Chapter 2 #2
“Gentlemen,” he drawled pleasantly, “if you are quite finished embarrassing yourselves, my cousin and I have business elsewhere.”
The older boys stepped back immediately, looking at one another uncomfortably. Wickham looked around in surprise, suddenly realizing that there was someone above him in the food chain. Richard smiled lazily until the crowd dispersed, Wickham trailing sullenly behind his new comrades.
Only then did Richard clap Fitz upon the shoulder. “You truly do look as though you sleep with your cravat tied properly.”
Fitz stiffened instinctively.
Then, seeing the amusement in Richard’s eyes lacked malice entirely, he found himself giving the faintest reluctant huff of laughter.
It startled both of them.
From then onward, Richard adopted him with easy inevitability.
Not smotheringly.
Never pityingly.
Simply there.
Dragging Fitz occasionally from his books for supper. Ensuring no one bothered him overmuch. Speaking lightly when Fitz grew too withdrawn. Leaving him alone when silence was clearly preferred.
Most importantly, Richard never demanded emotional explanations Fitz did not know how to give.
And so Fitz came, gradually, to trust him.
Not completely.
Never completely.
But more than anyone besides Georgiana.
Every Sunday evening, no matter how heavy his studies, Fitz wrote to her. At first the letters were absurdly simple because she was scarcely more than a toddler.
My dearest Georgiana, one began, today I observed a horse upon King’s Parade that attempted to bite a professor’s wig, which I believe you would have found exceedingly amusing.
Another contained an elaborate description of ducks near the river because Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper, had written that Georgiana liked ducks.
As she grew older, the letters grew with her.
Fitz told her stories about the great college libraries. About the chapel bells. About the snow falling across the courts in winter. Sometimes he enclosed pressed flowers or little sketches copied awkwardly from books because Georgiana once declared she wished to see Cambridge for herself someday.
Mrs. Reynolds wrote faithfully in return.
Miss Georgiana demanded the duck story be read four times.
Or:
Miss Georgiana carried your last letter about in her pocket until the paper nearly tore.
Those letters became the brightest part of Fitz’s weeks.
During holidays, George Darcy expected his son in London. There were dinners to attend. Political acquaintances to cultivate. Young gentlemen of consequence to meet.
Fitz went when duty absolutely required it.
But whenever possible, he returned instead to Pemberley.
To Georgiana.
The child adored him with a wholehearted devotion that simultaneously warmed and terrified him. At two years old, she ran through the halls shrieking “Fitz home!” loudly enough to scandalize half the servants whenever his carriage appeared.
At three, she insisted upon trailing after him through the picture gallery while clutching one finger of his hand.
At four, she climbed directly into his lap while he attempted estate reading and informed him solemnly that she intended never to marry because gentlemen were “loud.”
Fitz found himself smiling more at Pemberley than anywhere else in England.
Only there.
Only with her.
George Darcy noticed it too. “You indulge the child excessively,” he remarked one rare Christmas at Pemberley while watching Georgiana chatter happily beside her brother after dinner.
“She is a child,” Fitz answered calmly.
“She is a Darcy. You will spoil her softness into weakness.”
Fitz’s expression cooled instantly.
Georgiana, oblivious, continued explaining the tremendous importance of a ribbon she had tied around the cat earlier that day.
Mr. Darcy shook his head in irritation before returning to his port, laughing at something Wickham was telling him. Wickham had spent even more time with Mr. Darcy; with the former steward’s death, there was no reason for Wickham to go to Derbyshire at all unless Mr. Darcy was there as well.
Fitz said nothing more aloud. But later that night, as Georgiana slept curled trustingly against his shoulder after insisting upon hearing one more story before bed, Fitz stared into the firelight and understood something with sudden painful clarity:
Pemberley no longer belonged to his father.
It belonged, emotionally, to himself and Georgiana.
His father merely occupied it.
∞∞∞
1802—Greece
The Acropolis rose above Athens like the bones of a fallen god.
Fitz stood motionless beneath the great columns of the Parthenon while pale morning light spread slowly across the marble ruins. Wind swept upward from the city below, carrying the scent of dust, sea salt, and distant woodsmoke. Around him, broken stones gleamed gold-white beneath the dawn.
Beside him, George Wickham yawned.
“I swear,” Wickham declared, “you are the only man in Europe capable of finding ancient rubble more entertaining than living women.”
Fitz scarcely heard him.
One hand rested lightly against the weathered marble nearest him.
The stone still bore faint grooves left by craftsmen more than two thousand years before.
Empires had risen and collapsed since these columns were built.
Wars, kings, revolutions—all passing like storms across history while this endured.
It humbled him strangely.
“How long do you intend to stare at it?” Wickham asked.
Fitz glanced back absently. Wickham lounged against a fallen pillar with all the careless elegance that made strangers warm to him instantly.
Even travel had scarcely disordered him.
His dark hair remained fashionably styled, his coat cut perfectly despite weeks abroad, and his boots—new again—had likely cost more than an ordinary family spent in months.
Fitz knew because his father had paid for them.
Again.
“You need not remain here,” Fitz replied mildly.
“Oh, certainly not. I have already promised myself elsewhere.” Wickham grinned lazily. “There is a French widow in the city who possesses a remarkable appreciation for charming company.”
Fitz returned his attention to the temple.
Wickham laughed softly. “Good God, Fitz, one would think you were eighty instead of eighteen.”
Perhaps.
Sometimes Fitz felt ancient.
Their Grand Tour had begun nearly a year earlier after Fitz completed his studies at Cambridge with unusual speed and distinction.
George Darcy had declared that his son ought to see the world properly before assuming greater responsibilities at Pemberley, and as the Treaty of Amiens had made travel temporarily safer, Mr. Darcy sent his son off on his way.
With George Wickham, who—naturally—had attached himself to the plan immediately.
“There is no reason whatsoever for me to continue at school,” he announced cheerfully. “I have learned all the mathematics I intend ever to use.”
Mr. Darcy had laughed and financed the journey for them both.