certain he was supposed to be in the library at three and four o'clock in the morning; but neither was he certain he was not supposed to, so he had decided early on that it was all right.

This evening, however, he was so tired that he accidentally trod the well-worn path past the master bedchambers, and stopped in place.

“It was years ago,” his mother was saying, in the proud, distant voice that meant she was upset and determined not so show it. Her father had no such reserve.

“I have allowed you your way with him these many years, Anne, but this is unacceptable!”

“Oh,” Lady Anne gave a clear, brittle laugh, “you allowed me? How kind of you, how selfless; what a sacrifice it must have been!”

“Anne, you have no right to tell him such things! What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking, Mr Darcy, that since he would not learn proper pride from you, it fell to me to teach him what he was! It was a single conversation, he hardly understood it — for heavens' sakes, he was six years old!”

Mr Darcy's voice grew very stern and severe. “He remembered it, Anne, enough to ask me today.”

“This is such a silly matter,” she said dismissively. “He was merely confused on the matter of — resemblance.”

“Which is, I suppose, why you told him not six weeks past, and doubtless many other times before that, that he was a Fitzwilliam and must always remember it?”

“You may have no pride in yourself and your heritage, Mr Darcy, but I will not have my son so. I will not have him forget what he is, or think himself inferior to any man, let alone your wastrel of a godson.”

“Ah,” said Mr Darcy cynically, “the Fitzwilliam pride rears its head again. I understand, now.”

“You understand nothing,” she cried fiercely. “It is your place to teach him these things, but you do nothing except insist that he listen while you conduct business! What is a nine-year-old to understand of such things? What have you taught him? He does not merely need to know who he is but what he is; and I can hardly explain to him what it means to be a Darcy of Pemberley. How should I know? I only know what it is to be a Fitzwilliam, and that is all I can teach him. He cannot look into the mirror and see the reflections of family portraits, as you can; you have been absent for so much of his life that he cannot look at you and say someday I shall be like that; I could not teach him to love Pemberley, and you did not choose to — it was all him. And you, you who refused to believe that there was anything worthwhile or praiseworthy in your own son, who favoured a worthless, indolent, sly boy over him no matter what anyone said — you have the temerity to speak to me of pride — ”

“Anne, lower your voice. Someone might overhear you.”

Fitzwilliam, wide-awake now, fled at those words — not to the library, but back to his room, where he crawled under the blankets, uncertain of what to think or do, only aware of a deep unhappiness. It was only when he noticed Alfred's warm body curled against his own that he felt at all comforted.

I want to go away, he thought, brushing his shaking fingers over Alfred's head. I want my uncle.

---

“Will you never forget? Yes, I was a poor father, and at least as poor a husband, but that was then. I am trying now, I've been trying for at least the past year — without any help from you, may I say — ”

“How can you expect me to forget? Do you have any idea what it was like?”

Fitzwilliam Darcy, although a very good sort of boy, possessed one characteristic that was more likely to lead him into trouble than any other: curiosity. He could not bear not knowing. So he studied voraciously, because there was so much he had yet to discover. He learnt to watch the faces of people who came to call or visit, because their words said so little about them. And the very evening after he overheard his parents quarrelling about him, he retraced his steps, this time Alfred firmly in his arms, because although he had suffered all day an excruciating embarrassment, he had also suffered an equally-excruciating curiosity.

For Lady Anne and Mr Darcy, this was a run-of-the-mill quarrel, not extraordinary in any way. To their nine-year-old son, it was horrifying, the more so because, once again, he very quickly became the subject of it. I should not have come, he thought, longing once more for the reassurance of his uncle's presence. It was nearly a fortnight before he found himself walking the same path, and this time they were talking about George. When he went to the library, he went past his parents' rooms, and always stopped to listen for a few minutes, his curiosity always getting the better of him. Sometimes they quarrelled about some horrible thing his father had done in the past, which his mother was still angry about, more often they argued about George, but mostly they were angry over him.

Fitzwilliam never stayed more than a few minutes, though; but soon, it became unnecessary, as his parents' quarrels spilled over into daily life. He still walked that way, but didn't bother to stop, because he already knew what they would be speaking of. The same things, he and George and whatever had happened — over and over and over again. Although he loved his mother, he could not help feeling a sneaking sympathy with his father. He had done bad things himself, but if he apologised and tried to make it better, it was forgotten; he was not always reminded of it. And his father always tried to keep from quarrelling, tried to calm his mother. It usually made her angrier, but at least he tried. Still, his father must have done something very bad that his mother would be so very angry about it still.

In March, as he and George worked at their lessons (George surreptitiously glancing over at Fitzwilliam's notes), Mr Hancock glanced up and exclaimed, “Mr Darcy!”

Fitzwilliam started and scrambled to his feet. George remained sitting, eyeing his godfather with mild interest. “Please excuse my interruption,” Mr Darcy said pleasantly, “but I was wondering if Fitzwilliam might be excused from his lessons for the rest of the day.”

“Why, yes, of course,” said Mr Hancock, blinking in surprise, while George gaped and Fitzwilliam stared. The latter quickly recovered his wits and neatly put his things away, before obediently following his father, blinking at his imposing figure. He briefly spared a thought to wonder if Mr Darcy knew and disapproved of his nighttime wanderings, then quickly dismissed the worry.

They went into the blue parlour, and Mr Darcy put his hand on Fitzwilliam's shoulder, directing him to the window. The room was nice, but its greatest attraction was the fine view of Pemberley from this particular vantage; from here he could say the mountains, the river, the bridge, the woods, though none of them in their entirety. Fitzwilliam sighed happily. He could not say why he loved Pemberley so much, but he did; no matter how unhappy he thought he was, he always felt that he belonged, that the very earth welcomed his presence. He would never speak such a thought aloud (it was probably blasphemous or pagan or heathen or some such thing), but there it was, and at such times he was overcome by feelings of utter contentment.

He glanced up at his father's face, and for the very first time in his life, saw something of his own mirrored there. His father's clear blue eyes wandered around the land, smiling enough to make a dent in his left cheek, and Fitzwilliam on pure impulse laid his head against his father's side as he had so often against his mother's. Mr Darcy put his arm against him, and cleared his throat.

“Fitzwilliam,” he said quietly, “someday, hopefully in the very distant future, this will all belong to you.”

“Yes,” said Fitzwilliam, “I know.”

His father laughed, but quickly sobered. “It is a very great honour, you understand, to be the master of such a place as this.”

Fitzwilliam nodded fervently.

“There are — privileges — attached to our position. Wealth, power, fine things.”

“I know what privileges are, father.”

“Of course.” Mr Darcy said. “There are also responsibilities.” He hesitated. “There are many, many people whom we have a duty to take care of, who depend upon us for their well-being. There are others still that we still must help, although they are not strictly under our juri — our authority. The poor — whatever you may hear, they bear no responsibility for their misfortunes, and we, who have so much, are under an obligation to do whatever we can for them.”

Fitzwilliam considered this, and after a moment's thought, said, “Yes, sir.”

“You are ten years old today, Fitzwilliam.”

“Yes, I know,” Fitzwilliam said again.

“I think — that is, we think, your mother and I, that you are of an age when — when you need to begin learning of the responsibilities that will be yours one day.” Mr Darcy took a deep breath. “I intend to visit several of our tenants this afternoon, one of whom is a man with two daughters who has recently lost his wife.”

Fitzwilliam frowned. “He lost her? How?”

Mr Darcy cleared his throat. “Ah, no; it means, his wife died.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

“And, I believe it would be beneficial were you to accompany me.”

Fitzwilliam's eyes darted up. “You would like me to come?”

“Yes, I would. You must be on your very best behaviour, however.”

He smiled. “I shall.”

Chapter Twenty-five

April 1795

Never had a letter been more welcomed than the one which Fitzwilliam received about three weeks after his eleventh birthday. Richard's letters were always pleasant, full of news and chatter and messages from the entire family, but they had become something of a godsend in the last few months. His parents' animosity had grown to such a level that he was surprised they managed to live under the same roof, although they no longer quarrelled very much. George, although he was careful to behave properly in front of Mr Hancock and Mr Darcy, got into all sorts of trouble which he nearly always attempted to fix on Fitzwilliam. Just last week he had attacked some stablehands for no reason at all, and Fitzwilliam had to agree with his mother that he was a most inappropriate companion. Then Mr Hancock had come down with a bad cold and was sequestered away from the family.

Fitzwilliam suppressed the urge to laugh in sheer relief at the conclusion to Richard's letter, and practised his father's “business” face in the mirror until he felt prepared to confront his parents.

His father would be the biggest obstacle, so Fitzwilliam went to his study first. “Hello, Fitzwilliam,” his father said, looking up with a smile. “I hope nothing is wrong?”

“No, sir,” he said, rather nervously, “but I, I just read my letter from cousin Richard, and, er, heinvitedmetovisit.”

Mr Darcy blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Richard invited me to spend the summer at Houghton,” Fitzwilliam said, clasping his hands behind his back. “He has my uncle's permission, and I was wondering if I might go.”

Mr Darcy leaned back and took off his spectacles, staring at his son. “Would you like to go to Houghton, Fitzwilliam?”

“Yes, sir,” said Fitzwilliam. “It is not as nice as Pemberley, but I miss grandmother and Uncle Fitzwilliam, and I would like to see my cousins again.”

His father sighed. “Very well, if your mother agrees, and Mr Hancock, you may go.”

“Thank you.” Fitzwilliam smiled. “Shall I go ask her now?”

Mr Darcy hesitated. “You may wish to wait a few hours. She does not feel particularly well this morning.”

It was on the tip of Fitzwilliam's tongue to say that she did not feel well any morning, but he exercised admirable restraint and merely nodded before excusing himself. He rather thought it would be undiplomatic to mention the matter to George, so instead he told Mrs Reynolds, who was properly delighted for him.

------

“Mother?”

“Yes, dear?”

Fitzwilliam gazed at his mother's reflection. It was not as much like his own as he recalled; she was not a young lady anymore. There were strands of grey at her temples, and fine lines about her eyes. “Mother, I've been invited to spend the summer at Houghton, and father says I may go, if I have your permission and Mr Hancock's.”

Lady Anne turned to gaze at him. Her eyes were the same, at least; brilliantly dark, with grey streaks running through them, and long heavy lashes. He had always thought his mother had the finest eyes of any woman he had ever seen. “Would you like to go to Houghton, Fitzwilliam?”

“Yes, mother,” he said. “I miss my family.” He could say such things to his mother, for she understood and was not offended or hurt like his father would be.

“I suppose you'll take that dreadful beast of yours with you?” she said, smiling. Fitzwilliam looked down at her; he was not quite so tall as she was, but sitting down stood at least a head taller.

“Yes, mother. She would be unhappy if I left her all alone.”

Lady Anne laughed. “Very well, Fitzwilliam, you may go.”

------

Dear Anne,

I am to go to Hooton this summer! I am very happy, I only wish Aunt Catherine would let you go too, I'm sure it would be good for you, and I would like to see you again. Everyone eccept George is old, and he's horrible. I think I would be a much better brother for you if we lived in the same house, but Aunt Catherine is very silly about not letting you go anywhere. But please don't tell her I called her silly, because she'll tell mother and mother will be angrier than she is already. She's not angry at me, she hardly ever is, but she and my father don't like each other much even though they don't shout anymore. Do your parents shout? I can't imagine Uncle de Bourgh ever raising his voice to Aunt Catherine, of course, I can't imagine anyone raising their voices to Aunt Catherine, can you? Anyway, I'm very happy I'll be able to be with Uncle Fitzwilliam and Aunt Eleanor and everyone this summer. I love Pemberley but it's very ecc exou tiring. I'm glad I don't have to go away to school like Henry did, though, I don't like being around lots of people at once, espesially when they're looking at me. You must try and convince Aunt Catherine to let you come sometime, they might not be your brothers but they're still your cousins and it's very unfair that you should know your nasty de Bourgh cousins better than the Fitzwilliam ones, since we're so much better than they are. I am leaving this week and I'm very eccited about it, oh, and I almost forgot, mother I think is going to Rosings to see Aunt Catherine for some reason, I can't imagine why, but they're sisters so maybe they just want to see each other and they like each other better than their husbands anyway. I think that's all that's happening, but you'll have to write and tell me about what you're doing.

Your cousin,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Chapter Twenty-six

Houghton was not Pemberley; there was none of the sense of deep-rootedness, of home, although it was of course very fine. But the family was his family, far more than father or mother, who were strange and distant by comparison, and he belonged with these people although not this place.

“Good evening, cousin,” Edward said stiffly. He was nineteen and would be returning to university in a few weeks; he was very proper and severe, and shook Fitzwilliam's hand soberly. Richard rolled his eyes.

“Fitzwilliam!” he burst out, and spontaneously hugged him so tightly that he struggled to breathe. Henry chuckled.

“Richard,” Fitzwilliam gasped. “I'm glad to see you too.”

“Hello, Fitzwilliam,” Ella said grandly. She was a young lady now, her hair all done up and her manners very fine; but she bent down to kiss his cheek and when he blushed fiercely, laughed as merrily as she had always done. She was not quite a proper young lady, barely able to keep her countenance when silly young men fawned on her, reciting their very bad poetry, and laughed at them mercilessly when they were gone.

Then there was grandmother, who did not seem at all different, and he kissed her cheek, politely answering all her questions about his mother's health, and was rather bewildered at the delight on her face when he said that his mother was ill almost every morning. His aunt was a little older, and not quite so patient — she and Ella were frequently at odds over clothes and jewellery — but she was sweet-natured as always and seemed sincerely glad to see him.

Lord Matlock had grown rather austere and stern with time. Still, he remained the same soft-spoken, even-tempered gentleman who had adopted him into his family all those years ago. When he turned the corner and caught sight of his flushed nephew, a delighted smile instantly lit up his face, and, quite unaccountably, Fitzwilliam felt tears pricking at his eyes. He should not cry, for quite aside from being a boy and a Fitzwilliam-and-Darcy, he was happy, truly happy as he had not been since Rosings.

“Fitzwilliam,” Lord Matlock said, no longer so much taller that he had to kneel down to look directly at him, “what a pleasure it is to see you again.”

People said things of that sort all the time, but Lord Matlock was one of those people who meant them, meant every word he said. Fitzwilliam smiled shyly. “Thank you, sir,” he said, then added, “I am very happy to be here. Thank you for inviting me.”

His uncle smiled, rather sadly, and said, “You are quite welcome, Fitzwilliam.” He briefly grasped Fitzwilliam's shoulder, before turning in a decidedly business-like manner to the rest of the family, giving quick, efficient directions. Fitzwilliam was gladly distracted by the antics of his cousins and the fussing of his aunt and grandmother.

------

It was easy enough to tell that something was wrong. Fitzwilliam had visited Houghton before, and seemed glad enough to see his family; but there was a contained intensity about him now that was somehow unsettling. He played with Richard, listened to Ella and Henry, did everything that he normally did; his behaviour was in every way exemplary. He was quieter, though, and even less sociable; when he was obliged to remain in company for very long, his pale face would acquire a faintly pinched look, and he hardly said two words together.

Edward Fitzwilliam had always had always had a deep, sincere affection for his nephew, whose earnest integrity could not but endear him to an uncle of so similar a temper; but lately his natural concern for his nephew's welfare had shifted to a vague feeling of alarm, the same that he might have felt had any of his own children appeared inexplicably unhappy.

A light sleeper, given to spending many sleepless hours in his library, he discovered that Fitzwilliam had inherited or acquired the same indisposition. As he struggled to make sense of his volume (the words kept blurring together), he caught sight of a slender dark-haired figure slipping into the library. “Fitzwilliam?” he asked, suddenly very alert.

Fitzwilliam flinched violently, clutching a book tightly against his chest. “Uncle Edward,” he exclaimed breathlessly. “I had not — I did not know — that you were awake, sir.”

He had reverted quite naturally to using his uncle's given name, as he had throughout early childhood. Edward smiled. “Nor I, you,” he said calmly. “Did you have trouble sleeping?”

Fitzwilliam noticably relaxed. “Yes, sir. I was just returning this book.” He held it up.

“I see,” said the earl, and considered his options. Subtlety, he felt, would be wasted on his forthright nephew, and so he gestured to the chair beside him. “Come here, Fitzwilliam, I would like to speak to you.”

He was somewhat relieved to find that Fitzwilliam immediately obeyed, sitting very upright and gazing at him with wide curious eyes. It was a rather peculiar coincidence, Edward thought, that his nephew resembled him more closely, both in face and temper, than any of his children, and reached out a hand to him. “Fitzwilliam, you do not seem quite yourself.”

Fitzwilliam's brow furrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

Edward recalled Fitzwilliam's excessively literal turn of mind, and managed a faint smile. “You have been behaving rather strangely.” Alarm instantly leapt into the boy's blue eyes, and Edward pressed his hand. “You have not done anything wrong, do not fear.”

“Oh.” Fitzwilliam considered. “I really don't know what you mean, sir.”

Edward sighed. “Please understand I mean no intrusion, and you needn't answer if you do not wish to.” His nephew looked politely perplexed. “Is everything quite well at Pemberley, Fitzwilliam?”

He had his answer before another word was spoken. Fitzwilliam instantly flushed and dropped his eyes, absently toying with the sleeve of his nightshirt. After a moment, he sighed, and raised his head to look at his uncle. “No, sir.” He clasped his hands together, and blinked rapidly. “I don't know — I don't understand — they are all so strange, except Mr Hancock and Mrs Reynolds.”

“Strange?”

“George, that's father's godson, has always been my best friend, but now he does all sorts of bad things, and tries to say I did them.” The earl's jaw tensed. “Mother dislikes him so much that I can't talk to her about it, but father says he's jealous of me right now, and it'll be better when we're older.” Fitzwilliam sighed. “I don't understand, because it's so much easier to do what's right, at least most of the time, but he goes to a great deal of trouble to do bad things.”

“It is very easy,” said Edward carefully, “for our inferiors to envy us what we have, without making any attempts to gain those things for themselves, and without understanding the responsibilities that come with our privileges.”

Fitzwilliam blinked. “That's what father says, although he wasn't talking about George.”

Edward, little as he liked being compared with his erstwhile brother-in-law, managed to say, “Your father is quite right, Fitzwilliam.”

“Not always,” Fitzwilliam said unexpectedly. Edward stiffened. Surely he did not know of . . .? “He did something very wrong, once. I've heard mother talking to him about it. She's angry about what he did, and he's angry that she's still angry, and then because they're angry about that they get angry about other things, especially me.” He looked down again. “I don't know what I've done, so I don't know how to make it right.” His voice broke slightly at the end of this remarkable recital.

Edward pressed one hand against his forehead, and thought distinctly unkind thoughts. “My dear nephew,” he said, tilting Fitzwilliam's chin up and placing his hand against his cheek, “you must listen to me on this score. Your parents are not angry at you, but at each other, about things that have very little to do with you. There are some things that you cannot make right.”

He had tactfully ignored his nephew's occasional tears, but at this, Fitzwilliam began sobbing in earnest, hiding his face behind his hands; yet despite the force of feeling, he remained eerily silent, the only sound his gasping breaths. Edward, taken aback by the sudden loss of composure, could hardly remain where he was. He sat beside his nephew and put his arms around him; Fitzwilliam turned away, pressing his face against his uncle's shoulder and clinging to his waist, until he had recovered his composure.

He withdrew after a moment, but Edward, relying on instict, kept a firm hold on him. “Do you understand me, Fitzwilliam?”

“I'm sorry,” he said indistinctly, rubbing his eyes, then looked up and managed a hint of a smile. “Yes, sir. But I can't just — not do anything. They're my parents, and I love them — both of them,” he added, with a hint of defiance. Edward sighed.

“Of course you do. Sometimes, however, there is very little within your power. Your parents' problems are just that — their own — and all you can do is make life as easy as possible for them. Mind your tutor, work at your lessons, obey your parents.”

“I already do all that,” he protested. Edward smiled.

“Then you have done all that you can, and it will have to be enough, until you are older. Marriage is very difficult, Fitzwilliam, particularly when the husband and wife are not well-acquainted beforehand.”

“They've had plenty of time since then,” Fitzwilliam grumbled.

“Some people do not get along,” Edward said patiently. “No matter how much they try, they cannot help but — anger one another, often by some of the silliest things, no matter how excellent they may each be by themselves. Sometimes they are too alike, or too different, sometimes they have very good reasons for it, and sometimes they do not — and sometimes they just use those reasons as an excuse to be angry. It all depends on the people;—but Fitzwilliam, it has nothing to do with anyone but them, whatever they, or anyone, may say.” Forgive me, Anne, but you have brought this much on yourself.

Fitzwilliam grasped his hand tightly and stared into the distance, assimilating this idea. Then he smiled shakily. “Like Aunt Catherine and father,” he said, and Edward laughed.

“Yes, just like that. And it's especially difficult when they live together. Often people who find themselves in your parents' situation cannot — do not even live together, and their children are usually ignored altogether, or sent away.”

Fitzwilliam's eyes widened. “But wouldn't people talk?”

“Indeed they do. It is the nature of people to talk; but that is not why your parents remain together.” Not wholly why, in any case. “There are worse things than that — and I know that your mother would be very unhappy if she could not be with you, and so would your father.”

“I'm lucky, then,” Fitzwilliam said after a moment. Edward smiled grimly.

“I wouldn't say that, exactly. There is always someone who is less fortunate than you, but there are also many who are more fortunate. You need not feel guilty for what you have, nor envious for what you do not — you must simply appreciate what joy there is in your life.” Edward's conscience briefly afflicted him. “Sometimes that is very difficult, as I think you know.”

Fitzwilliam nodded soberly. “Yes, uncle, but I will try harder. And there is always Anne, I am always happy when I'm with her.”

Edward blinked. “Anne?” he repeated, and watched with some astonishment as his nephew's face lit up.

“My si — cousin, sir,” Fitzwilliam said, with a patient look afforded the particularly dim, “Aunt Catherine's daughter.”

“Ah. That Anne. I did not realise you were so closely acquainted.”

Fitzwilliam smiled brightly. “We went to Rosings, and it was a great deal of fun — ” Edward, who had suffered through more than one visit to his elder sister, coughed at that particular adjective — “and I met Anne, and she doesn't have a brother and I don't have a sister and we're practically the same age, so she said I could be her brother. And she writes wonderfully long letters, and I can always write to her about, about — things. She never tells, and one must talk to someone, you know.”

Edward felt another pang of conscience, as he had hardly noticed his niece's existence. She had seemed a rather insipid girl, not too clever, and very much her father's daughter. Perhaps, if she could be separated, however briefly, from her mother, she would have the opportunity to grow a little. He filed the thought away for future reference, and smiled at his nephew. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I know.”

“Who is that?” Rain pattered heavily on the windows, and the Fitzwilliam children could vaguely make out a carriage approaching the house.

“I don't know,” said Richard. “Another suitor, Lady Eleanor?” He was still tickled that every fop, rake, and respectable gentleman in England called his irrepressible sister your ladyship. Ella sniffed.

“If so, I shall say I am ill. No-one has asked to call since Lord Richard this afternoon, and anyone who asks papa's permission before mine has no understanding of my character —”

“It's a rather small carriage,” said Edward, “for one of those pretentious lordlings who dance on your every command, Eleanor. Father said some business acquaintance was coming to dinner with his wife and children.”

“Who brings their children to a dinner?” Ella demanded.

“Father particularly asked him to,” Edward said, “for Fitzwilliam and Richard. They'll be here for three days. Apparently he owns some mills or factories in Sheffield, which father is thinking of investing in, and has grown quite wealthy.”

Ella stood on tiptoe, watching the heavily cloaked figures making their way to the door. “Where is his estate?” Fitzwilliam asked quietly.

“He hasn't bought one yet,” Edward replied, with the relish that comes of shocking an entire room.

Ella gasped. “He hasn't bought — who are his people, then? What do we know of him? Is father placing so much trust in the hands of a tradesman?”

“Mr Bingley is in a very respectable line of trade,” averred Edward, although the amused smile rather repudiated his words.

“I can't believe papa wants Fitzwilliam and Richard to be friends with a tradesman's sons,” she said indignantly. “Besides, even if he is wealthy, he shall run through it soon enough, that sort always does.”

“His daughters, actually,” said Edward. “You really must not be so judgmental, Eleanor. Even were he astonishingly profligate, running through eighty thousand pounds is no easy task.”

“Eighty thousand pounds!” Ella stared. “Where did he — how did he — ”

“Apparently, his mill — or whatever it is — is doing quite well, my dear sister. Perhaps you shall revise your opinion of our dinner companion and his daughters?”

Ella sniffed. “He is still a tradesman. We know nothing of his family, his connections. I cannot believe papa would be so imprudent.”

“If Mr Bingley's business is truly doing so well,” he remarked, “it would be greatly to our advantage to share in the profits. The family coffers are hardly inexhaustible, as Fitzwilliam, at least, knows perfectly well.” He gravely inclined his head to his cousin, who blushed fiercely.

“It was not very much,” he stammered; “father understands how it was.”

“Even if no-one else does,” Edward murmured dryly. “But why else did my aunts receive such extravagant dowries, if not to attract such liberal understanding? It is to Aunt Anne's credit, I suppose, that she chose my uncle. Your father is a sensible, generous man, Fitzwilliam, and our entire family is greatly indebted to his charity — for it was little less.” He looked quite serious, although it was often difficult to tell.

“Oh, it was nothing,” Fitzwilliam said earnestly. “Truly, father was very happy to be able to do something for my uncle. He has been so good to me, and besides, it would have been terrible, if he'd had to ask Sir Lewis.”

The Fitzwilliams looked at one another in horrified agreement. More than once, they'd speculated that the Almighty must have been in a very peculiar mood the day He created Sir Lewis de Bourgh. Surely such a man, so vain and yet so easily led, could not exist otherwise.

“Aunt Catherine would be dictating where every penny went,” Richard said, breaking the silence with a quick laugh. “Can you imagine it? Mother would run mad in a fortnight.”

“Not only mother,” muttered Ella, now considered a worthy recipient of Lady Catherine's advice.

---

Mr Bingley was a nondescript man of about fifty, who talked at great length about cotton. The three children thought they should go mad with boredom after five minutes of his company. His daughters, one about Richard's age and the other just younger than Fitzwilliam, were both very pretty and much less dull than their father.

“Oh no,” whispered Miss Caroline to Henry, “Lord Matlock asked papa about wool. He'll never stop now.”

He laughed and Fitzwilliam smiled. The girls blinked at them.

“Goodness, how does anyone tell you apart?” Miss Bingley asked curiously. “Lord Matlock did not say there were twins in the family.”

“Oh,” Richard said airily, “there aren't. Fitzwilliam and Henry aren't even brothers.”

She looked impressed. “Really?”

“We're cousins,” Henry chimed in. “I'm Fitzwilliam Darcy.” He stepped firmly on Fitzwilliam's foot and grinned. Fitzwilliam sighed.

“Oh!” Miss Bingley fluttered her eyelashes in his direction. “It is such a pleasure, Mr Darcy. I've been thinking about you all week.”

Fitzwilliam choked on his water, and Miss Caroline smiled conspiratorially about him. “Louisa has been thinking about him since papa found out how much your uncle's estate is worth.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say Houghton wasn't actually very lucrative. “Oh,” he said weakly. “I, er . . .”

“Mother and papa are determined all three of us shall marry into old wealthy families, because everyone snubs them now,” she confided.

“All three?” He looked from one sister to the other.

“My younger brother, Charles. He is so nice, I'm certain he'll be taken advantage of wherever he goes. He's just a little boy, though — five years old. Mamma thought they would never have a son.”

Fitzwilliam had never heard someone tell so many personal details in such a short amount of time. He swallowed nervously, and glanced over at his cousin. Henry and Miss Bingley appeared to be getting on famously. I'm going to put a toad in his bed for this, he thought vengefully.

Catalyst

Lady Eleanor Fitzwilliam was decidedly alarmed. This had little to do with the proposal of marriage she had lately received, rejected, and was currently being pressured by her family to accept. This was a not uncommon event and, duke or no duke, she had no intention of allying herself with a man whose father and grandfathers would not have even been invited to the same parties as the Fitzwilliams of Houghton.

Her cousin's uncharacteristic moodiness occupied a considerably greater proportion of her mind than her erstwhile suitor's claims of undying passion. They had been brought up together; born only three days apart, they had been close since earliest childhood, and only grew closer when Eleanor was sent to Pemberley after her mother's death. She was only four years old, and her aunt doted on her quite as much as she did her own child. The Earl repaid his sister's kindness by replicating her behaviour after her death, treating his nephew as a favoured son. The cousins were rarely separated until their schooldays, when they began corresponding prolifically. They knew of the rumours about them, and could not have cared in the slightest. They had been raised to depend solely on their own understandings and consciences, and family expectations; all else was immaterial. After the inevitable experimentation in late adolescence, they had decided that they were not well-suited for marriage, and therefore a deeper relationship would be probably disastrous and certainly alter their perfect friendship. They discarded the idea of anything more, and by twenty regarded one another as only the dearest of siblings.

Twenty-eight years of intimacy had given her a greater understanding of him than any other person, quite probably including himself. Ever since the previous summer, he had been a little odd. Almost brooding. Darcy did not brood. While naturally inclined to dwell on past errors, he was also naturally inclined to avoid making them in the first place. Morever, he was not at all temperamental. His spirits were tranquil rather than melancholy or cheerful. He was not easily upset, although it tended to be unpleasant for everyone when he was. Yet lately he had been positively moody, ever since returning from Rosings. Not that Lady Catherine wasn't enough to put anyone out-of-sorts, but still . . . The last straw came when, in the course of a single week, he quarrelled with Milton, snapped at Cecily, and was nearly sharp with Mrs Fairchild.

Eleanor first talked with Georgiana -- not that she doubted her own judgment, but rather because her younger cousin would have seen more of her erstwhile sibling's behaviour than Eleanor, and she was certain she would require corrobation when he tried to fob her off. Perhaps a pre-emptive attack would be best.

“It is my fault,” Georgiana said, looking at her with mournful dark eyes. Eleanor sighed. Sometimes the Darcys were too alike for their own good. Doubtless Fitzwilliam was sitting in his study in exactly the same frame of mind, punishing himself with English coffee, while Georgiana tortured herself over some imagined transgression.

“How is your brother?”

A flush rose to the girl's cheeks. “You know? Richard told you?”

Eleanor frowned. “Richard has not told me anything, but clearly something dreadful must have happened.”

“I should have been better. I do not deserve such a kind brother. I was so selfish!”

“You are not selfish, and Fitzwilliam is not perfect,” said Eleanor tiredly.

Georgiana dashed tears out of her eyes. “He is the best man in the world.”

“Well, perhaps, but he is only a man nonetheless, and he adores you -- he would be angry to hear you speak so of yourself.”

“I do not deserve him,” Georgiana said again. Eleanor sighed. Her youngest cousin was, in her peculiar way, as wilful and obstinate as any of the others.

“How is he, Georgiana? Did he tell you he was upset about anything?”

“No, he insisted it wasn't important. But -- ” She reached one hand out, grasping Eleanor's wrist. “You will make it right, won't you? Ella, I don't know what to do. He has been so strange since he came back. He tries to hide it, for my sake, but I'm not blind -- anymore -- and sometimes he says the oddest things. He asked me if he was ungentlemanly.”

“Fitzwilliam? Ungentlemanly?”

“I think someone said something terrible to him. I don't know why he believed it, usually he doesn't let nonsense bother him. He said it wasn't Richard when I asked, though. Even after what happened, he wasn't like this. He tells me not to worry, but I can't -- not worry, that is. He's all I have. I mean, there are the others, but Fitzwilliam is my brother, and with Mama and Papa gone . . . oh, and I can't stand him being unhappy. You'll make him happy again?”

“I will do my best,” Eleanor promised. Georgiana smiled.

“Thank you. He's in his study.”

---

Her cousin sat at his desk, coat discarded and sleeves rolled up. His fingers were pressed against his right temple. She glanced at the cup his other hand was curled around. Tea, not coffee. That was something, at least.

“Fitzwilliam.”

His head jerked up and he leapt to his feet. Ungentlemanly indeed, Eleanor thought angrily.

“Fitzwilliam, what is wrong with you?” she began without preamble.

“What do you mean, Eleanor?” He seated himself and invited her to do the same, more, it seemed, out of good breeding than because he had any desire for her company. In his current state, she rather doubted he desired any company.

“You have been very strange lately, very unlike yourself.--Ever since last summer, and particularly since you came home from Rosings. I do not know what happened, only that Georgiana thinks she has done something unforgivable.”

“It was not her fault,” he said instantly, “she could not have known better.”

“Richard has not told me,” Eleanor replied, “I do not know anything, except what I have seen. If you do not have greater consideration for yourself, you must think of your family, your sister. She has quite enough problems of her own without having yours foisted on her.”

He stared at her. “Eleanor, you do not know -- ”

“Perhaps if people would simply talk to me, I would!”

Darcy sighed. “I will ask Georgiana if I may tell you. Is that all?”

“No,” she said forcefully. “That -- whatever happened is not what is concerning her, at least not primarily. She is nearly hysterical with worry over you. Something happened at Rosings, it must have. You have been quieter and more withdrawn since the summer, but now -- Fitzwilliam, you have never been temperamental, and now you have your sister, your servants, even Richard leery of your moods.”

He remained as inscrutable as ever -- his face was not a particularly expressive one, even when he was not concealing something -- but she catch the twitch of his jaw, and when he dropped his eyes to his hands, tightly laced together on top of some letter or other, she knew how overwrought -- for him -- he must be. “Fitzwilliam” -- she gentled her tone -- “if you have done something wrong, you should simply tell someone, or make it right, not torture yourself over it. You always allow such things to affect you more deeply than anyone else, and it is not good for you, or for anyone else.”

“Ella, I . . .” She started; he rarely shortened others' names, not when speaking to them, and had not called her `Ella' since they were children. “I . . . I think that I have erred.” It was clearly a struggle to pronounce the words.

“You? I take it this was not a slight error, cousin?”

Darcy shook his head. “I do not make slight errors.”

From anyone else, this would be arrogance. From him, it was nothing more than the truth. Darcy's intelligence, sense, and solid judgment nearly always stood him in good stead. His friends, family, even Eleanor herself on occasion, had found him almost irritatingly reliable in all matters but those of the heart. He was scrupulous, fastidious, and very careful. His mistakes, when they occurred, were invariably momentous. He could do nothing by halves.

He had been with Bingley for the last several months. Eleanor, who had been the object of one of that gentleman's many infatuations, did not care greatly for him, but she acknowledged that he and Darcy were good for one another. Usually. Clearly it must have had something to do with him. Considering that it was Bingley, the advice would have been over another love-affair. She thought over her cousin's prolix letters.

“So Miss Bennet did care about Mr Bingley?”

He was too accustomed to her rapid trains of thought to be much surprised. “Apparently.”

Eleanor considered. “Their acquaintance was only a few weeks, and they are both young. I daresay they will recover easily enough.”

“Bingley, yes. Miss Bennet -- ” Darcy shrugged. “She was not like the others. It seems that she is still pining after him.”

Eleanor struggled to entertain the idea of anyone pining after Bingley, who had all the personality of one of Darcy's well-trained pointers, and failed. “How do you know? If you were so certain of her indifference, before, it must have been something quite remarkable to have changed your mind.”

“Yes, quite remarkable.” The faint arch of his brow, flush on his cheek, puzzled her, as did the sudden softness, almost wistfulness, of his voice. He cleared his throat. “Her sister told me.”

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet? I can't think you would have listened to any of the others. Oh!--she was at Rosings, wasn't she?”

“Yes.”

“I knew you admired her, but you said -- I was certain you said something about her -- that she did not like you, at least not once she met Mr Wickham.”

Darcy flinched. “I . . . she seemed . . . rather friendlier, in Kent.”

Eleanor frowned, turning this over in her mind. “It still seems very odd, that she should have told you of her sister's feelings.”

“She knew . . . Richard told her, of my advice to Bingley.”

“He did what?” Eleanor stared at him. The suspicion entered her mind that Darcy's admiration might have been even more serious than she had given it credit for; he was clearly pained at the reminder of Miss Elizabeth's antipathy. “What on earth possessed him?” she demanded vexedly. “Has he no delicacy whatsoever?”

“I believe -- ” Darcy coughed. “He did not mention Miss Bennet's name -- well, I never told him. He had no idea they were sisters.”

“He must have known that the lady would have at the very least been an acquaintance,” Eleanor snapped. “He had no right to talk about your private affairs.”

“He believed he was doing me a favour,” Darcy said quietly, “improving my character in her eyes. He was, I understand, speaking of my loyalty to my friends.”

Eleanor shook her head. “My brother is one of the worst gossips who ever lived.”

She was glad to see a faint smile cross her cousin's face. “I cannot argue that, although if you had met Miss Bennet's mother . . .”

Eleanor laughed. “That is not very likely, is it?”

“No, not at all likely.”

She returned to the previous subject. “Even so, I do not see why she would confide her sister's feelings in you. I imagine she would be angry at you, rather than the reverse.”

“She was quite angry.”

“Did she simply demand an explanation the next time she saw you? I suppose, were she angry enough, she might have revealed her sister's feelings without thinking.”

“In a manner of speaking, she did.”

“The manner of speaking that involves leaving out large chunks of the story?”

He laughed shortly. “Yes.”

Eleanor put her intellect to work. Darcy admired, more than admired, Miss Elizabeth Bennet; she disliked him. Richard tried to make her think better of him. Eleanor frowned. Her brother, at least, had thought it that important. His recent display notwithstanding, Richard's understanding in this sort of matter was usually not deficient. Were it merely a passing infatuation -- however little prone Darcy was to such things -- he would not have put himself to the trouble. Yet neither of them could have had serious intentions towards her -- a virtually penniless girl, daughter only to a modest country gentleman, and with connections in trade. Darcy had his family and estate to think of, Richard his expensive habits. Still, what if . . . A dread came over her.

“Fitzwilliam, please tell me you did not . . . you were not so foolish as to . . .”

He met her gaze steadily, raising one eyebrow. His composure seemed regained once more, although she could see that he was far from his usual sedate self.

“You did not ask her to be your mistress . . . did you?”

Darcy started violently. “Eleanor! What do you think I am?” His low-pitched voice rose several notches.

She sighed in relief. “I beg your pardon, cousin. You were so angry with Milton over that whole . . . debacle, I thought you might have more reason than what you said.”

“Need I more reason?” he said angrily.

“Yes. You should know, better than any of the others, that his behaviour is perfectably acceptable to the world -- even expected. It is no more uncommon than . . . gambling debts and drunkenness.”

A flush rose on his cheeks. “It is because of what I know, that I find it so reprehensible. I do not condone excessive gambling or overindulgence either, in others or myself. You saw the same that I did, Eleanor; I do not understand why you are so tolerant.”

“Perhaps because I am a woman, and less inclined to put other women on pedestals,” she offered tartly, then her voice gentled. “Fitzwilliam, I do not think you would ever become like . . . the sort of men that you loathed, but it is not as if Miss Bennet is married, a mother, someone of consequence in the world. It is not the same.”

His lips thinned. “Eleanor, I did not detest them because they took advantage of a woman who was married, or because she was an earl's daughter; I hated them because they took advantage of someone I loved. I daresay Miss Bennet's family, any lady's family, cares about her as much, or nearly as much, as I did my mother.”

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. “Milton says you are become an utter prude,” she said.

“And Milton is become an utter rake,” Darcy returned.

“Keeping a mistress and remaining faithful to her for five years does not make him a rake, Fitzwilliam.”

“If he truly loved her, he would not have dishonoured her,” Darcy insisted. “She was a respectable woman, before.”

Eleanor sighed. “Well, you seem as uncompromising as ever, cousin. I can at least be assured you did not ask Miss Bennet to be your mistress.”

“I did not,” he agreed, then paused. “I asked her to be my wife.”

---

Several responses rose to Eleanor's lips. The first was an uninspired “What?” The next was a more elegant “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Instead, she remained silent, struggling both for composure and understanding, turning matters over her mind, making connections, and hoping that she was not adding two and two and coming up with twelve. When she spoke, she startled Darcy nearly as much as he had her.

“She refused you? Has she no sense whatsoever?”

“She found my character objectionable,” he replied stiffly. Eleanor considered this. She could perfectly understand rejecting a man of vicious propensities and depraved character, whatever his material worth -- but Fitzwilliam was certainly not such a man; quite the opposite, in fact.

“Your character,” she repeated blankly. “Why, does she think men of honour, sense, and integrity are a dime a dozen? What more does she want, than what you can offer?--and you know I do not speak of your property and birth, Fitzwilliam. You are the best man I know.”

She could actually see his fingers tremble slightly, before he bent his dark head and sighed. After a moment, he said softly, “Thank you, Ella.”

His pain was nearly palpable, and she felt a rush of anger against the unknown Miss Bennet. Eleanor reached out and tentatively laid her fingers against his wrist. He did not like to be touched, but she could think of no other form of comfort, and after a moment, he uncurled his fingers, lifting his head. She looked at his pale, strained face, and knowing that, for all their intimacy, only at this moment was he vulnerable enough to speak of it, she said, “Fitzwilliam, tell me what happened.”

And he did -- slowly and reluctantly at first, then with increasing rapidity, and something like relief. For her part, Eleanor was so furious that she could hardly keep her countenance. Only the greatest of efforts kept her silent during his recitation.

“Well, Eleanor?” he said tiredly, once he had finished. “You are a woman. What do you think?”

“What do I think?” Full of indignation, she did not bother to check her tongue, or her temper. “If she is as intelligent and perceptive as you seem to think her, although I do not pretend to believe you unbiased, I have not the slightest idea why she should have believed a petty charmer such as George Wickham. At the very least she should have seen the impropriety in his confiding anything in her at all! And then, to base all her opinions of your character on that!”

“She disliked me before that,” Darcy said quietly.

“She said it was a month before she had decided on your character, did she not? And it was a month after you were first acquainted that she met Mr Wickham. I doubt, somehow, that it is coincidence.” She took a breath. “Doubtless she believed him because he flattered her and you did not. Of course, if she truly thought you so contemptible, it at least makes her behaviour somewhat more understandable -- but -- ” her anger rushed in anew -- “her reasons for thinking it are vastly insufficient, if you ask me, which you did. It is almost too degrading for words.”

“Yes,” Darcy agreed, with a twist to his mouth, “yes, that is a fairly accurate description.”

“Perhaps, if she were a woman of fashion, it might not be quite so outrageous, but a lady in Miss Bennet's position cannot afford such poor judgment. Why, Richard says she is practically penniless! With such connections and no greater claim than that of a gentleman's daughter, she will be quite fortunate to receive any offer again. A man of half your consequence would not so lower himself.”

Darcy opened his mouth, then shut it again, looking at her with an odd expression. It was somehow reminiscent of when they had found Alfred's first litter of kittens.

“I meant no offence,” she added hurriedly.

He shook his head. “I know you did not mean any, Eleanor.” Still, there was an unsettling wonder in his eyes as he looked at her, as if he were seeing her for the first time, or something in her that had eluded him before.

“I can see,” she added reluctantly, “why she was upset about Mr Bingley, if her sister did love him. I do think she would have done better to blame Mr Bingley, though. He is three-and-twenty and, if he listened to your advice, that was his own decision. I still do not understand why she encouraged you, though, if she had no intention of accepting you.”

He frowned. “I suppose, perhaps, that she may not have meant it as encouragement.”

“Why else did she suggest meeting you privately?” Eleanor demanded. Darcy shrugged. “Well,” she said decisively, “I am very sorry that you have been hurt, and I hope she suffers for it -- ” he smiled faintly at her blind loyalty -- “but I cannot say I regret it. You are far better off without the impertinent chit.”

This was too much for his composure. “Eleanor!” He took a deep breath. “Eleanor, you do not even know her.”

She calmed slightly. “That is true, but you -- you are like my brother, Fitzwilliam, and I love you dearly, and I loathe anyone who gives you pain. I hope, for your sake, that you were only infatuated -- but I do not think so.”

He said nothing, and she sighed.

“I wish you had been like other men. It might pass more easily if you had.” She walked over and kissed his cheek with sisterly affection. “You need not distress yourself over this. Any woman who would treat a respectable man in such a manner does not deserve you.”

“My behaviour was not above reproach,” he said quietly.

“Even if that explains hers, it does not excuse it. Fitzwilliam, please tell me you have listened, and that you will be yourself again.”

He paused, thinking it over; and she realised that she could not read him; his eyes, though as familiar to her as her own, were only colour, the expression utterly opaque. She felt as if, after twenty-eight years of walking together, he had taken a step, or turned a corner, to somewhere she could not follow.

Finally, he spoke, in a steady voice. “You have given me a great deal to think about, Ella. Thank you.”

---