Chapter 7 1794-1795 #2
He sat for a long time in the library, staring out the window while Elizabeth played with building blocks at his feet.
At four years old, she was all curls and clever eyes, humming to herself as she sorted colors with surprising precision.
She had been reading simple words for a month already and spoke in full, clear sentences that astonished every neighbor who visited.
She was not like Jane, who had always been placid and sweet. Elizabeth was alert. Eager. Hungry for the world.
Thomas drew the letter out again and reread the most important lines.
I have fallen gravely ill. The physicians offer no hope of long recovery.
I have made arrangements with my solicitor, Mr. Mortimer, to deliver a modest settlement in my name to your keeping.
It is not much, but if you invest it well, it may one day serve as a dowry for Elizabeth.
My final request is that she be given a chance—to marry well, if she wishes, or to live as freely as a lady may. Tell her, someday, that I loved her.
He folded the page again and ran a hand through his hair. It was a generous sum, for a second son—nearly a thousand pounds. It could become more, given time.
But time was precisely the difficulty.
Fanny had delivered their third child—another girl—and her mood had soured with the arrival.
She had expected a boy. Had needed one. Instead, she now cared for their children in fits and starts, alternating between weeping over her nerves and railing at God for her misfortune.
Her shrillness—which had temporarily disappeared during her pregnancy—had returned with renewed force, and the household was on edge.
Jane remained sweet and quiet, but Fanny had already begun talking of bonnets and muslin gowns for her future come-out, though she was just six years of age. Elizabeth, curious and bold, had begun asking questions far beyond her four years—questions Fanny declared were impertinent and unbecoming.
It was not a time for reason.
And then, of course, there were the books.
Word had come only a week before that the owner of Netherfield Park—some distant cousin of a marquess—had finally been forced to retrench.
He would be returning to London permanently, and his agent had approached Thomas with a quiet offer: the gentleman’s private library, over 400 volumes, including several rare folios, early editions, and annotated works of natural philosophy.
Thomas had envied that collection for years.
He had never before had the opportunity, nor the excuse, to buy more than a single volume or two at a time. But now…
He pulled Frederick’s letter from his coat once more and stared down at the sum.
It was a gift. A trust. But it was also available.
What need had a girl of four years old for such money now? And was it not better to keep her father’s books among kin—preserved, valued—rather than squander that money on an uncertain future?
Besides, Fanny would bear him a son…. eventually. She must.
He rose from the chair and tucked the letter into his ledger. “We shall call it an investment,” he murmured. “Something she may still inherit, in some form.”
Elizabeth looked up at him with wide eyes. “Papa?”
He smiled at her and lifted her into his arms. “How would you like a new book tonight?”
Her grin was immediate, brilliant. “Yes, please!”
He laughed and kissed her curls. “Very well. You shall have two.”
But later that evening, when she sat upon his lap and pointed out simple words with her tiny fingers—so bright, so quick—he felt the faintest flicker of unease.
He pushed it aside.
After all, there would be a son. And no one need know that Elizabeth was not his.
∞∞∞
Two weeks later…
Ten-year-old Fitzwilliam Darcy stood stiffly beside his tutor, his spine ramrod-straight and his hands clasped behind his back in a posture that had been drilled into him not by Nurse, but by his own iron will.
The gravel drive stretched before them in gleaming lines, swept only an hour before. The afternoon sun threw long shadows from the front columns of Pemberley House, and the horses stamped restlessly in the distant stable yard, as though they, too, were awaiting the carriage.
The shoes pinched his toes. They were a shade too small—grown tight over the winter—but he had not said so when dressing. Father would expect his son to look neat for the occasion. He had not mentioned it when last in town, and now it was too late.
He did not wince. He would not.
Beside him, Mr. Hargrave cleared his throat in a low, dry way that signaled he meant to speak but would do so without turning his head. “You are not required to salute the carriage, Master Darcy. This is not a parade.”
Fitzwilliam did not glance up. “No, sir.”
“You may relax your shoulders.”
“I prefer not to.”
There was a pause. Then: “Very well.”
The boy continued to watch the drive, silent, with an expression that looked rather too much like his father’s.
It had been nearly two years since his mother’s death. Sarah Wickham Darcy—dark-haired and laughing, with a way of making Fitzwilliam feel seen even when she was only adjusting his collar—had died in a fall on the hunting course near the edge of the estate. Her mare had returned without her.
George Darcy had not spoken for two full days.
Fitzwilliam remembered the way his father had sat in the chair by the fire afterward, unmoving. The servants had tiptoed. The house had hushed itself. And Fitzwilliam—serious already, quieter than other boys—had fallen into a silence that pleased no one, but which none dared correct.
The only voice that reached him during those months had been his cousin, George Wickham.
George was the only child of Sarah Darcy’s brother, John Wickham, Pemberley’s steward.
His education had been paid for by Fitzwilliam’s grandfather, and John was more than happy to work for his sister’s new family upon completing his schooling.
The son of a footman and a disowned earl’s daughter could have drifted into obscurity, neither fish nor fowl in the eyes of most of society, but Pemberley offered stability and dignity.
The estate valued service over pedigree, and George Darcy—following his father’s example—had promoted John not merely for family connection, but for years of proven loyalty and skill.
Young George—or Georgie as he was often called to avoid confusion—had grown up alongside Fitzwilliam, making him more of a brother than a cousin.
Fitzwilliam had never once questioned the bond the two shared.
Georgie had been beside him at the nursery table, in the schoolroom, on every pony ride through the fields.
A few months older and infinitely more mischievous, George possessed charm like other boys had freckles, and he used it liberally to get both of them out of trouble.
But George was not here today. This moment—the arrival of Fitzwilliam’s father with his new wife—was not a cousin’s affair.
The sound of carriage wheels cracked like thunder against the silence of his thoughts.
The great gates had opened. A smart black traveling carriage, trimmed in brass and pulled by four grays, made its way up the lane with deliberate grace. At its window, a gloved hand lifted in greeting.
“Here she comes,” Mr. Hargrave murmured.
Fitzwilliam did not move.
The carriage rolled to a stop. A footman leaped down and opened the door.
His father emerged first—George Darcy, tall and straight and impeccably dressed, though with a touch more silver at the temples than last year. He nodded once at his son but did not smile.
Then she appeared.
Lady Anne Fitzwilliam Darcy stepped down with grace, her gloved hand resting lightly on her husband’s arm.
She look young, no more than eighteen years of age.
Her pale traveling gown was simple but elegant, and she donned a straw bonnet tied in green silk on top of dark brown tresses.
Her posture was excellent, her step steady, her expression composed—but there was something warm in her eyes.
Something that reminded Fitzwilliam—strangely—of his mother.
She turned to him at once. “And this must be Fitzwilliam,” she said, crossing the final steps herself.
Fitzwilliam bowed precisely. “Ma’am.”
Mr. Darcy’s brow twitched with faint approval.
Lady Anne studied him for a moment—his perfectly knotted cravat, the too-small shoes, the rigid shoulders. Then she smiled—not grandly, but kindly.
“I have heard so much about you. Did you know that your first name was my last name before I married your father?”
He shook his head silently, saying nothing.
“I know this is a great change,” she continued, crouching ever so slightly to meet his eye. “I am not here to replace anyone. And I would never ask you to pretend to feel what you do not. But I do hope we might one day be… friends.”
Fitzwilliam’s jaw flexed. He gave another small bow.
Lady Anne rose, her gaze still gentle. “I have a sister, you know,” she said lightly, as though it were a secret. “Her name is Catherine. She has a stepdaughter—a very sweet girl, but terribly shy. It is not always easy, becoming a family in a new way. But kindness matters. And time.”
“Time does not change everything,” he said suddenly, the words escaping before he could stop them.
From the corner of his eye, he saw his father frown. But Lady Anne’s expression did not change. “No,” she said kindly, “but sometimes it helps make the difficult things feel more bearable.”
He did not answer, but he did not look away.
His father cleared his throat. “Fitzwilliam, Lady Anne has traveled far. Perhaps you might escort her inside.”
Fitzwilliam stepped forward automatically, offering his small arm with as much dignity as he could muster. She accepted it without hesitation, and together they ascended the steps.
As they passed into the house, Lady Anne leaned closer.
“Do you read poetry?” she asked softly. “I brought a volume of Cowper with me. I thought you might like it.”
Something flickered behind Fitzwilliam’s eyes.
“Perhaps.”
She smiled kindly at him, and the smallest part of the hole in his chest began to fill with warmth.