No one would ever make her feel abandoned.
Not while he lived.
∞∞∞
September 1799
By the time Fitz went up to university at fifteen, he had already learned how to disappear into himself.
Eton had taught him silence. Grief had taught him restraint. His father had taught him that approval came not through affection but through accomplishment, precision, and control.
So Fitz applied himself to scholarship with the same relentless discipline another young man might devote to military ambition or society.
He rose early.
He studied late.
He spoke little.
And in the span of two years, he completed the course of study that ordinarily occupied far longer. In typical tradition, he was moved ahead to the next school based on his capabilities, not his age.
Unfortunately, he did not go alone. Old Mr. Wickham fell ill two months before graduation.
Now eighteen, Wickham—which he now insisted everyone call him, as there was no Mr. Wickham older than him—had little time for education, but he had plenty of pride.
Pride which would not allow Wickham anything which he himself could not have, and so he had convinced Mr. Darcy to send him to Cambridge as well.
Mr. Darcy’s money meant more to the school than Wickham’s ability, so to Cambridge both boys went—though Wickham was in for a rude awakening, now at a school where the adults valued education over charm.
While the tutors praised the Darcy heir’s intellect, the other students called Fitz severe, though never within earshot of Richard Fitzwilliam, Darcy’s cousin and only friend.
Lord Matlock’s second son—known simply as Richard amongst the family—was three years older than Fitz and already comfortably established at Cambridge when Fitz arrived. Where Fitz was reserved, Richard was easy. Where Fitz inspired distance, Richard inspired loyalty.
And unlike Wickham, Richard’s humor never possessed cruelty beneath it, and he was able to protect his cousin from anything Wickham attempted.
It began almost immediately.
During Fitz’s second week at Cambridge, a group of older students, led by Wickham and his charm, cornered Fitz after supper in one of the courtyards, amused by the unusuallyyoung scholar who spoke with grave politeness and dressed with almost painful neatness.
“Darcy’s afraid someone may wrinkle his cuffs,” one boy remarked loudly as Fitz attempted to pass.
Another reached toward Fitz’s books. “Careful, he may challenge you to mortal combat over proper Latin declensions.”
The remarks were mild compared to Eton, but Fitz felt the old humiliation tightening in his chest all the same.
Then Richard appeared behind them.
“Gentlemen,” he drawled pleasantly, “if you are quite finished embarrassing yourselves, mycousinand I have business elsewhere.”
The older boys stepped back immediately, looking at one another uncomfortably. Wickham looked around in surprise, suddenly realizing that there was someone above him in the food chain. Richard smiled lazily until the crowd dispersed, Wickham trailing sullenly behind his new comrades.
Only then did Richard clap Fitz upon the shoulder. “You truly do look as though you sleep with your cravat tied properly.”
Fitz stiffened instinctively.
Then, seeing the amusement in Richard’s eyes lacked malice entirely, he found himself giving the faintest reluctant huff of laughter.
It startled both of them.
