Chapter 1 #2
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.”
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 and speaking in a cold, precise tone that sent entire groups of boys into helpless laughter.
“Excellent penmanship, gentlemen,” Georgie would declare pompously. “A gentleman’s n must 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?”
Fitz stared down at his plate.
“I only meant—”
“You meant to spend too much time brooding. Georgie is your closest friend. If he jokes, it is because he is comfortable with you.” Mr. Darcy waved one dismissive hand.
“You ought to take a page from his book and laugh a little more. You will never survive Parliament or estate management if a few schoolboy jests unsettle you.”
That night, Fitz burned with humiliation for having spoken at all.
Afterward, he stopped trying.
By eleven, he had become quiet enough at school that masters praised his seriousness while other boys called him proud. By twelve, Georgie’s taunts no longer drew visible reaction.
Outwardly, at least. Inside was another matter entirely.
And then, one day, just before term ended, Georgie crossed a line.
Rain lashed against the dormitory windows and Fitz sat upon the edge of his narrow bed carefully repairing the strap of one satchel with needle and thread.
The leather had torn earlier that week, and he preferred mending it himself rather than enduring more commentary regarding his “fussy perfectionism.”
Across the room, Georgie lounged comfortably atop another boy’s bed surrounded by half a dozen students listening eagerly to one of his stories.
“…and then the horse threw the man directly into the pond,” Georgie declared dramatically, grinning as laughter erupted around him.
Fitz kept his eyes lowered toward his stitching.
He had learned by now that Georgie was less likely to notice him if he appeared entirely occupied.
Unfortunately, Georgie noticed everything.
“Darcy,” he called suddenly, “tell them about the time you cried because your Latin exercise smudged.”
More laughter.
Fitz’s fingers tightened slightly around the needle.
“I did not cry.”
“Oh, forgive me.” Georgie pressed one hand theatrically to his chest. “You merely looked as though civilization itself had collapsed.”
The boys laughed harder.
Fitz concentrated upon threading the needle again.
One of the older students snorted. “Darcy always looks like someone insulted his ancestors.”
“That is because Darcy was born forty years old,” Georgie replied lazily.
Even now, part of Fitz still waited for the familiar grin afterward. The clap upon the shoulder. The reassurance that it was all in fun.
Instead, Georgie’s eyes remained fixed upon him with sharp amusement.
Watching. Measuring.
Fitz felt suddenly tired. “Leave it be, Wickham,” he said quietly.
The room shifted almost imperceptibly.
Several boys glanced up.
Georgie smiled slowly. “Oh? Darcy commands now?”
“I merely asked.”
“And I merely jest.” Georgie rose from the bed. “You have become sensitive lately. Cambridge scholars shall never survive Parliament if wounded by conversation.”
Fitz resumed stitching without answering. He heard Georgie crossing the room before the older boy suddenly snatched the satchel from his hands.
The leather tore further.
Fitz stood up at once. “Give it back.”
Georgie held it out of reach with infuriating ease. At thirteen, he was already broader and stronger than Fitz despite only being a year older.
“Careful,” Georgie mocked lightly to the watching boys. “Darcy may perish from distress.”
“Give it back.”
“Oh dear. He repeats himself when agitated.”
Laughter again.
Heat crept fiercely up Fitz’s neck. He hated this. Hated the watching eyes. Hated the helplessness.
Most of all, he hated that Georgie understood exactly how to provoke him while still appearing charming to everyone else.
Fitz lunged for the satchel, and Georgie jerked it backward at the last instant, still laughing.
Then, abruptly, his foot shot outward.
Fitz struck the edge of another bed hard enough to lose balance entirely before crashing shoulder-first onto the floorboards.
The room exploded with noise.
Some boys laughed.
Others winced.
Pain shot sharply through Fitz’s arm where he landed badly against the wooden frame.
For one humiliating second, he simply remained there stunned.
Above him, Georgie grinned. “Goodness, Darcy, you truly ought to learn grace someday.”
Something inside Fitz snapped.
He surged upward blindly and struck Georgie squarely across the mouth. The room went silent. Georgie staggered backward more from shock than force, one hand flying to his split lip.
Fitz stood breathing hard, every muscle trembling.
Blood appeared slowly against Georgie’s mouth.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Georgie’s expression changed.
Not amusement.
Not friendship.
Anger.
Real anger.
He drove Fitz backward into the nearest bedpost hard enough to rattle his teeth.
Several boys shouted. Someone laughed nervously.
Georgie grabbed Fitz by the front of his coat and hissed low enough only he could hear, “You do not strike me, Darcy. Not when your father wishes I were his son instead of you.”
Fitz shoved him back instinctively.
Georgie hit him again, and this time the blow landed properly. Pain burst across Fitz’s cheekbone as he stumbled sideways into the washstand, sending water crashing across the floor.
The noise finally brought a master running. “What is the meaning of this?!”
The boys scattered instantly. Georgie stepped back at once, breathing heavily but already composed.
Fitz tasted blood.
The master’s gaze swept across the room, taking in overturned furniture, spilled water, and Fitz’s bruising face. “Darcy? Wickham?”
Neither spoke.
The master’s expression darkened. “Fighting.”
An hour later, Fitz stood rigid beneath cold torchlight while the headmaster pronounced punishment. Georgie accepted his verbal rebuke with bowed head and convincing remorse.
Fitz remained silent as the headmaster turned his eyes toward him.
“Gentlemen do not brawl like common street boys. It might be expected from those of lower birth,” here the headmaster sneered at Georgie, whose face darkened at the slight, “but you are the grandson of an earl, and better is expected of you.”
The lashing came afterward. It was not brutal; not by Eton standards, at least. But enough to leave fire burning across Fitz’s back beneath his shirt while humiliation hollowed him out from the inside.
Later that night, he lay awake in darkness staring at the canopy above his bed while pain pulsed steadily with every breath. Across the room, Georgie laughed quietly with another boy as though nothing had happened.
Not one apology.
Not one word.
And suddenly Fitz understood something dreadful.
Wickham enjoyed it.
Not merely the laughter, but the power. The ability to wound while convincing everyone it was harmless sport.
Slowly, carefully, Fitz rolled onto his side despite the pain, and he began to build the wall higher still.