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 despiteweeks 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.
