January 1791—Derbyshire
The schoolroom at Pemberley overlooked the eastern lawns, where frost still silvered the grass despite the late morning hour. Beyond the windows, the Derbyshire hills rose gray-blue against the winter sky, solemn and unmoving beneath bare-limbed trees. Inside, however, a cheerful fire crackled in the grate, taking the sharpness from the air and warming the polished oak floor beneath the boys’ feet.
Six-year-old Fitzwilliam Darcy sat very straight at the long schoolroom table, his small fingers smudged faintly with ink as he carefully copied a line onto his slate.
Industry is the foundation of character.
Miss Taylor, their governess, moved quietly between the table and the windows, occasionally glancing over the shoulders of her two pupils. Fitz bent lower over his work, concentrating intensely as he attempted to keep every letter uniform in size and angle. His tongue peeked slightly from the corner of his mouth in concentration.
Beside him, George Wickham—Georgie—was making no effort whatsoever to practice penmanship.
The steward’s son had transformed his own slate into a drawing of the butler riding a pig. The pig wore spectacles.
Fitz noticed it from the corner of his eye and pressed his lips together firmly to avoid smiling.
“Georgie,” Miss Taylor said with weary patience, “unless Mr. Hill has suddenly taken employment in a traveling circus, I fail to see how this exercise relates to your copywork.”
Georgie looked up with perfect innocence. “I was improving the lesson, ma’am.”
“You were avoiding it.”
“That also.”
Miss Taylor sighed and turned away again.
Fitz rewrote the final word on his slate for the third time. Thefleaned too sharply forward. Father would notice that immediately.
The thought tightened his stomach.
He worked carefully at forming the letter again, trying to make the lines steadier. He wanted—very badly—for this one to be right.
The sound of boots in the hallway outside caused both boys to glance toward the door.
A moment later, it swung open, admitting George Darcy in a gust of cold air and the faint scent of horse and leather. He had clearly only just returned from riding. Snowmelt clung damply to his boots, and he carried his gloves tucked beneath one arm.
“Well then,” he declared in his rich, easy voice, “what scholarly accomplishments have been achieved this morning?”
Georgie abandoned all pretence of lessons instantly.
“Fitz misspelledfoundationtwice.”
“I corrected it,” Fitz replied immediately, still seated upright at the table.
“And I completed my sums first,” Georgie added.
“You guessed the answers.”
“I guessed correctly.”
George Darcy laughed as he crossed the room. It was a warm, booming sound that seemed to fill every corner of the schoolroom.
“That is often enough for successful men, Georgie.”
Fitz’s shoulders stiffened slightly at the familiar nickname.
Mr. Darcy stopped behind Fitz first and picked up the slate. Immediately, Fitz sat straighter still, scarcely breathing. His father studied the careful writing for several seconds.
The room suddenly felt unbearably warm.
