Whenhemade mistakes, Father corrected them.
But when Georgie made mistakes on purpose, Father laughed.
The contradiction troubled him in ways he could not explain, even to himself. As though there existed some secret knowledge everyone else understood instinctively while he alone did not.
The door opened quietly once more.
Lady Anne Darcy entered with her embroidery basket resting upon one arm. Unlike her husband, she never swept into roomsdemanding attention. Her presence seemed instead to soften spaces merely by entering them.
She crossed first to her son, brushing gentle fingers over his hair as she looked down at the slate.
“Oh, Fitzwilliam,” she said softly, “your hand has improved greatly.”
Fitz looked up quickly.
“Truly?”
“Very much so. These lines are far steadier than the ones you showed me before Christmas.”
Warmth bloomed painfully inside his chest.
Not because the praise was extravagant—it was not—but because she had noticed.
She had remembered.
Across the room, Georgie had somehow begun persuading Mr. Darcy that lessons ought to end early because the stream beyond the western meadow had frozen hard enough for sliding.
“You promised yesterday!” Georgie protested.
“I promised I would consider it.”
“That means yes.”
“It most certainly does not.”
“It does when you say it.”
Mr. Darcy laughed again.
Miss Taylor attempted resistance. “The boys have not yet completed their French verbs.”
“They shall survive the deficiency,” Mr. Darcy declared.
Georgie Wickham whooped in victory.
Fitz remained still beside the table, uncertain whether he ought to begin gathering his books without direct instruction.
Lady Anne’s eyes softened as she noticed his hesitation.
“You may go, darling.”
Fitz glanced instinctively toward his father.
Mr. Darcy was still occupied listening to Georgie enthusiastically describe some impossible leap over a drainage ditch.
“He did not dismiss me,” Fitz said quietly.
Something flickered across Lady Anne’s face then—something so brief he could not understand it.
