Chapter 2

Hertfordshire, 1796

William Collins winced as the carriage hit another rut in the road. It was not particularly well-sprung, and his injured ribs protested the jostling movements that had begun two days before when Mr. Bennet's carriage came to collect him from Staffordshire.

His journey to his cousin's home had been delayed for several days, a situation that was entirely beyond his control. While residing at the doctor's home, he developed a severe fever that turned into pneumonia. The doctor declared that it was a result of the same infection that had taken his mother's life, combined with his father's mistreatment.

Although the doctor felt more warmly towards the timid boy, he still had several young daughters at home; the father could not risk exposing them to a lad who may have inherited his father's temper. Consequently, William was moved to the parsonage within two days of his parents' deaths.

The week that William spent in the vicar's house was like a dream. He felt as though the pastor from his mother's stories had come to life. Although William spent most of his time there in his bed, allowing his bones to heal, the elderly gentleman spent a few minutes each night with him. Mr. Lyman, as he was known, read the Bible aloud to the young man.

Although the vicar was all that was kind, William's days and nights were still filled with the memories of horrors he had endured the first decade of his life. He was much too afraid to engage in conversation with the man of the cloth, let alone ask him questions, although Mr. Lyman did all he could to encourage him.

At last, when William was finally able to sit up in bed, it was time for him to depart. The poor boy, still terrible pain from his injuries, fought back tears. He wanted to beg the vicar to allow him to stay, but he knew it would not be possible.

Mr. Lyman, sensing the boy's fear, embraced the lad and said, "Not to worry, my boy. As the apostle Paul said to the Romans, all things work together for good to them that love God."

William nodded bravely into the man's waistcoat, then turned and boarded the carriage. He looked out the window for as long as he could still see the parsonage that had been the only safe home he had ever known, then turned to face forward in the seat.

The journey was a long one for William. He had the Bible the parson had generously gifted him to read along the way, but that can only distract a boy of ten years for so long. Between the long duration of the travel and the painful jostling of the carriage, William did not think the journey would ever end.

He was not sure if he wanted the journey to end, however. Mr. Bennet, his father's cousin, was an unknown. What if he is just as cruel as Father? Will he drink too much and lose his temper? Will he allow me to attend school?

All of these questions filled William's mind, and the horrors from his father's house were still fresh in his memory. By the time the carriage arrived at Longbourn, William was almost senseless with pain, fear, and exhaustion. He had been too injured to be moved into inns along the way, and the apothecary in Staffordshire had not wanted to send laudanum with a young boy and an unknown coachman. The coachman, after seeing William's injuries, determined it would be best to travel as swiftly as possible, stopping only a few hours each night to sleep inside the carriage.

It is little wonder, then, that William had such a violent reaction to meeting Mr. Bennet. When the carriage arrived and the door was opened, the coachman had to lift William down and set him unsteadily on the ground.

William looked up at Mr. Bennet, who extended a hand in welcome. William took one look at the man whose so closely resembled his father and collapsed to the ground. "I'm sorry, Father, I'm sorry!" he sobbed over and over. "I didn't mean to kill Mama, and I wasn't the one who fetched the doctor. Please don't hurt me!"

Mr. Bennet stood there in shock, his hand still outstretched, as he stared blankly at the boy sobbing at his feet. Mrs. Bennet, who had come to the door to welcome the boy, began to cry as well. She lifted her skirts and ran towards him, even though she was six months pregnant. She collapsed to the ground beside him and pulled him into her arms.

"There, there, sweetheart, it will be alright. I will not allow anyone to hurt you here. You're safe."

Mrs. Bennet's actions shook her husband from his stupor. He looked down at his wife, rocking the traumatized child, and he shook his head in dismay. What hell has this child escaped from? he wondered. For once in his life, he was glad a man was dead.

The three remained in that state for several minutes until Mr. Bennet saw Jane and Elizabeth standing at the front door, peering out at the scene before them. With a fresh sense of just how blessed he was with his family, he turned to Mrs. Bennet and said, "My dear, I believe the young man should be taken indoors. I would carry him, but…"

His voice trailed off as he thought of violently William had reacted upon seeing his cousin for the first time. "I had not remembered how much my cousin and I resembled one another. As boys, we were often mistaken for brothers, but that was many years ago."

Mrs. Bennet nodded in understanding and replied, "We can have Hill come carry the young man. I daresay a hot bath and fresh clothes will do him a world of good."

With those words, Mr. Bennet entered the house and called for Mrs. Hill. He passed on Mrs. Bennet's instructions, and the good woman turned and immediately began issuing orders to her husband and the maids. Then Mr. Bennet took his daughters by the hand and returned them to the nursery, where the newly installed nurse looked at him in dismay. She was changing Kitty's nappy and had to send Jane to fetch Elizabeth, who had run off when the carriage arrived.

"No to worry," Mr. Bennet reassured the young woman, "I know my little Lizzy can be a handful! The second nurse should arrive in the next fortnight. Until then, we shall all have to have patience with one another."

The nurse gave him a grateful smile and bobbed a curtsy while finishing the pins for the fresh nappy. "That is very good of you, sir," she said. "Will young Master Collins join us shortly?"

Mr. Bennet frowned and said, "The lad seems to be a bit overwrought between the journey and his parents' death. Mrs. Bennet will take charge of him for the time being until we can help him adjust to his new circumstances."

Nodding in understanding, the nurse set a freshly-diapered Kitty on the floor next to her sister Mary, who was holding a book upside down and leafing through the pages, looking at the pictures. The nurse sat with the two girls and began to read the story to all four girls. Mr. Bennet looked at the scene fondly, then left to go check on Mrs. Bennet and William.

He found the two of them in an empty bedroom of the family wing. William was just emerging from the bath, and Mr. Bennet bit back a gasp of horror. The boy's body was completely covered in bruises from head to toe. His ribs were black and blue, and the bones were clearly protruding from his thin frame.

Mrs. Bennet heard the gasp and looked at her husband, eyes glittering with tears. She gave him a small shake of her head, and he gave a slight shake of his head before he pasted a smile on his face and entered the room. William's eyes widened with terror as he looked at Mr. Bennet.

"William," Mrs. Bennet said gently, "this is your father's cousin and my husband, Mr. Bennet."

Mr. Bennet crouched down next the to the boy, who was now covered in a warm dressing gown and looked him in the eyes on his level. "Hello, William," he said softly, "I am so very glad to meet you. I hope you will like it here. I want you know that in this home, you are safe. No one will ever hurt you here."

The boy looked at Mr. Bennet, uncomprehending. "But what if I want to read?" he whispered fearfully.

Mr. Bennet sat back in surprise. "Then, my boy, I shall read with you."

William's eyes filled with tears. To everyone's surprise, he threw his arms around Mr. Bennet and began to sob. Mr. Bennet's eyes closed in pained heartache, then he wrapped his arms gently around the boy's thin frame. "There, there, my boy," he said soothingly. "I've got you now. I won't allow anyone to mistreat you ever again."

Derbyshire, 1797

Fitzwilliam Darcy sighed blissfully as he sank onto the bed in his chambers at Pemberley. He had just arrived home for holiday after his first year at Eton, and the luxurious mattress on his estate was like sleeping on clouds compared to the one in his dormitory room at school.

A knock sounded on the door, and he rolled over on the bed to look at it. "Enter," he called.

The door banged open, and in burst twelve-year-old George Wickham. The two friends had not seen one another since the previous year. Fitzwilliam had returned home for the holidays, but George had been away visiting his mother's family, who had passed away the month before their celebration of their Lord's birth.

"You're finally back!" George exclaimed. "I am so glad you are here!"

The boys met in the center of the room and clasped hands. "I'm so sorry about your mother, Georgie," Fitzwilliam said.

George shrugged in indifference, but Fitzwilliam could see the pain in his eyes. "Not like I saw much of her when she was alive," Mrs. Wickham's son said bitterly.

"At least you have your father," Fitzwilliam offered in consolation, but he watched his friend's face carefully.

Wickham's face tightened, "Ah yes, my father," he said. "He can't wait until I go to Eton with you, I bet. Then he doesn't have to worry about all the trouble I cause him."

"You don't mean that," Fitzwilliam said softly. "I know your father loves you."

Again, Wickham's face twisted with an indecipherable expression, but it was quickly replaced with his typical devil-may-care expression. "No matter, Will, not when you're here! We're going to have the best summer ever!"

"I may not have much free time," Fitzwilliam warned his friend. "Father wants me start learning estate business with him, now that I'm in school."

George's face fell, and he turned away. "Bet you think you're too good for the likes of me, now that you've been to school and been fawned over as the heir to a great estate. What good do you have for the son of a steward?"

Fitzwilliam's eyes widened at the bitterness he heard in his friend's voice. "George, you know we will always be friends." When George refused to look at him, he continued, "You're…you're like a brother to me."

George whirled on Fitzwilliam, fury written across his face. "That's because I am your brother!" he screamed in rage.

Fitzwilliam gasped in surprise at the tears in George's eyes. "You know?" the eldest Darcy boy asked incredulously.

The question stopped George in his tracks. "You know?" he asked in surprise.

Fitzwilliam hesitated. How much should he reveal to his friend? It was clear George was not fond of his mother, who never had time or a kind word for him. "When did you find out?" Fitzwilliam asked.

"The day my mother died. She told me that I was supposed to be living here, but when I was born, your father forced her to marry my fath- Mr. Wickham instead. That way he didn't have to pay me a portion of the inheritance that was my right by birth."

Fitzwilliam shook his head in dismay. He spent the next hour relating all he had overheard the year before. He hesitated sharing the woman's duplicity with George, but it was clear that only the complete truth could clear up the confusion the spiteful woman had caused on her deathbed.

"Do you think it's true?" George asked his friend. "What your father said about him not remembering anything, I mean."

"I do," Fitzwilliam said with confidence.

"How do you know he wasn't lying to make your mother feel better?" George challenged.

"Because it makes the most sense. It explains why he never drinks spirits, and why you are settled near here instead of being far away. If he truly wanted you gone and out of the way, he would have sent you and your mother away with Mr. Wickham when he had the chance."

George nodded slowly. "I think you're right. Do you think we're brothers?"

"It doesn't matter," Fitzwilliam said firmly. "You are my best friend, blood or not. The only way that would change is if we started hating each other."

"Why would we hate each other?" George asked in surprise.

"I dunno," Fitzwilliam said, "maybe if you became resentful that I'm my – I mean, maybe our – father's heir."

George was silent for a few minutes, then he said slowly, "I think I was angry the last few months. I mean, you get to live in the big house and have servants. You won't ever have to work or answer to anyone, and you'll have so much money. If your father is also mine, shouldn't I have some of that?"

Fitzwilliam nodded in agreement. "You're right, you should, but there's no way of knowing for sure. But don't worry, George. I'll take care of you."

"You will?" George asked in surprise.

"Yes," Fitzwilliam said firmly. "Whether or not you're my brother, you're also my best friend. I wouldn't leave you to fend for yourself. You just tell me what you want to do. If you want to be a rector, I will give you a living. If you want to be in the army, I will purchase you a commission."

"But what if I don't want to do anything?" George asked.

Fitzwilliam couldn't quite tell if George was serious or not. "You have to do something, George!"

"But you're inheriting Pemberley. You won't have to work for a living. You can sit back, drink port and go to parties," George said somewhat petulantly.

"But being the heir and master of an estate isn't nothing. You see how hard my father works with yours. There are some days during planting and the harvest that I go for days without seeing my father because he leaves with the sun and comes home long after dark. Plus, my father no longer drinks any spirits. You know that."

"That is true," George admitted reluctantly. "From what I hear in Lambton, your father spends a lot more time on his estate helping his tenants than any other master."

"And I heard stories at school about other fathers. Some don't even ever go to their estates but stay in London all year round, drinking and carousing. They don't even go home for planting or harvest."

"How does the steward know what to do, then?" George asked in disbelief.

Fitzwilliam shrugged. "A lot of them either have really good stewards, or they are heavily in debt because the estates do not prosper. Tenants have left the lands because the houses are in poor repair or the rents are raised too high. Some estates even have stewards who pocket the money for themselves."

George shook his head in dismay. "I always knew your father worked hard, but I thought it was just because he wanted to. I didn't know estates could just… fail, I guess."

"My father has always told me that being the master of Pemberley is great responsibility. There are many people whose lives depend on us being honorable and doing our duty," Fitzwilliam informed his friend. "To be honest, it kind of scares me."

"It scares you?" George exclaimed in amazement.

Blushing slightly, Fitzwilliam said, "What if I fail? What if I make poor decisions? What if the tenants don't trust me when I take over for my father? There is so much to know and do, and my father makes it look so easy. The more he shows me, the more I realize how inadequate I am for the task."

George sat silently for a minute in contemplation, then said firmly, "You won't fail, Fitzwilliam."

"How do you know?"

"Because you try hard. And I know if you try hard at something, you can't fail at it." When this failed to reassure his friend, George added, "And I will help you!"

"You will?" Fitzwilliam said, startled.

"Yes," George stated emphatically. "I will be your steward. We will learn together this summer, from both of our fathers."

Fitzwilliam didn't miss the subtle emphasis George placed on the plurality of the last word. "You're not… you're not still angry at my… our… my father?"

George shook his head. "What does it matter which man is my father? There's no way to know, and Mr. Wickham is the man who raised me and loved me as his own, even though he didn't know. Mr. Darcy is my godfather, and he has always treated me just as kindly as he treats you. He's even sending me to school with you! I know I was angry, but now I don't feel that way anymore. I want to be like you. I want to work hard and make Pemberley a great estate, and I can do that no matter if I am your friend or your brother or…. or whatever!"

Fitzwilliam smiled at his friend in gratitude. "Thank you, George. Whether blood or not, you have always been as good as a brother to me."

George gave his trademark smirk and said, "And the best friend you'll ever have! Now come on, I smelled fresh biscuits on my way up here! I bet if we ask nicely enough, Cook will let us have some."