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 nameis 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.
Part 2
1811
Chapter 8
Meryton, 1811
Elizabeth Bennet held the account book open with one hand and passed a sheet of parchment across her father’s desk with the other.
