Prologue
Derbyshire, February 1795
Twelve-year-old Fitzwilliam Darcy pinched his lips together, desperately trying to hold back the severe coughing fit that threatened to overwhelm his emaciated frame.
It had been three months since a bout of influenza had laid him low, and though the fever had long since broken, the lingering effects of pneumonia still clung to him like a shadow. Each breath felt like a labor, and every laugh turned into a painful hack that left him weak and trembling.
He adjusted the blanket draped over his legs, willing his body to cooperate. Across from him, George Wickham shuffled a deck of cards with practiced ease, grinning mischievously.
“Come now, Fitz,” George said, dealing the next hand. “Surely you cannot let me win every round.”
Fitzwilliam smirked faintly, though his voice was hoarse. “You’ve only won because I have been too generous to point out your blatant cheating.”
George pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Cheating? Me? Never.”
The two boys dissolved into laughter, but the sound caught in Darcy’s throat. He leaned forward, clutching his chest as another violent paroxysm overtook him. George was on his feet in an instant, steadying him and handing him a handkerchief.
“Easy, Fitz. Do not strain yourself,” George’s tone was unusually gentle.
Darcy waved him off weakly, taking small sips until the fit subsided. “I am fine,” he rasped, though his voice was hoarse. “Just… do not make me laugh again.”
George grinned. “No promises.”
Resuming his seat, George began to deal the cards. “I might let you win this one, out of the goodness of my heart, of course. One must have pity on the less fortunate, after all.”
Before Fitzwilliam could respond, the door to Fitzwilliam’s bedroom swung open. Mr. George Darcy strode in, his presence commanding and his expression as severe as ever. His eyes darkened as his gaze fell on his son, lying in bed in the middle of the day.
“What is this?” Mr. Darcy demanded, his voice sharp. “Still in your nightclothes, even though it has been months since you fell ill? Playing cards, laughing like a fool and wheezing like an invalid? This isnothow a Darcy behaves.”
Fitzwilliam looked down, his hands tightening around the blanket. “I—”
“Spare me your excuses,” Mr. Darcy snapped, cutting him off. “You are a disgrace, Fitzwilliam. Weak and pathetic, lying here like an invalid. I had hoped the Darcy blood would prevail, but it seems your mother’s influence is stronger than I feared.”
Wickham spoke up, his usual easy charm laced with tension. “Sir, if I may—Fitz has been improving. The doctor said laughter can lift the spirits, and he’s been doing much better this week.”
“Silence,” Mr. Darcy snapped, his eyes narrowing. “I will not have you making excuses for him. He is my son and will answer for himself.”
Struggling to sit upright, though his weakened frame trembled with the effort. “Father, I—”
“Enough,” Mr. Darcy interrupted, his tone cold. “You are a disappointment, Fitzwilliam. Weak, feeble. You lie here wasting away while other boys your age grow strong and capable. I can only hope going to school next year will toughen you.”
Fitzwilliam flushed deeply, ashamed that his friend was witnessing— for the first time— Mr. Darcy’s berating of his son. In the past, he had always envied the rapport between his father and his friend, especially as George always told Fitzwilliam how he wished his own father was more like Mr. Darcy.
Wickham, his voice steady despite the tension in the air, said in a pleading voice, “Sir, Fitz has been improving. The doctor said he needs rest—”
“And you think I do not know what my son needs?” Mr. Darcy’s voice was sharp as a blade. “I know what he lacks. Strength. Discipline.” He turned back to Fitzwilliam, his expression cold. “You are your mother’s spawn, boy. I suppose it is fitting you bear her family’s name.”
The words stung, and Fitzwilliam looked away, his pale hands clutching the blanket tightly. Wickham’s fists clenched at his sides, but he said nothing. Fitzwilliam could see his friend’s bewilderment, unsure of how to respond to what to him was quite uncharacteristic behavior.
After a long, tense silence, Mr. Darcy straightened his coat and turned on his heel. “Perhaps school will succeed where I have failed. I can only hope.” With that, he left, the door closing behind him with a decisive click.
The room was quiet for a moment before Wickham let out a low whistle. “Well,” he said, his tone light but forced, “I would say he’s in a particularly foul mood today. Perhaps the valet tied his cravat too tight.”
Darcy sighed, sinking back against the pillows. “You needn’t defend me, George. It only makes things worse.” His words were punctuated by sharp coughs. When the fit finally ended, he said casually, “Besides, it is no different than what he’s said to me before. He got worse after Mother died giving birth to Georgiana.”
“I have always thought him quite amiable,” George said. “But just now… that was not just chastisement— it was cruelty.”
“He believes it builds character.”
