He turned toward the nearest knot of young ladies, clearly scanning for someone not already engaged in conversation. George’s father leaned toward him and murmured, “Try to enjoy this. I promise it is not as painful as you remember.”
George gave him a sideways glance. “I was seventeen the last time I came to one of these, right before I went to school. It was painful then, and that was before I was eligible on the marriage market.”
“Yes, but now you have the maturity and experience that comes with age. Look, the master of ceremonies is bringing over the daughter of Lady Amelia. She is a pretty little thing.—”
“I can already tell you she is not handsome enough to tempt me,” George said without looking, more out of nerves than cruelty.
His father froze, then gave George the most severe look he had ever seen.
“So, you have been to Rome, seen the ruins of Athens, gazed upon the cathedrals of France, and returned home to be an arrogant fool? This is what my money has paid for?”
George hung his head, then looked over at the master of ceremonies and the girl at his side. The girl said something with a smile on her lips, then began walking in the opposite direction of the Darcys.
“I daresay she heard you,” the elder Mr. Darcy said. “That was very badly done, George. Badly done, indeed. I am ashamed of you.”
His cheeks burned as he watched the girl begin speaking with Lady Amelia, to whom he had be introduced the week prior. She whispered something in her mother’s ear, and the two women burst out laughing.
Ears burning, George fled to the corner of the room, where he remained for the rest of the evening, his eyes on the girl he had insulted.
It was torture.
She laughed often, but not loudly. She danced frequently, but not extravagantly. Her gown was several seasons out of date and mended at the hem, but she wore it without apology.
He did not learn her name until the following day. His father had wordlessly handed him a ledger—not one for wheat or barley, but of people.
The quiet, charitable backbone of the estate.
And there, written in his father’s precise hand, was the name:
Lady Amelia Wickham (née Fitzwilliam)
Widow (b. 1730); two children—Sarah (b. 1761), John (b. 1765)
Residence established Lambton, April 1765. Patronage includes housing, education, and dowry. Reason: Family estrangement. Noble descent (maternal). Catholic.
George stared at the page.
Fitzwilliam?
That Fitzwilliam?
He found his father in the smaller sitting room that evening.
“You support her,” he said without preamble.
His father glanced up from his paper. “I do.”
George frowned. “Why? She is a Fitzwilliam.”
His father set the paper down and folded his hands over his knee.
“Precisely.”
George blinked.
“She made a foolish choice,” his father continued. “So did many women before her. She was cast off for it. Forgotten by her family, her society. Left to starve. I heard about it from an old friend in London and made some inquiries. She was proud. She refused help at first. She asked what was expected of her. I told her, ‘raise your children in faith. Teach them. Let them live in peace.’”
He looked at his son steadily.
