Henry Fitzwilliam was, from his earliest hours, an unexpected and unwelcome addition to the family. In this respect, little changed throughout his life. The Fitzwilliams, at least in public, were proud, reserved, distantly civil, and very cold. Henry shared the family pride and wilfulness, but to all appearances, nothing else. He was wild, constantly ran up debts, delighted in notoriety and scandal, and alienated everyone but his mother and sister.
He was better-suited to the continent, where he could live as he pleased without harming his family. His father and brother had always looked at him with a mixture of disdain and pity, and he preferred to avoid thinking about his eldest sister altogether, but mother, she deserved better than that. She cared, and although Henry could not mourn his father he could mourn with his mother, for once upon a time she had thrown respectability to the winds for that man. And Anne, dearest Anne, their father had doted on her as she had doted on Henry, Anne with her charming, kind ways and brilliant eyes; she deserved better as well. Whether he gave her jewels with a long and usually bloody past, or bizarre statues so out of place in the refined elegance of Pemberley that she had to hide them, or whether he was a small child proudly depositing a frog in her slender white hands, she did not care; a radiant smile of gratitude, a graceful touch of her fingers against his cheek, the proud light in her eyes, it was always the same. She was always the same.
Not even for Anne, however, could he stay in England. He visited Pemberley, and despite his astonished admiration for the place, it was too much for him. It was too ideal, he preferred the chaos of a disorderly house and nervous servants and the various other trappings of his life abroad. It perfectly suited his sister, however, and he was pleased to see her again. France was not precisely safe at the time, even for the less financially-advantaged, so he decided for once to avoid trouble by surprising his sister. She was in her parlour, embroidering some dainty feminine thing, and at her side was a slender dark-haired boy, absorbed in a book.
"How very charming you look, my dearest sister," he declared; "I feel quite the rascal next to you."
She looked up in astonishment, dropped her work. "Henry? Henry, it can't — you aren't — oh!" She stood up, trembling slightly, and with two quick steps he was across the room, lifting her into his arms. He could feel how light she was — lighter than he recalled — but he determined to think about that later.
"I thought to surprise you, Anne," he said easily, and Anne sniffed, pressing fingers against her eyes.
"You have certainly managed that." Then she touched his cheek in her old way and gave him a despairing look. "Must you always do everything so — peculiarly?"
"Of course," laughed Henry, "I should not wish to be taken for granted."
"That is not a great danger, since I hardly see you," she said reproachfully, and he felt a twinge of conscience. He had a wife and two children he scarcely ever saw; he had never cared for Cecilia, but he should probably have taken responsibility for the children. Little Henry must be six or seven by now, only a little older than the child solemnly regarding him. But Anne and mother were the only ones he really thought of.
Anne turned. "You have not met my son, have you?"
Henry approached the child, who put his hands behind his back and met his gaze steadily. "I have not yet had that honour. I am Henry Fitzwilliam, your uncle; and what are you called, young man?"
After a brief hesitation, the child extended his small hand. "I am Fitzwilliam Darcy, sir," he said quietly. Henry knelt down and shook his hand.
"A fine name," he said cheerfully, looking carefully at his youngest nephew. There was a peculiar striking quality to him; although the Fitzwilliams were indisputably an attractive family, the boy was beautiful rather than handsome, and the gracious propriety of his manners was somehow unnerving in so young a child. His pallor was not solely the consequence, as Henry had initially thought, of a fair complexion with nearly black hair; the hand clasped in his own was nearly transparent, and there was no trace of childhood plumpness in him. He had, in his travels, seen children like this before, but he had never seen one of them grow very old; and his chest ached a little as Fitzwilliam clung to his mother's side.
"Have you any siblings, Fitzwilliam?"
"Not ezactly, sir," Fitzwilliam said gravely. "Richard and Ella and Henry are just as good, although I would like a little sister. Henry says we can share Cecily though when she grows up a bit."
"How very kind of him," said Henry, smiling. "What are you reading of?"
"King Alfred. He was a very good man, like my papa." Anne compressed her lips and looked away.
Several hours later, once his sister had restrained him from walking into Mr Darcy's study and attacking him bare-handedly, he realised how very fortunate he was. The distance from Anne and mother hurt, it was true; but he had no pestering, prude of a wife (well, he had her, but he didn't have to see her), no ill-fated children to look after, no perfect name to live up to; he was simply himself, Henry, ne'er-do-well extraordinaire. With fond farewells to his sister and nephew (his brother he did not trust himself to look at), he returned with some relief to the continent.
A revolution was always an uncertain business. Perhaps it was for this reason that the Honourable Henry Fitzwilliam was one of the earliest foreign casualties of the war in France.