1797

Anne de Bourgh was never so shocked in her life as on the day that she walked into the green parlour to find her mother weeping. A letter was lying discarded on the mantelpiece, and the ever-poised Lady Catherine sat nearby, her face covered by trembling hands. Sir Lewis flitted about uselessly as his wife sobbed brokenly.

Anne had never seen her mother shed a tear before -- had never imagined that such a thing was even possible -- which made it all that much the worse. She knew, instantly, that something very terrible had happened -- that her life, their lives, would never be the same again.

She stood frozen in the doorway, poised for flight but unwilling to completely abandon her mother to her grief.

"Oh, Anne," Sir Lewis said in relief, "there you are." He took several steps backwards, eyeing his wife fearfully.

"What has happened, papa?" she asked softly, shivering slightly. Sir Lewis only shook his head as he backed out of the room, and Anne entered awkwardly, tentatively placing one thin hand on Lady Catherine's shoulder. That lady lifted her head, gazing at her daughter with swollen blue eyes. "You don't have your shawl, Anne," she said, her voice tear-roughened, as she gathered the shreds of her composure.

"N-no," stammered Anne, "I dropped it -- "

Mrs Jenkinson, the nurse-cum-governess-cum-companion, materialised from who-knew-where and draped the offending article about her charge's narrow shoulders, and tactfully retreated.

"Anne," said Lady Catherine, drawing herself erect, "your aunt is dead."

Anne could feel her legs trembling beneath her, and fumbled for a chair, sitting down gracelessly. She had several aunts, but only one had ever affected her mother in any meaningful way -- Anne shuddered. Although separated by nearly seven years, a very steady attachment had always existed between the two sisters. Anne herself loved her namesake with the blind adoration of a neglected child astonished to find herself, for quite the first time in her life, the object of sincere interest and affection. She thought her aunt quite simply the most wonderful woman she had ever laid eyes on, and treasured every line accompany every gift, every memory of Lady Anne's rich contralto voice speaking directly to her -- "my dear Anne! let me look at you. You have grown so tall; and how wonderful you look in that new frock. It is new, isn't it?" Then she had smiled her gentle smile, quite overwhelming her impressionable young niece.

And now -- now she was dead. Impossible! Not Aunt Anne -- beautiful, wonderful Aunt Anne -- surely, she was the kind who lived forever? Anne had never thought that the years could touch her namesake; she would always be there, the same as she had always been -- there was that kind of timeless, ageless quality about her. Lady Anne's was not and had never been the beauty of youth and good humour; at twenty she had not been very different from what she was at forty.

"I shall return within a fortnight," Lady Catherine was saying. "Derbyshire is too cold for your delicate constitution, Anne."

Less than two weeks later, Lady Catherine swept into Rosings, her expression thunderous. She brushed off the servants who attempted to help her remove her cloak. Anne, drawn by the sound of a ruckus being raised, instantly now that her mother had returned, and crept closer to look and admire. She peered around the corner, tightening the shawl around her shoulders self-consciously.

Lady Catherine was not alone; at her side was a pale, silent boy of about Anne's own age. He shivered slightly, but although he appeared very small and thin in the grand entry wall, carried along in Lady Catherine's wake, he did not appear cowed or even impressed. After one look at his set face, Anne squeaked and fled -- for even at thirteen, there was a certain forbidding quality about Fitzwilliam Darcy.

---

For several weeks, an uneasy peace reigned. Lady Catherine was grimmer than ever, Sir Lewis thoroughly cowed after one sharp rebuke, and Fitzwilliam withdrawn and indifferent. At meals, he answered all remarks sent his way in a brief monotone, played listlessly with his food, and showed not the slightest concern for anyone but the servants. Except for at dinner, he spent all his time in his bedchambers, locked up with his books. Anne, who had cried herself to sleep over Lady Anne more nights than not, pitied him, but did not dare express it, and even if she did, would not have known how.

She had met him once before, five years prior, and he had been very different -- haughty, opinionated, outspoken, and quite possibly the kindest person she had ever met. But -- Anne rationalised -- if anyone had a right to be melancholy, it was Fitzwilliam. Nevertheless the tension wreaked havoc on her nerves. She avoided everyone altogether.

When she found one of her cousin's books, about three weeks into his stay, she was forced to venture into his domain to return it -- although really, she was quite curious, else she would have simply instructed a servant to give it back to Master Darcy. There was no response to her tentative knock, and she pushed the door open, meeting Fitzwilliam's astonished gaze. He was curled into a ball on his bed, his cheeks tear-stained. But before she could offer so much as a word of comfort, a snarling, spitting grey ball hurled itself at her. Anne, her cheek burning, shrieked and fled.

That evening, to her astonishment, she heard a knock at her door, and rose to answer it, blinking a little tiredly. Fitzwilliam stood there, his lashes lowered and a fluffy grey bundle purring in his arms. "Hello, Anne," he said, almost shyly, and certainly apologetically. "I wanted to make sure that you're all right. She didn't mean to hurt you."

Anne was torn between fear of the beast in his arms and pleasure at attention from this most unexpected source. She decided on the latter, and smiled, noticing idly that he was, in countenance and carriage, almost the very image of his mother; only his eyes were different, not warm and dark as Lady Anne's had been, but closer to Lady Catherine's icy blue. "Oh, I'm perfectly well," she replied nervously.

Fitzwilliam reached out one hand to her cheek, which still showed signs of his pet's attack. "It must hurt," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. Alfred is very out-of-sorts these days."

Anne, her cheek throbbing a little, threw a glance at the fat, slumbering cat. "That is Alfred?" she exclaimed.

"She's getting old and senile," explained Fitzwilliam. "And she is very unhappy since -- since we came here." He lowered his eyes once more, and fidgeted a little. "But I -- " he coughed, and the rest came in a rush, "I didn't want you to be hurt, because you're ma -- it's not your fault, and you're my cousin so she ought to know better."

Anne glanced at her cousin out of the corner of her eye. It seemed vastly unfair that he should be so very handsome, when he was a boy and it didn't matter greatly whether he was or not. If she was half as beautiful as Fitzwilliam, she would take far better care of her looks than he did. "You're very thin," she said disapprovingly, then flushed. "Did I say that aloud?"

A brief smile lit up Fitzwilliam's face -- a singularly lovely smile that coaxed one reluctant dimple out of his left cheek. It was nothing like Lady Anne's serene, properly restrained smiles, but rather an inheritance -- the only inheritance, in looks at least -- from his charismatic father. "Oh yes," he said, almost cheerfully. "I am not so very thin, am I?"

"Well . . ." She made him blush by gazing at him critically. "Yes, you are. You ought to take better care of yourself, for mamma's sake, at least. She is so very fond of you."

Fitzwilliam fidgeted again. "I, yes -- she is -- it's -- "

"I don't mind," said Anne. "Would you like to sit down?" She cleared some of her scattered belongings off a chair, and Fitzwilliam perched on it, looking around as if he expected to be attacked at any moment. The cat snored. Anne, who had never entertained another human being in her life, beamed. "What do you read? You are always doing it, and it must be very interesting, to keep you away from people all the time."

"Not really," said Fitzwilliam, allowing Alfred to sprawl out across his lap. "I don't like people much."

---

1798

"It's sixteen and twenty-four hundredths," said Fitzwilliam didactically. "You wrote a hundred sixty-two and four tenths."

Anne frowned at her sums. She did not spend much time at lessons, in accordance with her mother's wishes, and consequently her academic knowledge was severely lacking.

"I don't understand," she said plaintively.

"It's very simple. You must move the decimal the same number of spaces after them when you multiplied. You see, that was three spaces so you move it three times, you see -- "

"But it's not -- twenty-four hundredths, it's two hundred and forty, two hundred and forty . . . thousandths?"

"Well, yes, but that doesn't matter. Zeroes don't count."

Anne frowned. "Yes, they do -- ten is not a hundred -- "

"After a decimal, I mean. Zeroes at the end don't matter. So you just chop them off, like so."

A much-dreaded voice came from behind them. "I don't see why you bother, Darcy." William de Bourgh, Anne's seventeen-year-old cousin, stood in the doorway. Fitzwilliam's face went blank with displeasure. "Everyone knows girls have no head for anything important, and Anne is far worse than usual." He looked at her contemptuously. "She isn't even pretty, and her taste is awful. If it weren't for her money, she'd only be good for -- "

She never saw him move. One moment Fitzwilliam sat peaceably next to her; the next she heard the sound of his hand striking William's face.

"How dare you?" he demanded. Anne compared Fitzwilliam's slender build to William's bulky one, and covered her eyes. "How dare you speak of a lady like that -- your own cousin -- and you call yourself a gentleman? Why, you -- "

There was a peculiar swishing sound, and then a crack followed by a shriek of pain and rage. Anne peered out timorously, and stared. Fitzwilliam's left hand was bloody, but William was crouched on the ground like an animal, one hand covering his nose, which appeared to be bleeding profusely. Fitzwilliam stood his ground, chin lifted proudly and cheeks flushed with anger. William sneered awkwardly and fled.

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear," Anne mumbled, racing to her cousin's side. "I can't believe you hit him."

"He deserved it," Fitzwilliam said airily, but his expression was rather thunderstruck. "I beat him."

"You're bleeding," she said.

"I beat him! I've never beaten anyone before!" Fitzwilliam's face was lit up with one of his rare, full smiles, which combined with a sudden realisation that he had just fought another boy over her honour, made her feel distinctly squishy inside. Impulsively, she flung her arms around him, and sobbed into his neck.

"Er," said Fitzwilliam awkwardly, and patted her brown head. "You shouldn't cry over him, Anne. He's not worth it."

She sniffled and pressed her lips against his flaming cheek. "You fought for me," she said, gazing at her cousin with starry eyes.

"It was nothing really," he said, with a distinctly un-modest grin. "Are you ready to go back to your sums now?"

---

The difference between Fitzwilliam and her father's nephews and nieces became ever more apparent as their visit extended. They were heavy-set, fair-haired, terribly bossy, and not very clever. Lady Leconbury constantly badgered Sir Lewis, William doted on Lady Catherine and mocked her behind her back, while most of the others were far too apathetic to even do that much. Fitzwilliam, even when he was quiet -- admittedly most of the time -- was quiet with purpose. He always stood when any lady entered a room, even Anne, and made a particular habit of staying by her side and holding chairs for her at mealtimes. By the time the assorted de Bourghs had left, Anne had almost ceased to blush at his attention.

"I don't think I like your cousin, Anne," Mary said critically. She was the bossiest of them all, but also the only one who paid Anne much mind, so the latter felt something almost like fondness for her.

"I think he's lovely," Anne said defensively. Both girls watched as Mary's brothers and cousins made a general ruckus, laughing loudly and, in Anne's opinion, coarsely, over something or other. Fitzwilliam had reluctantly obeyed Lady Catherine's edict to spend time with the other boys, and sat a little apart, his dark hair falling about his eyes as he rested his chin in his hand and gazed dreamily off into space. Mary chuckled.

"That he certainly is," she agreed. "Just wait a few years, and you'll have more competition than you ever dreamed of."

Anne stared. "Competition? What do you mean?"

Mary smiled, smugly. "Well, you are to be married, aren't you?"

"I -- " Anne flushed. "I don't know."

"My aunt seems to know. She tells everyone that she and Lady Anne and the whole family determined that you should be wed from the moment he was born." Her eyes narrowed slightly, taking on a faintly acquisitive look. "It is a good match, for both of you."

Anne squeaked. The very idea of marriage was terrible at present. Boys were terrible -- except Fitzwilliam -- but even so, she did not mean to marry him. He was dear to her, to be certain, but only as -- as -- as himself, not a husband. She certainly did not want to be to him what Lady Catherine was to Sir Lewis -- well, she could not imagine Fitzwilliam as ever like Sir Lewis -- but even Lord and Lady Leconbury. But if that's what mother wants, and Aunt Anne wanted . . . She chewed her lip, vaguely hearing Mary going on about combining the two estates and so forth.

"What was that, Mary? I'm sorry, I didn't hear . . ."

"I understand that your uncle Darcy's estate is a noble one?" she prodded. "How much is it worth, do you think?"

"Ten thousand per annum," Anne replied, blinking a little. "It's very pretty, I understand. Fitzwilliam says it's the most beautiful place in the world, and he never lies and is never wrong."

"Oh?" Mary eyed Fitzwilliam with a different expression, then sighed. "Well, he is too young. Not much older than fifteen, I should say?"

"He's thirteen," said Anne.

"Thirteen? I had not the slightest idea. Really only a child, then."

"I think he's wonderful," she said stoutly.

"But his manners are so old-fashioned -- very grave and proper. Almost courtly. No, I shall leave his heart intact." She shook her head, and sighed again. "I prefer men -- large, dark, brooding men -- not pale, 'lovely' boys like your cousin. Still, he has such long hands -- he shall be very tall, I expect. In a few years -- " She laughed, rather unpleasantly. "If he becomes a little less inflexible, and as handsome as he promises to be now, I shall come back in a few years and steal him from you, Anne."

Anne stiffened. "You talk as if he is a -- a -- " she remembered a word Lord Leconbury had used, and spat it out, "commodity."

"Oh, he is," Mary replied easily. "All men are -- especially single ones in possession of a good fortune."

Anne decided that she did not like Mary very much after all.

"But you are quite young still. I ought not speak of such things to you."

---

Anne, Fitzwilliam, and Lady Catherine were all glad to see the Leconburys and de Bourghs gone. That night at dinner, Fitzwilliam was positively talkative, and Anne bordering on effusive as they chattered freely for the first time in the last six weeks. Fitzwilliam gave it as his most determined opinion that people in general were silly, vulgar, and all manner of dreadful things -- barring the Fitzwilliam clan, naturally. Anne, the memory of Mary's enlightening conversation fresh in her mind, nodded firm acquiescence. Lady Catherine smiled and said that while this was true, society had claims on everyone, particularly those in their station of life.

"Especially you, Fitzwilliam. The lives of hundreds of people will depend upon your decisions -- your merest whim. You are not so wealthy that you may spend your fortune heedlessly, as some do; you must marry well, that you may consolidate family influence, increase your holdings that you may maintain Pemberley and -- the Pemberley estates. And your behaviour must always be above reproach. People are dreadful gossips -- if your smallest indiscretion is observed, it will be found out and spoken of through every reputable circle, and it reflects not only on you, but on us all. Do you understand?"

"Yes, aunt," he said, almost meekly.

"Anne, although your delicate constitution will keep you safe from much of the world's -- tribulations, the same applies to you. You will be fifteen next year, and although you are too young and too frail to come out then, in the eyes of many you will become an object of interest. You are the granddaughter of an earl, and the great-great-granddaughter of a duke. Your connections are more than valuable, your family is respectable, and your fortune is splendid. You must take care. There will be those you will try and deceive you both, taking advantage of your youth, your ignorance, and above all, your money. Both of you must always be on guard, even against those you might consider above reproach."

Anne puzzled over these admonitions, able to perceive her mother's lively anxiety. Then she remembered the recent visitors -- Mary's conversation, and what William had almost said about her -- she shivered. "I understand, mother," she said quietly.

"I hope so." Lady Catherine coughed. "In April, there is to be a ball."

Anne's head jerked up. "A ball? Really?"

"Naturally, you are both too young to attend, but the occasion has put me in mind. I understood from your father," her lip curled distastefully at this, "Fitzwilliam, that you have never had a dancing master."

"No, ma'am."

"It is a pity, for with your height you will be all arms and legs for a long while, but we will do what we may. Also, I have been very negligent -- " The cousins looked at one another in dismay and astonishment. " -- No lessons," she was saying. "I have written to my brother, and he says that Mr Hancock, who taught your cousins -- "

"And me," Fitzwilliam corrected. Lady Catherine patted his hand. If it had been Anne, she would have slapped hers.

"And you. He says that Mr Hancock would be only too pleased to come to Rosings and commence with your education, now that Henry is going to school."

Fitzwilliam smiled. "I would like that, Aunt Catherine."

"Good."

---