573Author's note: I am updating these first few chapters to show a little more history and make things flow a bit better in the timeline. These were originally going to be flashbacks, but I think they make more sense at the beginning.
Prologue
Derbyshire, 1798
Fifteen-year-old Fitzwilliam Darcy stared down at his plate, wishing he could disappear into his chair at the dining room table. The silverware gleamed in the candlelight, a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere that hung over the meal. His mother's voice, sharp and cutting, sliced through the air as she aimed her criticism at his father.
"Mr. Darcy, I simply do not understand why you insist on keeping me here in the countryside," Lady Anne Darcy said, her tone laced with disdain. "All my friends are in London, enjoying the season, while I am confined in this dreary place. You promised me more trips to the city, yet here I remain."
Mr. Darcy, sitting at the head of the table, looked weary. "Mrs. Darcy, we have responsibilities here. Pemberley needs our attention, and with Fitzwilliam home on holiday, I thought it would be pleasant for us to be together as a family."
"Responsibilities," she scoffed. "You always have some excuse. And what of my needs? You know I require a new wardrobe, yet you begrudge me the pin money to even purchase new gloves. It's humiliating."
Fitzwilliam's grip on his fork tightened as he listened to his mother berate his father yet again. He had hoped for a peaceful dinner, a rare moment of family harmony, but it was clear that was not to be.
Why must they always argue? Why can't Mother just leave him alone? Nothing he does is good enough. Why is she never happy?
"I've given you more than enough for your needs, Mrs. Darcy," Mr. Darcy replied, trying to keep his voice calm. "You have the finest gowns and the best of everything."
Lady Anne's eyes narrowed. "The best of everything? Hardly. The Harringtons have been to both Brighton and Bath this year, in addition to London for the Season, while I haven't even seen Bond Street in months. How am I supposed to maintain my reputation if you refuse to indulge me in the slightest?"
Who cares about your stupid reputation, Mother? It's all a lie.
Mr. Darcy sighed, a deep and resigned sound. "We will go to London soon, I promise. But please, let us enjoy our time here, together."
"Enjoy? How can I enjoy anything when you continually deny me the simplest pleasures?" she snapped, her voice rising. "You are impossible, Mr. Darcy. Absolutely impossible."
Fitzwilliam wished he could fade into the background, escape the tension that crackled around him. He focused on the food before him, taking a small bite and chewing slowly, hoping the act would somehow insulate him from the conflict.
Just stop. Please, just stop.
"And what of Fitzwilliam?" Lady Anne continued, her attention shifting to her son. "What kind of example are you setting for him? That neglect and miserliness are acceptable?"
"Mother, please," Fitzwilliam said softly, daring to speak up. "Father is only trying to do what is best for us."
Lady Anne's gaze turned icy as she looked at him. "Do not speak to me of what is best, Fitzwilliam. You are still a boy, and you have much to learn about the world. Your father could stand to learn a few lessons himself."
Mr. Darcy's face hardened, but he remained silent, his jaw clenched as he weathered the storm of his wife's discontent. Fitzwilliam felt a pang of sympathy for his father, trapped in a marriage that seemed to bring him little joy.
"Very well," Lady Anne said, standing up abruptly. "If you will not take me to London, I shall retire for the evening. This conversation is pointless."
She swept out of the room, leaving a heavy silence in her wake. Fitzwilliam looked up at his father, who met his gaze with a tired but kind smile.
"Do not let your mother upset you, Fitzwilliam," Mr. Darcy said gently. "She means well, even if she does not always show it."
Fitzwilliam nodded, though he was not entirely convinced. As the butler cleared the plates, he asked to be excused. Once free, he went to the nursery where he could say goodnight to his three-year-old sister, Georgiana.
How did Mother turn out the way she did? he asked himself in bewilderment.
As he walked up the stairs, he couldn't help but feel a profound sense of sadness for his father, and a growing determination to be a better man when his time came.
Two days later, Fitzwilliam stood at the edge of the drawing room, watching as the guests filtered in for the evening's dinner. The house was filled with the sounds of polite conversation and laughter, a stark contrast to the usual tension that plagued his family's private meals. Tonight, Pemberley hosted several distinguished neighbors from the surrounding counties, and Lady Anne was in her element.
She greeted each guest with a warm smile, her eyes twinkling as she exchanged pleasantries. "Mrs. Clarke, how wonderful to see you! That gown is simply exquisite. And Mr. Clarke, I do hope you've been enjoying the season's hunts?"
Mr. Clarke smirked and gave the woman a lingering kiss on the hand. "Indeed, Lady Anne. Your hospitality is always the highlight of our visits."
She laughed lightly, a melodic sound that seemed to enchant everyone around her. "You are too kind. Please, make yourselves at home."
Fitzwilliam observed his mother with a mixture of admiration and confusion. The woman who now charmed their guests was so different from the one he saw behind closed doors. She moved gracefully through the room, her words perfectly chosen to flatter and engage, her demeanor the epitome of grace and kindness.
She's such a fraud. How can she be so warm here, yet so cold in private?
As the butler announced dinner, Lady Anne took her place at the head of the table, with Mr. Darcy at the other end. Fitzwilliam was seated quietly beside his mother, included but not expected to participate. His role was to observe, to learn the ways of polite society, and to remain unobtrusive.
"Lady Anne," began Mrs. Willoughby, one of their neighbors, "you always manage to host the most delightful gatherings. Your taste is impeccable."
"Thank you, Mrs. Willoughby," Lady Anne replied with a smile. "It is always a pleasure to have such distinguished company. I do believe that creating a warm and inviting atmosphere is essential for fostering good relations."
Mr. Darcy nodded in agreement, though his eyes briefly met Fitzwilliam's, sharing a silent understanding. Fitzwilliam knew his father appreciated the peace tonight, even if it was all a lie.
As the meal progressed, Lady Anne continued to charm their guests, deftly steering conversations and ensuring everyone felt included. She laughed coquettishly at Mr. Clarke's anecdotes, complimented Mrs. Clarke's needlework, and even managed to gently tease Mr. Willoughby about his gardening skills, all while maintaining an air of genuine interest and warmth.
Fitzwilliam listened intently, absorbing the nuances of the social dance his mother performed so effortlessly. He noticed how she subtly redirected any potentially controversial topics, how she lavished praise on the right people at the right moments, and how she maintained an air of sophistication that seemed to elevate the entire evening.
How are these people all fooled? Can't they see the ice in her eyes, the lie in her laughter? She's like a marble statue - cold and frozen. Nothing that comes from her mouth is true.
His lips tightened at the hypocrisy of her actions. He knew from past experience that the man with whom Lady Anne bantered the most would most likely end up ensconced in a closet with her before the evening was out.
It's disgusting.
Something of his feelings must have shown on his face, for when dessert was served, Lady Anne turned her attention briefly to her son. "Fitzwilliam, darling, how are your studies progressing at Eton? You must share your latest achievements with our guests."
Caught off guard, Fitzwilliam hesitated. "They are going well, Mother. I am preparing for Cambridge and find my studies quite challenging but rewarding."
"Excellent," she said, beaming with pride. "You know, Mr. Clarke, Fitzwilliam has always been a diligent student. We have high hopes for his future."
"Indeed, Lady Anne," Mr. Clarke responded. "With such a fine mother, I have no doubt young Fitzwilliam will excel in all his endeavors."
When the ladies rose to leave the men to their port and cigars, Fitzwilliam was excused and sent to his chambers. He braced himself for the battle his parents would wage once his mother's liaison was inevitably discovered. He longed for the quiet of school.
Lord, let this summer pass quickly.
Fitzwilliam stood by the grand entrance of Pemberley, his trunk and traveling bags already loaded onto the carriage. His expression was stoic, masking the whirlwind of emotions inside him. The summer was finally over.
He was leaving for school, and for the first time, George Wickham, two years his junior, would accompany him. Wickham, with his usual charm, was busy ingratiating himself with Fitzwilliam's father.
"Mr. Darcy, thank you so much for this opportunity," Wickham said, his voice dripping with gratitude. "I promise to make the most of it and make you proud."
Mr. Darcy smiled warmly at Wickham, resting a hand on his shoulder. "I have no doubt you will, George. You have always shown great potential, and I am confident you will thrive at school."
Fitzwilliam's heart tightened at the sight. His father had never looked at him with such affection. The easy camaraderie between them was a stark reminder of the distance in his own relationship with his father.
"How could I not, with you as my patron?"
His mind suddenly flooded with memories of his mother at every social engagement he had witnessed. Lady Anne Darcy was always the picture of grace and charm, effortlessly enchanting their guests. Now, his father was similarly captivated by Wickham's sycophantic behavior.
George speaks to Father just as Mother speaks to her… friends.
The parallel was unsettling, and Fitzwilliam couldn't help but feel a deep sense of isolation within his own family.
"Fitzwilliam," Mr. Darcy said, turning to him, "take care of George. Help him settle in and show him around. Introduce him to people and keep him from getting lost."
"Yes, Father," Fitzwilliam replied, his voice even. He glanced at Wickham, who was beaming with a smug satisfaction.
As they climbed into the carriage, Wickham turned to give Mr. Darcy one last wave. "Goodbye, sir! I'll write as soon as we arrive."
"Safe travels, both of you," Mr. Darcy replied, his gaze lingering on Wickham before he stepped back.
As the carriage door closed with a heavy thud, Fitzwilliam noticed the smirk that flickered across Wickham's face the moment Mr. Darcy turned away. The transformation was instantaneous, from the affable charmer to something more cunning and calculated. Fitzwilliam's unease grew.
The horses began to move with a jolt, and the two boys settled into their seats. Fitzwilliam turned his attention to the window, staring out at the scene, lost in thought. Wickham's next words interrupted his thoughts.
"Well, Fitz," Wickham said as his demeanor shifted again, his tone now more casual and conspiratorial., "it seems your father has quite a fondness for me."
Fitzwilliam clenched his jaw, choosing to remain silent. Wickham's smirk widened at his lack of response.
"You know," Wickham continued, leaning closer, "school could be quite diverting, if you'd allow it to be. There's so much to explore and so many rules to bend. With your position and my charm, we'd be unstoppable."
Fitzwilliam turned to face him, his expression impassive. "I am at school to study, George. Not to break rules."
Wickham leaned in closer, his voice low. "Come on, don't be such a bore. We're young, and we should enjoy ourselves. I hear there's a tavern nearby where the older boys go. We could sneak out one night, have a bit of an adventure."
"I have no interest in breaking the rules," Fitzwilliam replied coldly, the effect ruined by the crack in his voice at the last word. He turned away to look out the window, putting distance between himself and Wickham's foul breath. "If you wish to indulge in such activities, you will do so without me."
Wickham rolled his eyes, his tone turning mockingly earnest. "Oh, come now, Fitz. What a prude you are! A little mischief never hurt anyone. Besides, it's all in good fun."
Fitzwilliam's mind flashed back to the night before, to his mother's charm and manipulation, and how similar Wickham's behavior felt now. "I have no interest in mischief," he said firmly. "And I suggest you focus on your studies as well."
Wickham's smirk faded slightly, replaced with a calculating look. "You're not entertaining at all, are you? Well, we'll see how long that lasts. School can be a lonely place without friends, you know."
Fitzwilliam ignored him, turning his gaze back to the window. The landscape rolled by, the familiar sight of Pemberley slowly fading into the distance. He felt a pang of longing for the place, despite the complexities of his family life.
As the journey continued, Wickham's attempts at conversation grew increasingly irritating. Fitzwilliam answered in monosyllables, determined not to let Wickham's charm sway him. He could see through the veneer of friendliness to the manipulative intent beneath.
When they finally arrived at the school, Fitzwilliam stepped out of the carriage with a sense of relief. He looked around at the familiar surroundings, taking a deep breath. This was his sanctuary, a place where he could focus on his studies and ambitions, away from the tensions of home.
Wickham, however, seemed undeterred by the cool reception. He bounded out of the carriage with enthusiasm, already charming the other boys and staff. Fitzwilliam watched him with a mixture of wariness and determination. He would not let Wickham manipulate him as he had tried to in the carriage. School was a place for learning and growth, and Fitzwilliam intended to make the most of it, regardless of the challenges ahead.