Several boys snickered.
Fitz felt heat crawl up his neck but continued aligning the books silently.
“It’s true,” Georgie continued cheerfully. “If one page folds crooked, he looks as though someone murdered the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
More laughter.
Fitz forced himself not to react.
At first, he told himself it was harmless.
Only teasing.
Georgie always grinned afterward and clapped him upon the shoulder as though they shared the joke equally.
“You know I mean nothing by it,Fitz,” he would say easily.
And perhaps he did not.
But the remarks grew sharper over time.
Darcy spoke too properly.
Darcy studied too hard.
Darcy walked too stiffly.
Darcy behaved like an old grandfather instead of a boy.
Worst of all were the moments when Georgie imitated him before the other students—squaring his shoulders rigidly andspeaking in a cold, precise tone that sent entire groups of boys into helpless laughter.
“Excellent penmanship, gentlemen,” Georgie would declare pompously. “A gentleman’snmust never lean improperly.”
The first time it happened, Fitz could scarcely breathe from humiliation. The phrase had come directly from his father; he had not realized Georgie remembered it.
Afterward, Fitz sat awake long after the dormitory quieted, staring into darkness while shame burned hotly beneath his ribs.
The next morning, Georgie behaved as though nothing had happened.
And Fitz, desperate not to appear childish, pretended the same.
In October, however, he finally wrote to his mother. Not a complaint, precisely—he would never complain—but he wrote that school was difficult sometimes, and that Wickham often made sport of him before the others. He admitted, in smaller handwriting near the bottom of the page, that he did not seem to understand how boys knew when teasing ceased to be friendly.
Lady Anne’s reply arrived two weeks later.
Her letter smelled faintly of lavender.
My dearest Fitzwilliam,she wrote, there are some people in this world who discover the tender places in others and press upon them merely because they can. You must not give such people the satisfaction of seeing they have wounded you.
The world is kinder to men who appear strong.
Build your walls high, my darling, and stand proudly behind them.
He read the letter so many times the folds began to wear thin.
During the Christmas holidays, he tried once—only once—to speak of it to his father.
George Darcy listened impatiently for perhaps half a minute before snorting into his wine. “Good God, Fitzwilliam, boys tease one another. Must you be so sensitive?”
