From then onward, Richard adopted him with easy inevitability.
Not smotheringly.
Never pityingly.
Simply there.
Dragging Fitz occasionally from his books for supper. Ensuring no one bothered him overmuch. Speaking lightly when Fitz grew too withdrawn. Leaving him alone when silence was clearly preferred.
Most importantly, Richard never demanded emotional explanations Fitz did not know how to give.
And so Fitz came, gradually, to trust him.
Not completely.
Never completely.
But more than anyone besides Georgiana.
Every Sunday evening, no matter how heavy his studies, Fitz wrote to her. At first the letters were absurdly simple because she was scarcely more than a toddler.
My dearest Georgiana, one began, today I observed a horse upon King’s Parade that attempted to bite a professor’s wig, which I believe you would have found exceedingly amusing.
Another contained an elaborate description of ducks near the river because Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper, had written that Georgiana liked ducks.
As she grew older, the letters grew with her.
Fitz told her stories about the great college libraries. About the chapel bells. About the snow falling across the courts in winter. Sometimes he enclosed pressed flowers or little sketches copied awkwardly from books because Georgiana once declared she wished to see Cambridge for herself someday.
Mrs. Reynolds wrote faithfully in return.
Miss Georgiana demanded the duck story be read four times.
Or:
Miss Georgiana carried your last letter about in her pocket until the paper nearly tore.
Those letters became the brightest part of Fitz’s weeks.
During holidays, George Darcy expected his son in London. There were dinners to attend. Political acquaintances to cultivate. Young gentlemen of consequence to meet.
Fitz went when duty absolutely required it.
But whenever possible, he returned instead to Pemberley.
To Georgiana.
The child adored him with a wholehearted devotion that simultaneously warmed and terrified him. At two years old, she ran through the halls shrieking “Fitz home!” loudly enough to scandalize half the servants whenever his carriage appeared.
At three, she insisted upon trailing after him through the picture gallery while clutching one finger of his hand.
At four, she climbed directly into his lap while he attempted estate reading and informed him solemnly that she intended never to marry because gentlemen were “loud.”
Fitz found himself smiling more at Pemberley than anywhere else in England.
Only there.
Only with her.
