Ever since our memorable first meeting at the respective ages of four, five, and seven, we three had been inseparable. (It looked perfectly innocent, a small grey kitten of somewhat dubious breeding, with an innocent face and fluffy white paws, and we had not truly intended any harm to our baby cousin.) Richard, the eldest, was in trouble more often than not, running rampant over our grandfather's estate and charming the servants into giving him pastries. Fitzwilliam and I, two peas in a pod in grandmother's phrase, followed his lead with admiration and reluctance, until we went into the schoolroom. There Fitzwilliam, who had never seemed more than moderately clever, outshone us all, easily winning over our tutor with his boundless curiosity.
Of course, our lives diverged as we grew older. Richard went into the army, I into law, and Fitzwilliam, who had been somewhat estranged from his father since my aunt's death, was summoned home to be master of Pemberley and father, at twenty years old, to little Georgiana. As soon as we could be spared, we joined him at Pemberley, to do what we could for him and our uncle. Never were we so shocked, as we were at the transformation that had taken place. He was no longer soft-spoken, even-tempered cousin Fitzwilliam, but Mr Darcy of Pemberley. His face, which I had so long regarded as simply a variation of mine, was suddenly unlike — pale and proud and grave. Richard and I blinked stupidly for a moment.
Then, when the servants were gone and it was just the three of us, he managed a small smile, and held out his hand. "I am glad you are here," he said, which, translated out of Fitzwilliam-speech, meant Thank God you came, I thought I was going to run mad all by myself; what took you so long? My uncle died by bits and pieces, while Fitzwilliam, who had always had a talent amounting to genius for what we diplomatically called 'administration', adapted to his newfound authority while we entertained Georgiana, kept our cousin properly fed, did what we could to help him, and eventually returned to our own lives.
Such as they were. As the relatively poor offspring of an earl's younger son, I was very much persona non grata among the ladies of town, even ladies my firstborn cousins would not so much as consider. Richard, with his uniform and charm (although regrettably his mother's bland looks), did far better socially, eventually marrying an admiral's niece with twenty thousand pounds to her name. I never liked her, although she was lovely and witty and charming and everything desirable. I suspect it was largely due to her habit of flirting with the various Fitzwilliam cousins when her husband was not present. My dislike was nothing, however, to my cousin's — the loathing between Elizabeth Darcy and Mary Fitzwilliam remained the stuff of legend long after they reconciled.
Richard died first. They had no children, and despite her ways, Mary was devastated. I was never so shocked in my life as when Elizabeth invited her to stay at Pemberley until she had somewhat recovered. Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam, who to all appearances led a charmed life, had four perfectly well-behaved children, two boys and two girls, with their father's looks and their mother's charm, all of whom married well. It was only Richard and I, of all the family, who saw beneath the surface — that the marriage of two such people could never be completely simple and comfortable, that there were trials and struggles just like ordinary people, for all that they were not themselves ordinary. But they were never like my parents, who were together only long enough to create two children, nor like his, who could hardly bear the sight of one another. Elizabeth was passionately devoted to Fitzwilliam, it stood out a mile; and for all his wealth and brilliance, the only time in our lives that I envied my cousin was when I first set eyes on them together.