My dear Fitzwilliam,

Happy nineteenth birthday, dear boy. I suppose I should stop calling you boy, for at nine-and-ten you surely are properly called a man. Yet you are also still quite young and I hope you do not hurry to take on too much responsibility. You should take time to enjoy your youth and your health, to make friends, travel, and pursue amusements.

However, people now will begin to treat you as they would any other man. If you make a mistake, you shall not be able to rely on your father to bail you out of every scrape. You must begin to stand on your own, so be careful. Some actions can have lasting consequences. If you inadvertently compromise a young lady, you will be expected to marry her, despite your young age. Be careful, therefore, my boy. You are to be a rich man, and some ladies will use underhanded tricks to gain your hand and fortune. If you are at a ball, do not go off into other parts of the house without a friend to accompany you. Lock your door at night and if there are young ladies in the house, have your valet remain in your dressing room. I do not wish to have a conniving woman as my replacement.

You are far too young to be looking for a wife at all. I hope you shall not consider marriage until at least three-and-twenty. That, of course, is rather hypocritical, perhaps, as I was two-and-twenty when I married your father. It is different for ladies, though, as you know. I did not marry until my fourth season and I was friends with your father before we wed. I did not marry based on a youthful infatuation. I find that most men who marry near their majority, or even before, come to regret it. Their wife might be pretty, well-connected, and wealthy, but they did not consider her character.

It is the same with ladies who marry in their first season. They have not met enough gentlemen to know what they wish in a husband. Perhaps for some, titles and wealth are all that need be considered. However, I hope you shall follow the legacy that your father and I, as well as your Darcy relations, have left for you. All of our marriages have been based on affection. Some of the time, that affection has been that of friendship, with love coming later. Other times, such as with your father's parents, they had a deep abiding love from the beginning of their courtship. Not all the matches have been the grandest on the Darcy side, but the marriages were happy. I do not think the family suffered too much for not having got a title or more land. Certainly, when compared to the legacy of social climbing and misery on the Fitzwilliam side (with the exception of your Uncle and Aunt Matlock), you must agree the Darcy focus on affection is superior.

My favourite wish for you, my son, is for you to be happy.

I love you,

Mamma

Darcy finished reading the letter a third time and put it down. Certainly his mother's advice about compromises had been apt. The first attempt to compromise him had been when he was twenty, so her advice would have been timely. Although it was always a balm to read his mother's words, the portion of the letter about marrying early was certainly tardy in its delivery. It had been good advice, but he was now well past youthful follies. It was the rest of the letter that interested him.

His mother told him to marry for affection, just as she had, and as was the tradition in the Darcy family. Yet, her marriage to his father had also been very eligible. So had been the marriages of all his relations. Without considering the titles and land that his mother mentioned as inconsequential, each marriage was between people of equal standing in society.

Darcy did not have time to consider the matter much further, for he heard a cry and a crash from the corridor. He ran from his room to find Anne laying on the ground, a vase of flowers shattered into pieces beneath her body. When he reached her, a loud groan escaped her lips, sending a wave of relief over him. She was not dead, which had been his first morbid thought upon seeing her. Shaking away his shock, he carefully scooped his cousin's injured body into his arms. As he did so, he heard the clatter of Richard and several servants approaching. They heard the commotion too, but since they were further away, their response was delayed.

"What happened?" Richard opened the door to Anne's chamber to allow Darcy to carry her through while he spoke.

"I think she collapsed. She was holding flowers when she fell and I don't know if any of the pieces of the broken vase injured her. Make sure a doctor is summoned. A surgeon as well." Darcy carefully placed Anne on her bed, and Richard quickly did as he had been instructed, dispatching two servants to take the swiftest horses and seek aid from Hunsford.

Darcy heard Anne's faint moans of pain, but was unsure if she was aware of her surroundings. Still, he sought to reassure her as Richard took command of the situation, ordering servants to fetch water and towels, to summon Mrs. Jenkinson, and to inform Lady Catherine of her daughter's injury.

The servants moved quickly and quietly about their tasks, their concern for their mistress's health evident in their hurried movements. Mrs. Jenkinson arrived after a few moments. Anne had instructed her to ask the gardener for bigger flowers to fill out the bouquet, which she felt was missing something. These she still held as she rushed into the room.

Lady Catherine's arrival was marked by the sound of her authoritative voice ordering everyone else out of the room. Darcy and Richard both remained unmoved by her command, and they ordered the staff to stay put. They were suspicious of Lady Catherine's judgment when it came to her daughter's health. She let out a loud squawk in displeasure at this impertinence. Richard ordered her to be silent and to let the servants carry out their tasks. She protested but when Darcy threatened to have the footman remove her, she reluctantly complied. When the physician arrived, and she saw it was not the one she preferred, she angrily stepped forward to keep him from entering the room.

"Move aside, Aunt," said Richard.

Lady Catherine bellowed complaints with such rapidity that no one could discern quite what she was saying. Despite her loud protestations, the physician, Mr. Ross, was the one currently available to Anne, so they had no choice but to use his services. Two footmen led Lady Catherine back to her chambers, as the physician did not believe such noise conducive to a healthy environment.

"Thank you," said Anne in a whisper after the door clicked closed behind her mother.

"You are awake, Miss de Bourgh," said Mr. Ross. "How are you feeling?"

"My head hurts." Her voice was strained and her eyes remained closed.

The doctor and Mrs Jenkinson carefully tended to Anne's injuries, while the rest of the room was cleared out. Some pieces of the vase had become imbedded in her chest and stomach. It took a considerable amount of time for the physician to be able to dig these out and stitch up the wounds. He also asked Anne several questions about what she remembered from directly before her collapse. She recalled nothing amiss. She was simply walking down the hall and then everything went black. She had not felt dizzy or faint that she recalled. Afterwards, the physician asked Darcy and the others if anything had seemed amiss with Miss de Bourgh. Other than her ongoing illness, there was nothing to report.

From that point on, Anne had to have someone with her whenever she moved around the house or ventured onto the grounds. Only if she was lying in bed was she to be alone, even for a moment. She, of course, protested this. She would not be treated as an invalid because she swooned once. She was the mistress of Rosings and would do as she liked. No matter how much her cousins tried to convince her this was folly, she would not listen.

"I will carry nothing that might break as the vase did, at least for a while," said Anne. "Nor shall I go far when unaccompanied. Yet, I will not be treated as a child. I have little time left. I will enjoy what I have."

Neither of her cousins could argue with this, but each considered that they should have to watch her carefully from then on. They would not attempt to hinder her movements, but they would not see her come to harm.

When they were no longer needed, Mr. Ross and Mrs. Jenkinson ushered the men out of the room once more. Mrs. Jenkinson swore she would keep Anne in sight until they returned. Colonel Fitzwilliam declared his desire to visit the parsonage, and Darcy decided to accompany him.

"I only have to change my jacket," said Darcy. He was covered in blood and flower water. He did not think that was appropriate for a call. Colonel Fitzwilliam agreed that they would leave in a half hour.

The mess on the floor in the corridor was already cleaned, but Darcy could hear movement coming from his room. Believing that some of the water had flowed into his room, he dismissed the sound as a servant finishing the work. It was not.

Darcy had always thought that the idea of someone's jaw literally dropping when beholding a surprising sight was illogical. Yet, his jaw literally did drop and he was struck dumb upon entering his bedchamber.

"What do you think you are doing?" Darcy bellowed. He darted forward and tore the box of letters from Lady Catherine's hands. She was close to the hearth, the smell of smoke and burning paper filling the air as she threw the letters into the fire.

He quickly pushed his aunt aside and reached into the flames, feeling the heat on his skin as he grabbed the letter she had just dropped. He snuffed out the flame that was beginning to devour the paper. He could still make out most of the letter, although his mother's signature and the bottom portion was gone.

"Get. Out," Darcy said without turning to face his aunt.

"Darcy," his aunt began, her voice stern.

"GET OUT!" he screamed as he rose to his feet and turned on her. "Get out of this room now or I shall not be responsible for my actions!"

Lady Catherine obeyed. Darcy called for a servant to guard her room and asked for another to be stationed outside of her window as well.

Darcy's heart felt numb as he sat down on his bed and began to spread out the remaining letters. All of the letters that he had already opened remained. He looked at the others. The letters for his twenty-third, twenty-fourth, and twenty-fifth birthdays remained, as did the letters for when he was ill and heartbroken. The letter for his engagement was the half-burnt missive he had saved. Only four letters were gone. Four letters full of his mother's advice and love. Her wishes for him upon his twentieth, twenty-first, and twenty-second birthdays, as well as upon his marriage. Her words to him were gone, consumed by the flames. He would never be able to read them.

He tidied the letters that remained into the box. He called for his valet and told him to hide the box very well, somewhere that Lady Catherine would not find it. As much as he wished to read all the letters right then, he did not wish to read them when he was so angry. He changed his coat and joined his cousin so they might call on the parsonage. He felt in great need of Miss Elizabeth's soothing presence.