“You are crowding your letters again,” Mr. Darcy said at last, tapping the lower line with one gloved finger. “See there? A gentleman’s hand ought to appear confident, not cramped.”
Fitz swallowed. “Yes, Father.”
“Thisnis poorly formed as well.”
“Yes, Father.”
Mr. Darcy set the slate back down.
Nothing more.
No “well done.” No smile. No indication that Fitz had improved at all since the previous month.
Only faults.
Always faults.
Fitz lowered his eyes quickly before anyone could see the disappointment there.
At that exact moment, Miss Taylor crossed toward the cabinet beside the fireplace and opened one of the lower desk drawers in search of the French copybooks.
Something green exploded outward.
Miss Taylor shrieked.
A frog landed directly against the front of her gown before leaping wildly across the carpet.
George Wickham collapsed backward in his chair howling with laughter.
Even Fitz startled so violently that he nearly knocked over his ink bottle.
“Georgie Wickham!” Miss Taylor cried, one hand pressed dramatically to her chest while the frog disappeared beneath the sofa.
Fitz stared in horror.
Ifhehad done such a thing—
But instead of anger, Mr. Darcy burst into roaring laughter.
“You wicked little imp!”
Even Miss Taylor looked startled by the reaction.
Georgie could barely breathe for laughing. “It—it was for the French lesson!”
“For the—good God, man, why?”
“Because frogs are French creatures.”
This only caused George Darcy to laugh harder.
Miss Taylor looked deeply affronted. “Sir, I assure you, there is nothing whatsoever humorous about reptiles being hidden in schoolroom furniture!”
“Amphibians, Miss Taylor,” George Wickham corrected helpfully.
George Darcy finally wiped at his eyes. “Well,” he declared, still laughing, “at least the boy possesses imagination.”
Standing beside the table, Fitz felt that familiar confusion settling heavily inside him. He did not understand the rules.
