“No,” she replied after a moment, “but I am dismissing you.”
Fitz nodded at once.
As he moved to collect his things, old Mr. Wickham entered carrying estate papers for Mr. Darcy’s attention. Miss Taylor immediately went to him, her heated words informing him on his son’s behavior that morning.
Mr. Wickham looked utterly mortified. “George!”
The older boy slid lower in his chair, grinning without the slightest remorse. Mr. Darcy grinned at his steward. “Oh, leave off him, Wickham. Boys will have their fun.”
The steward’s shoulders sank slightly, but he nodded. “Very good, sir.”
Crossing to Fitz’s desk, Mr. Wickham smiled down at the young heir. “Well now, Master Fitzwilliam,” he said kindly, “that writing’s lookin’ finer every week.”
Fitz clutched his books a little closer. “Father says my letters are crowded.”
“Aye, but they’re strong,” old Mr. Wickham replied. “Strong matters.”
Fitz looked uncertainly toward his father once more.
Mr. Darcy had slung an arm around Georgie’s shoulders as the older boy chattered animatedly about skating. The sight caused that strange ache to return faintly beneath Fitz’s ribs.
Old Mr. Wickham followed his gaze and grew quiet. Then the steward laid one roughened hand gently atop the boy’s shoulder.
“Your father’s hard on you because you’re his son,” he said carefully. “The future master of Pemberley must be excellent at all things.”
Fitz absorbed this silently.
It made sense.
Mostly.
And yet, as he followed the others from the schoolroom into the cold winter sunlight, he could not help noticing that Georgie walked beside his father laughing freely while Fitz himself still carried his slate tucked carefully beneath one arm, hoping someday to earn the smile that seemed to come so easily to someone else.
∞∞∞
October 1794—Eton
The first thing Fitzwilliam Darcy learned at Eton was that no one cared that he would be master of Pemberley someday.
The second was that boys could be cruel in ways grown men rarely permitted themselves to be.
The great stone buildings loomed cold and ancient against the gray Berkshire sky as ten-year-old Fitz stood in the crowded schoolyard wrapped in a heavy coat that did little against the damp autumn wind. Around him, boys shouted, wrestled, laughed, and argued with the careless energy of creatures entirely at home in the world.
Yet Fitz was not.
At Pemberley, he had always been Master Fitzwilliam to the servants, or Fitz to his parents and Georgie.
But at Eton, he became simplyDarcy. And Georgie was nowWickham.
The change unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
The two boys shared lessons, meals, and lodgings much as they always had, but something about Eton altered Wickham almost immediately. Away from Pemberley and the watchful eyes of old Mr. Wickham and Lady Anne, the older boy discovered the intoxicating power of making others laugh.
And Georgie was very good at it.
Unfortunately, Fitz often became the subject of the amusement.
“Careful,” Georgie announced loudly one afternoon as Darcy arranged his books upon the table. “Darcy likes everything straight enough to measure with a ruler.”
