NOTES: Darcy's POV— Not as fluffy a chapter as usual. I'll make up for it NEXT TIME THOUGH, becuase the NEXT chapter that im gonna post tomorrow is so far my favorite, and a long one at that. This one.. bear through it, yall. It'll be sweet, i promise ❤️

~Vin

Ps. Just to reiterate, in this story, William is about 11 and Lizzy is about 10 :)

As it turned out, one could spend very little time together even when living in the same house. I mean, Darcy should have known that from living with his father, but his father had an estate to run. And Lizzy was confined to her room! Shouldn't that have made it easier to see her?

Well, apparently not if Father had something to say about it.

As soon as Darcy had left the room, with a goofy smile on his face, (Lizzy said she liked his face? What did that mean?) Father had pulled him aside and kept his hand firmly on his son's shoulder as he spoke. As if he was trying to keep him from running away.

"Boy," he said with a disappointed shake of his head, "I'm afraid I've made a mistake today."

Darcy didn't know what to say to that. He just waited for his father to continue speaking— which took a surprisingly long time, really.

"Boy," he began again, "I should have prepared you for this."

"...For what?"

"I- Do not interrupt— I should have prepared you for the.. charms and wiles of… the other sex."

Darcy wrinkled his nose in confusion. "The other what?"

"I know it's tempting," his father sighed, his aged forehead coming down to crease between his eyes, "But you were not bred for the likes of her. You were destined for greatness, William. Do you want to stray from the path of greatness?"

"No," Darcy said, because it seemed like the right answer.

It was. His father nodded sagely, and lifted his eyes to actually look at him. "Now. Our family has been a cornerstone of the gentry for generations— we must not break the chain, William. It is better to leave that kind of girl," he nodded discreetly towards Lizzy's door, "Where she belongs. Do you understand?"

William Darcy understood nothing of the sort— he only understood he was expected to keep his mouth closed at times like this.

Thus, the protological son nodded, and was rewarded with a clap on the back. "I'm glad. Now, back to the schoolroom— I believe Monsieur Greene has been kept waiting for far too long. Off you go, then."

The rest of the day, Darcy had been cloistered in bookshelves and between desks, held hostage by the tutors and tormented by the thought that he had a friend just a few doors down that he was not allowed to see. Even at supper, he couldn't talk to her; Mrs. Reynolds had brought her up a tray of food.

"Pardon me," he had asked timidly (he was no longer sure how to address the woman, after Lizzy had pointed out his rudeness. He thought it was customary to talk to servants in that manner, but…), "But… would you mind if I sat with Lizzy while she ate?"

Mrs. Reynolds had taken on a pitying look, her lips mashing together. "My apologies, young master William. But.. your father specifically instructed you weren't to be allowed in."

His eyes stung. He had been looking forward to MAYBE seeing her all through his classes, and now… now...

"Oh dear, don't give me that look," Mrs. Reynolds said, fussing with her sleeves as she glanced away. "I'm sure he'll come 'round. It'll be good for you to have a friend."

"Not if I never ever see her," Darcy replied petulantly. He knew he was acting like a child, but.. wasn't a person allowed to be selfish, once in their life?

The older woman chewed the inside of her lip, a look of intense indecisiveness upon her brow. Then she let out a breath, and slumped her shoulders. She gave Darcy a half smile.

"Run along to your room," she whispered. "Miss Lizzy mentioned earlier that she is a voracious reader— and she really has nothing to do in that room— and I can't stop you from showing hospitality.. now can I?"

Darcy gazed up at the woman with an emerging grin. He bobbed his head, too overwhelmed with the joy of having a wish granted to speak.

He had rushed to his quarters and practically thrown over his bookshelf looking for things a person such as Lizzy might like. What WOULD she like? It occurred to Darcy that perhaps she hadn't been so wrong to suggest they get to know each other better.

After a painstaking process of deliberation, he chose Gulliver's Travels, a historical piece about the crusades, and a collection of Hans Christian Anderson that he hadn't touched since he was seven.

By the time he finished picking them out, and showed up at Lizzy's door bouncing on the balls of his feet, Mrs. Reynolds had gone, and a different servant he didn't know was leaving her room with an empty dinner tray.

"Um, excuse me," He began, holding up the books, "But may I come in? I have some gifts for Lizzy."

The maid— who was middle aged, and had an upturned nose— narrowed her eyes at him. "I'LL give them to Miss Lizzy," she said, the distrust evident in every syllable.

Darcy furrowed his brow. "Mrs. Reynolds said I could drop them off."

"And you've done a mighty fine job of that, sir," the maid answered firmly, "You've dropped them off to me, and I'll drop them off to Miss Lizzy."

The maid held her hands out to him expectantly, eyebrows raised. Darcy scowled. He wasn't sure what she was angry with him for, but whatever it was it must be bad. And so with a heavy feeling of guilty disappointment, he placed the stack of books in her hands. Then he left the way he came, metaphorical tail between his legs.

Now, hours later, Darcy was alone in the torn-about shell of his room. Still sitting on the floor. Not crying. He never did that.

He was just… hugging his knees, sitting, that was all. He thought he could see the stars through the backlit curtain of his bedroom window, but that may have just been dust. It had been a while since he wanted to see the sky.

Why didn't his father like Lizzy? She was dirty, and opinionated, and funny and unashamed of how she felt. She had a grin that could melt Antarctica, a laugh that could shake mountain tops.

She was.. well, she was different.. from what was.. normal. Maybe that was it. Maybe that was why he liked her… and father didn't.

There was a knock at his door.

When he opened it, he saw it must not have been a knock, but a kick. Lizzy was propped up on her elbows, a trail of bandages following her like footprints. She smiled.

"Good evening, William," she said cordially from the floor. "How are you?"

He gaped down at her, thrilled and appalled and utterly mixed-up inside. He ended up saying (after too long of a pause), "I'm well."

She blinked at him. He blinked back. She scooted a little forward. "Well. Aren't you going to invite me in?"