Author's Note 06/25/2019: This chapter is being posted primarily so I can tell you all that this will be the last chapter I post of this story on FFN. Sorry, but not really. Too much of the feedback consists of major mojo-killing requests or pressure to get me to write a story other than the one I'm writing. To those readers: Sorry, no can do. You'd have to pay me more than the gazillions of dollars an hour I get in my day job (OK, not gazillions, but a healthy professional salary with indexed pension and lots of room for advancement if I want to make the effort) for me to spend my time churning out fanon cliche for popular consumption. And even then, I wouldn't do it.

More to the point, a bunch of you are not going to be happy about where this story goes. Yes, the flashbacks will continue - they make up about 25% of the story and are integral to plot and character development. No, I will not be re-virginating Darcy. In 3 or 4 more chapters after this one, the flashback involves Darcy's and Wickham's Cambridge years, and if you think the historical experience of young rich men at Cambridge in the early 19th Century was all fanon cuteness, you will be sadly disappointed.

So a bunch of you won't be happy, and instead of offering story-relevant concrit, or simply saying sayonara, you're either going to make me the emotional dumping ground for your fanon-triggered angst or try to manipulate me into writing something I have zero interest in. Which might be OK if I had the mental energy to mimic Teflon, but I don't at the moment. Also, I've never had the time or energy to deal with more than one fanfic forum at a time. Since FFN requires me to choose between suffering in silence or going on time-consuming rants like this one, I've decided my preferred forum will be AO3 (Archive of Our Own - I can't post links, just search it, you won't regret it because the shit that gets posted there is way cool), where this story will continue. For you fantastic readers who are actually interested in the story I'm writing, I'd be honoured if you hit me up there. I post under "LucyQ" and the story has the same name. (The story at AO3 is on Chapter 18 and I'm going to post Ch. 19 soon.)

Final note for reader Jansfamily4 who asked a very good question (thank you!): "Shouldn't his father be called Darcy and younger Darcy be called Fitzwilliam or Will or some form of Fitzwilliam?"

My answer: To servants and outsiders, the father would be Mr. Darcy and young FD would be Master Darcy (being the oldest and only male child; otherwise he would be Master Firstname). To insiders such as family members, he would be called whatever they feel like calling him, nicknames being very popular in that era, especially among the Whig aristocracy. In this case, his parents call him "Fitzwilliam" or "Son" and his sister calls him "Fitzy" to the extent she can get her baby mouth to pronounce it. George Wickham calls him "Darcy" because Mr. Wickham Sr. wanted young George to observe the proprieties and call him "Master Darcy," but neither of the boys wanted that level of formality in their friendship so they dropped the "Master" part. Also "Darcy" would be what he would be referred to by his (non-insider) peers and at school, where young men were typically referred to by last name only. George's choice signals his eagerness to enter the older world. The fact that Darcy prefers to continue to call his friend the insider name of "George" rather than "Wickham" after they enter Eton is intended as a sign of his attachment to their childhood.

06/25/19

Response to commenter "Irina": Thank you for your thoughtful comment. I want to clarify I am not averse to critical comments and I hope people will continue to question and challenge me at AO3. There, I get to respond and flesh out my thinking. Here, I just have to take it, which is frustrating and making me reluctant to continue posting. So really, I'm just trying to protect my appetite for continuing to post the story. Otherwise, I agree with you completely. The second we can no longer tolerate controversy is the second all creativity dies.

Response to JRTT: You're baaaaaack! I missed you. Yes, I am trying to "rile" up people (ie defy the historically inaccurate fanon cliches), but it's really too much work to see to the care and feeding of two forums and I now have a clear favourite so I'm going to focus on that one. Besides, you know I hate the FFN format. Posting at FFN was never more than a way to try to capture all of the audience that I thought might be interested in reading this tale. As for cricket, we're going to have to tussle. You're probably right about the "ball flat on the ground" thing (I bow to your expertise, of course), but anything but underarm bowling was considered not strictly on the up-and-up until at least the 1810s, 1820s. Right? Right?

Response to Vero Diaz: A type? Lol. Yes, he has a weakness for girls who are really smart, pretty and original.

Response to "guest": I didn't expect anything. I was just curious as to what I would find in terms of a reaction from the fandom and from myself.

Response to Alix33: Thank you, and I have appreciated all of your (yes, definitely constructive) comments.

Response to debu: Fair enough. I'm not asking anybody to do anything they don't want to do and I would prefer to spend less time on people who demand I be something I'm not, so a parting of ways sounds mutually beneficial.

Response to Dw.618, liysyl, LoveInTheBattlefield, MarionM62, Geodoena, Natush, ThinkAboutItBabe, MrsSP9 and Jansfamily4: Thanks so much for understanding! I hope you enjoy the rest of the story (if you choose to follow it) at AO3.

Response to Ms Pimprenelle and MerytonMiss: Yes to the frustration of not being able to respond! I like AO3 because I think it's the fairest in not shutting down readers or authors, but enabling them both to speak on an equal basis. Also, it gives ultimate control to authors, who can limit their stories to members if they want and have 100% control on whether their story goes up or down. With third-party websites you are dependent on the owner of the site and that has been problematic for authors when the owner disappears, the site goes defunct or there are conflicts with the owner. Also, AO3 has a volunteer legal team to help authors defend their copyright, so the protection it offers is not illusory. And it has a cool, freewheeling, tolerant & diverse, exploratory-but-still-very-intellectual vibe. Short of illegality, I don't think there are limits on what you can post. OK, enough pumping up AO3 on a rival site, I will probably be booted.

To anyone having difficulty finding the story in AO3: You can find me on a Google Search of "LucyQ," "A Literary Courtship," and "Archive Of our Own." Make sure you don't search for "LucyQT" because my name is different there. YES, you can read, comment, leave kudos and subscribe to a story at AO3 without being registered as a member. However, membership will allow you to post stories, create bookmarks and read hidden stories that authors have chosen to limit to members only. There is a wait for membership (a few weeks in my case) but it's worth it, IMO. And once you're in, you're in!

Chapter 17 - Amelia

Good deeds ill placed, which we on most men heap,
Are seeds of that ingratitude we reap;
For he that is so sweet, that none denies,
Is made of honey for the nimble flies.

- John Donne, "On Friendship"

After Lady Anne died, the world changed.

Darcy's father went into deep mourning and Darcy scarcely saw him. At the funeral procession, he glanced at his son, then looked away, and all of Darcy's attempts to catch his eye were for naught.

It was like the time after his little brother had died, Darcy told himself, when his mother had retreated into herself and had scarcely seemed to acknowledge or recognize him. But then, he had had his father to share the burden of loss. Now even his father was gone.

He remembered the old lesson. You must be patient, son. So Darcy was patient. He knew he might have to wait a long time for his father to reappear and his own pain to become bearable. But he also knew that he was older now, almost thirteen years old, and capable of far more patience than he had at eight.

There was not much else to do but be patient, for Mr. Darcy was seldom at home and Mr. Wickham was more busy than ever managing the estate in his absence. And where did his father go? Darcy was not even sure. He heard mention of Town, Bath, Weymouth. At last, after one more brief visit that Mr. Darcy mainly spent confined to his own quarters, his father left for Naples, where he had spent some of the early years of his marriage and where Darcy still had childhood memories of heat and sunshine and the heady scent of jasmine and lemon blossom.

Loss followed upon loss. Three months after his mother's death and his father's departure, his valet Jeffrey announced he would marry his long-time sweetheart. Darcy knew it had long been his hope, for which Jeffrey and his betrothed were saving assiduously. But he had not expected it to happen so soon; his mother's plan had been for Darcy to remain at home for one more year before being sent to school and Jeffrey was to attend him until that time. Mr. Wickham informed Darcy that his father had determined to advance the plan. Almost before Darcy knew it, Jeffrey was pensioned off, married and moved to Leicestershire, and the servants began packing Darcy and George for Eton.

The first Eton half was a blur of misery. There were too many people and too much noise, and his indifferent tutor at Eton and the cranky dame of the house where he and George resided bore little resemblance to his beloved Dr. Miles and Mrs. Reynolds. Even so, he was lucky though he was scarcely knew it, escaping the persecution that some of the other boys - younger, smaller, less important - suffered. His cousins had gone before him in the not too distant past, and some of their connexions who had lingered at Eton were kinder to him than might otherwise have occurred.

The Lent and Summer halves were a little better. By then he had become inured to the unremitting bustle and strife of the other boys. He no longer prayed for a missive bidding him home, had given up hoping for a letter from his father that never came, and had learnt to live with his resentment over being left at the school over the Christmas holidays.

By contrast, George found Eton's environment to be stimulating rather than bewildering. His connexion to the Darcys and thence the Fitzwilliams gave him standing over the bulk of the boys and Dr. Miles's tutoring and his many masters at Pemberley had ensured that he acquitted himself well in the sports and other pursuits of the gentry. George loved to lord it over the other boys, the sons of rich tradesmen and charity students, whose upbringing had not granted them the same privileges.

And unlike Darcy, George received regular letters from home. Those from Mr. Wickham were brief and to the point, advising him to apply himself diligently to his studies, but those from his mother, Mrs. Wickham, were long and full of gossip and other musings - or so George said, for he did not read them aloud but only chuckled to himself when he received them. He did, however, share with Darcy the generous treats she sent him, heedless of the extravagant cost of the mail. Darcy could not help wondering what kind of presents and treats he would have received from his mother, had she been alive.

The final term drew to a close with June and, to Darcy's great relief, Mr. Wickham sent instructions for the boys to be ready for their home journey almost immediately. Darcy was glued to the window almost as soon as the carriage entered Derbyshire, and when they entered the wilder, rougher country in the Peaks, he felt his heart swell with happiness. There was never so beautiful a sight as Pemberley when they gained the top of the eminence. Across the valley, the great stone house stood in handsome dignity against the dark green of thickly wooded forest, and the lights from its windows sparkled and danced in the winding stream. No matter what tragedy had befallen, it was still the seat of love and memory.

"You were that homesick, hey?" said George, looking across at his friend in the carriage. He handed him his handkerchief.

"Oh, shut it," said Darcy. He finished wiping his eyes and blew his nose.

The old gatekeeper was still at the gatehouse and hailed the boys warmly. He told them that Mr. Darcy was not yet home and Mr. Wickham was travelling to meet him. However, Mr. Birnie and Mrs. Reynolds were eagerly awaiting their arrival and Little Miss Darcy had the nursery maids in a pother in her excitement to see her "brothers."

As the carriage drew up to the house, Darcy peered out the window to see the butler and housekeeper standing on the steps, holding the hands of a little girl who must be Georgiana between them while a nurse hovered behind. Darcy marvelled at the change in his sister. When he had last seen her she had been a babe in arms.

The little girl strained against Mr. Birnie's and Mrs. Reynolds' hands. When the carriage came to a stop and the door opened, they released her and she ran to them as fast as her not-quite-three-year-old legs would carry her.

Darcy caught her up and lifted her into his arms.

"Fitzy!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck and giving him a hearty smack on the cheek.

"You did not forget me!" he said with delight.

Mrs. Reynolds came up to them. "How could she, Master Darcy, with all of your letters? We read them out to her every night. Nurse says it will be easy to teach her her letters, as she is already asking about writing back to you."

"I drew you pictures," Georgiana said. "I drew a picture of you, but you look different now. I will make your legs longer, but Nurse said you already look like a daddy-long-legs in my picture."

Darcy looked over at Mrs. Reynolds in amazement. "Her talking is incredible."

Mrs. Reynolds smiled proudly. "It is quite wonderful. One forgets when one sees a child on a daily basis."

"I drew pictures of Georgy too," said Georgiana, looking over at George. "Nurse says they are very handsome though his smile runs off his face."

George grinned at her and held out his arms. "May Georgy have a hug?"

"Yes!" she cried and reached for him. Darcy handed her over and she hugged George as enthusiastically as she had him before demanding to be returned to Darcy's arms.

Mrs. Reynolds began to explain that Mr. Darcy was not yet home and looked relieved when Darcy assured her he had already heard the news from the gatekeeper. He held his sister tightly, angry that she would be left to the care of servants almost the whole year.

Mr. Birnie threw open the door and the children and servants made their way in with Darcy still carrying Georgiana. He was home.

He did not see his father for the first week after his return. When Mr. Darcy finally arrived home, Darcy greeted him coolly and his father soon retired to his own chambers.

Darcy told himself he did not care. He did not need his father now anyway. Had he and George not been on their own all year? They were as good as men now.

They were not without supervision. Mr. Darcy, not entirely confident about the education they received at Eton, had engaged Dr. Miles to tutor them through the summer. Since he now resided in the village as the vicar of Pemberley, the boys rode over to his home every morning for lessons. This was followed by riding and shooting with masters. In the afternoon they were at leisure and were permitted to range into the surrounding country.

Normally they explored the Peak country, testing themselves and their mounts on the steep terrain and deep valleys. But one day, George expressed a wish to head south in search of the larger settlements.

"We are close to Belper," he said after they had gone for many miles. "I should like to look in on my mother." Since Darcy had no objection, they turned in that direction.

In the large and prosperous town, they attracted many admiring glances and Darcy felt like a fine young gentleman on his tall horse. He readjusted his hat to a more jaunty angle and smiled at some of the girls, causing them to giggle. Darcy looked back at George to flash him a grin and saw that he, too, was enjoying the attention. He pointed out the various scenes of his childhood to Darcy in a loud, carrying voice.

At length, they rode down a street lined with stone cottages of the better sort and stopped at the end, in front of one that was larger and handsomer than the rest. Its windows hung with rich draperies and fashionable gilt-paper hangings could be seen adorning the walls. It was very different from the plain style Mr. Wickham adopted at Pemberley, Darcy thought.

The trio dismounted and George rapped on the door. They were greeted by a maid, who said the mistress was within and told Sam to bring the horses round the back. Darcy found it odd that she did not recognize George nor ask their names, but George explained that his mother often changed servants and this was a new one.

The boys sat down to wait in the parlour, a large room filled with plush lounges and tables covered in green baize. After a minute or two, the door opened and Mrs. Wickham entered.

"Oh! George!" she said, pressing her hand to the bare part of her bosom as if surprised to see him.

"Hello, Mama. We were in the neighbourhood."

George rose and kissed her on the presented cheek. Darcy was not sure what he had expected of George's mother, but she was not it. For one thing, she looked quite young, not yet thirty, and for another she was very pretty, in a way his beautiful mother had not been pretty. She wore paint, he realized. And the light, low-cut, clinging gown she wore was much more appropriate for the evening than the day.

Mrs. Wickham looked past George and eyed Darcy appraisingly.

"Is this your friend, then? The illustrious Fitzwilliam Darcy, heir to Pemberley? I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir."

Something about the way she looked at him made Darcy's face feel hot, but he managed to stammer out a return greeting.

She ordered tea and they sat and chatted about George's life at Pemberley. She was very affectionate, he noticed, hanging over him and squeezing his arm and tousling his hair, but George did not seem to mind it, and laughed at her teasing.

"How did you manage to convince your papa to allow you this visit?" she said to him.

"He does not know I am here. We were out for a ride."

"All this way in a single morning? What horsemanship!" She included Darcy in her admiring glance.

"That is nothing. We did not even cut across the fields, but came by the road. We could cut the time in half if we wanted."

"You must come to see me more often, then, and meet my friends. And bring Master Darcy." She smiled at him again.

"I will, if Darcy wishes. Do you, Darcy?"

"Certainly. It is not far at all if we come by the fields."

He was rewarded with another glowing smile from Mrs. Wickham. She leant toward them confidentially, revealing more of her bosom than Darcy was used to seeing in the flesh. He immediately looked down at his boots and heard her chuckle softly.

"I will tell you what, you must visit me in the evenings," she said. "That is when all of the sport is. Do you think you can manage it? It would mean riding home in the dark."

"Of course we can manage it!" George said.

Darcy frowned. "I do not think we would be permitted."

"Who would know?" George asked. "We will say we are out for an evening ride."

"But … Sam. He will tell our fathers if we do not return home."

"Who is Sam?" Mrs. Wickham asked.

"He is my footman," Darcy replied.

"And how old is he?"

"I am not sure. Seventeen or eighteen years perhaps?"

"Does he ride? Can he ride with you here?"

"Yes, I suppose."

Mrs. Wickham smiled. "Bring him. I will think of something for him. Now try to come on Thursday or Friday, those are my evenings. And bring as much money as you can. Not for me, but for yourselves. You will have far more fun that way."

They did not go that week, as Darcy was concerned it would get back to his father, but the next, when Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham were away on business for several days, Darcy, George and Sam rode out to Mrs. Wickham's.

This time they were greeted by a plump, pretty maid who seemed to be expecting them. She directed Darcy and Wickham to the parlour again and informed Sam she would show him to the stables herself. George, watching her curl her arm through Sam's and press herself to his side as she led him away, winked at Darcy. They would have no more trouble with Sam.

Mrs. Wickham greeted them warmly and told them it was good they were early as she would have a chance to teach them some card tricks. They spent the next half hour at whist and faro until the first arrival, a young-ish, fashionably dressed man by the name of Smith, who Mrs. Wickham greeted with a kiss on the cheek. Darcy looked over at George to see how he took this, but he appeared unconcerned. Mrs. Wickham turned the boys over to Smith to take over their training as she departed to finish dressing upstairs.

Within another half hour, Darcy felt he understood the system of tracking the cards and was eager to play. By then, other guests had filtered into the house and were milling about the tables. They settled down quickly. George wagered recklessly and lost all of his money at Faro. Darcy still had most of his money, as he preferred to watch first to assess the level of play, which was more sophisticated than took place among the boys at Eton. When George came to him, he suggested they partner at whist at one of the tables where the stakes were low.

By eleven o'clock, wine and spirits were flowing freely and the crowd was beginning to be more raucous. Darcy, mindful of the time and still fearful of being caught, told George they should leave. They did so, rousing Sam, who was half-dressed and snoring on the hay bales in the stables. As they stumbled home by lantern light, Darcy and George agreed the evening was a success. They were up eight shillings on their original stakes of a guinea each.

Darcy waited the next few days to see if the incident had made it round to any of the senior servants who might report it, but nobody said a word. It appeared George was right, and the shilling they had left in the young stable boy's palm to keep their silence had proven effective.

They returned the next week, both days, and even began attending with Mrs. Wickham at other card parties at other houses given on different days of the week, whenever Mr. Darcy was absent from home, which was often. Initially they almost always lost more than they won, coming home with empty pockets that needed to be replenished from Darcy's saved pocket money. But Darcy was clever and both boys were eager learners and by the third week they were again in a surplus position.

Their greatest success was at whist. It was a four-player game played in teams of two, where unspoken communication with one's partner was important. Here, Darcy found that his closeness to George offered a significant advantage as they could read each other's signals almost as plainly as speaking. By the end of the first month, they were playing at the higher-stakes tables and winning the majority of the time.

Initially their presence was only remarked upon by a few of the guests, but as they became more successful, Darcy heard many people inquire as to who the handsome youths were. He was not entirely comfortable with the fact that Mrs. Wickham invariably identified him as the heir to Pemberley. Nor did he like to see the exclamation or gleam of interest that was the usual response.

One other thing he was not entirely comfortable with, and that was the attention he and George had begun to attract from the women. Although he would be lying if he said he did not find any of them attractive, Darcy felt that he could have nothing to do with ladies who were so much older and more sophisticated than he. Especially Mrs. Wickham.

She did not act as she should, in Darcy's estimation. He did not mind that she took some of their winnings, for did she not, as she pointed out, supply everyone with food and drink and a place to play? But he did not like it when she stood so close to him that he could see down her gown, nor when she touched him as she did George and breezily referred to his family's wealth and ability to play high. He remembered his father's comment to Mr. Wickham long ago that he had made an unfortunate choice marrying outside of his own station.

After one incident at supper, when she reached over and unmistakably ran her hand down his thigh under the table, Darcy began to avoid Mrs. Wickham. When that happened, he noticed that she became less familiar, though no less friendly. He was relieved.

It was shortly after that Amelia arrived.

She was young, younger than any of the other ladies by two or three years at least, although older than Darcy and George. Darcy guessed fifteen or sixteen. She usually came as part of a large and shifting party of ladies and gentlemen, making it difficult for Darcy to determine exactly who she belonged to. She had soft brown hair and soft brown eyes and she was slim and lithe as a reed.

Darcy took pains to avoid showing any signs of interest. But sometimes, when he thought she was not looking, he would watch her. And a few times, he would turn to find her eyes on him. But he did not approach her.

Unlike Darcy, George flirted outrageously with the ladies who flirted with him. One night, it went further. When Darcy came to him and said it was time to leave, George told him he intended to stay the night.

"But … they will remark upon your absence," Darcy said, glancing at the woman clinging to his arm.

"I will come home early, before anyone notices."

"By yourself?"

"Yes, by myself," said George irritably. "I am not a child."

"No, he is not," giggled the woman, who must be least four-and-twenty. "He can look after himself, Mr. Darcy. Or I will look after him." She ran her fingers through his hair and George smiled at her.

Darcy left.

George told him what happened the next day, when they were out riding and had finally managed to lose Sam.

"It was amazing. The best feeling in the world. You must try it," he told Darcy.

Darcy demurred, muttering something about his father.

"He will never know. Who will tell him? Not you nor I, and certainly not Sam, or I will tell about what he has been up to in the stables with the servant girl. Come, Darcy, it is your chance. Any of the ladies would do it."

"Why - why would they want me? They are so much older."

"Are you mad? The heir to Pemberley? Of course they want you. But if they are too old, what about that girl? What is her name?"

"Amelia," said Darcy quickly - too quickly, he thought.

George smiled knowingly. "Right. Amelia. So you do like her."

"I have scarcely spoken to her."

"Do not worry, you can be as silent as a tombstone if you like. They will do all of the work."

"Amelia would not - "

"No, of course not," George grinned. "I am sure she is as pure as the driven snow, keeping her heart all for you. But she wants you, Darcy. My mother told me."

"Perhaps later."

"When?"

"Later … later in the summer."

"Fine," George said. "Just do not wait too long. You do not want to be like your cousin Milton. I wager Lord Fitzwilliam will have him married off to a cousin before he touches a woman and then it will be too late for him."

After that, George frequently stayed the night at his mother's house, even when Mr. Darcy was home. Since Mr. Darcy breakfasted alone in his chambers, it was not a problem so long as George returned by early morning. The times when he did not, Darcy made some excuse. With time, the lie came more easily.

It was on their last visit to Mrs. Wickham's, four days before they were to return to Eton, when it finally happened.

It had been a lucky night. Knowing it was the last time, Darcy had brought all of his accumulated winnings from the summer and given George freer rein to push the stakes higher. When the last trick was turned, they were hands down the winners of the night.

Basking in the thrill of victory and distracted by the toasts and wine pressed upon him, he did not notice when George disappeared. As he had a good idea what he was up to, he chose to await his reappearance rather than go looking for him. By the time most of the guests had left, however, he had still not materialized.

"Is something wrong?" said a soft voice behind him. He turned to see Amelia framed in the hallway entrance.

"No," he said shortly, hoping the dim light concealed his blush.

She came over closer to him. They were alone, the room having emptied out, although voices could be heard elsewhere in the house.

He tried not to look at the front of her gown, which seemed even lower than the last time he had looked. He could not help noticing that despite her litheness, there was nothing girlish about certain parts of her person. He looked up to see her soft brown eyes looking at him speculatively as if she read his thoughts and the heat in his face increased.

"Did your friends leave you?" she asked. "Mine seem to have forgotten and left me behind as well."

She sat on a table about an arm's length from him and swung her slipper-encased little feet. The candlelight caught the gleam of silk stocking on the swell of her calf and Darcy looked away again.

"No, I think they must be here somewhere." He shuffled his feet awkwardly and looked down at them. His hands felt big and he closed them into fists.

"Is something wrong?" she said. "You seem ill at ease."

"No … no. I am fine."

"Perhaps it is my own nervousness then, being around you."

He looked up at that, surprised. "You are nervous around me?"

"Yes." This time, she blushed.

"But why?'

"Why not? You are the heir to Pemberley. Who am I? Just a girl from town."

"But you are very … very pretty. And all the gentlemen wish to speak to you."

She smiled and reached out and tugged his cuff. He stepped closer, his head buzzing a little, although he had not had anything to drink in the last hour.

"But I have always wished to speak to you. Ever since I was a girl."

"You have seen me before?" he said in surprise.

She laughed, a delicate, tinkling laugh.

"Oh yes, of course. I grew up in Kympton. Every year my sisters and I would come to your birthday fete. You gave us shillings, do you not remember?"

He blushed, for a different reason this time. "No, I … I am sorry. I do not remember you particularly, there were so many children."

She laughed again. "Oh no! I do not mean I expect you to remember me, only the shillings. Do you remember giving out shillings to the children?"

"Of course. But I have not done that for some time. The servants do it now. They started after..." He swallowed. "...after my mother died. I was sent to school so I was not there."

"Yes," she said sadly. "I missed you last year. I looked for you but you were gone."

Darcy felt a glow of warmth for her. He often wondered whether the children registered him at all, or whether it was only the coins they were interested in.

"I am sure I would have noticed you last year, had I been there," he said gallantly. "You are very pretty. I am sure anybody would have noticed you."

She laughed at that, then said as if a thought struck her, "It is your birthday coming soon, is it not?" she said.

"Next week." He was flattered that she would remember such a thing.

"But you will be gone next week, I imagine. So I will miss seeing you on your birthday again." She pouted a little.

"You can still receive a shilling if you go to Pemberley on the day," he said reassuringly.

"Oh! No, I am far too old for that. The last year I went only to look after my little sisters and brothers. But I no longer live with them. And I do not want you to give me anything. I had actually hoped to give you something."

She smiled teasingly at him and he smiled back. The children often gave him things - rocks and shells and bird's nests when he was young, and bookmarks and handkerchiefs as he got older.

"Thank you," he said. "I am sure I would like it very much. You can keep it for me for when I return, perhaps?"

She slid off the table so that she was standing before him, almost touching him. "There is no need," she whispered. "I can give it to you now."

He felt his cheeks flame. Did she mean -? What did she mean?

"What - what is it?" he asked. Perhaps she would kiss him. The thought sent his pulse racing. It would be his first kiss from a girl who was not a relation.

She dropped her bare hand into his. "Not here. In one of the rooms."

She pulled on his hand and he hesitated. Definitely a kiss, he thought. And … perhaps more? He was not sure if he was ready for it. He thought of his mother and father, but his mother was gone and his father seemed very far away. Then he remembered what George had said. Don't be such a prig, Darcy. Everybody does it. I have done it dozens of times now. You have to be a man at some point.

"Will you come?" she asked. She looked uncertain and a little shy all of a sudden. His heart went out to her.

He went.

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