Author's note: Wow… I certainly had not expected such an enthusiastic response to a story focussing on someone who can barely be considered canon! Thank you, everyone!

Just a warning for this particular chapter: things are pretty harsh here for a bit. Keep in mind that Hartwell is seriously scarred by his experiences; this story is certainly no happy-go-lucky romantic young lovers' fluff, even if there will be a romantic happy ending in the end. (*grin* Yes, I'll give you that…) I'm even contemplating switching the genre to Family/Drama instead, although I suspect that at least the children will provide some comic relief as well.

.

It is a three day carriage ride from Hertfordshire back to Matlock. And even though his children (Henry at thirteen, Ginny at twelve, and Philip aged eight) were in the carriage with him together with their governess, Lord Hartwell had plenty of time to think.

And think he did.

He had been alone for the better part of twelve years – in practice, if not according to the law.

And seeing his cousin's happiness with his bride seemed to have awakened something in him: an envy, a longing if you will. A longing to experience that same supreme happiness that Darcy now had. A woman he could be equally besotted about, and one whose face lit up at the mere sight of him, as Darcy's bride's did. Could it really be possible?

Looking at the bare facts, there was little to stop him. He was a widower of three years, with his mourning period long behind him. He was not yet forty (well, just a few months short), still reasonably handsome, and he already had his heir and spare. His family was rich as Croesus, and as the de facto master and the next Earl of…

Stop it, he chided himself. Looking at money and connections got you the nightmare named Agnes. If you are serious about considering finding a new wife for the sake of obtaining Darcy's happiness for yourself, you will have to take a page from Darcy's book. Which means to hell with society's expectations.

He wondered how Darcy had gone about it. He had been as much the prize fox in the hunt as he himself had been - especially after his father died and he gained full control over his family fortune. He had nevertheless lasted what… six? Seven seasons? And then there was this Miss Bennet, now Mrs Darcy.

Where had he found her? Had she had a season in town? But with her background, they would hardly have moved in the same circles, which made meeting long enough to fall in love highly unlikely.

He would have to get the story from them some day. The past few days had been so hectic that they had at most exchanged a few sentences at a time. But the new Mr and Mrs Darcy had invited them to come and celebrate the holiday season at Pemberley next month. Surely there would be better opportunities then than there had been at a crowded Netherfield housing all the Bingleys, Darcys, Fitzwilliams and Gardiners.

Such a visit would also give him the opportunity to observe the happy couple a month into their marriage. Would their bliss have lasted beyond their wedding night? Mrs Darcy seemed genuine enough – but then again, so had Agnes all the way up to their wedding day. There was no telling what he would find at Pemberley a month from now.

He was pulled from his reverie by his youngest moving over to curl up beside him.

He put his arm around the boy. "Are you cold?"

Philip nodded, and he pulled the boy onto his lap, arranging the plaid around him and hugging him close.

Philip cuddled up to his chest, and he pressed a kiss in his soft dark hair. He may not have sprung from his seed, but he loved the boy so very much. Certainly no less than the other two.

It had not always been like that. At first he had been utterly resentful of the boy, even if he pretended for the world that he was proud to have his spare. He could not in all good conscience ignore him completely, but he had been far less involved in his early life than he had been with the older two. And even when he did condescend to play with him (for that was how it felt), he had been far more occupied with angry, resentful thoughts for Agnes than with the little boy before him.

Until one day, when something as inconsequential as little Philip's trusting smile and outstretched arms asking him for a hug had broken something in him. He had grabbed the boy off the floor and hugged him tighter than he ever had before, all the while choking out how sorry he was. "It's alright; I'm sorry, Philip. It's not your fault. I will try and be a better father for you, I promise. A father worthy of a lovely boy like you."

It had taken time. And struggle. But by now, the thought of Philip actually being another man's son rarely crossed his mind anymore. He loved the boy with all his heart, and would not miss him for the world.

Virginia (or Ginny as he usually called her), who was sitting across from him with her feet pulled up on the seat and engrossed in a book, presented an entirely different challenge for him. It had been glaringly obvious from the start that she had inherited her mother's features and overly fair colouring. If it wasn't for his unfortunate large ears that had made it into the mix, she would be a perfect replica of her mother. And the more she matured, the more pronounced the resemblance became.

It often led him to be overly strict with her, as if he wanted to prevent her from developing the same loose morals as her mother's.

It wasn't always fair. Of course it wasn't fair: Ginny was not her mother. In fact, she was a lovely girl: bright, mischievous and friendly, and eager to help anyone who seemed to need it. Yet it was as if he felt an irrepressible craving to control at least one of them. And sometimes, when he was so angry with her that he lost his temper, it could happen that he lashed out at her real harshly. As if he were projecting his resentment of Agnes onto poor Ginny.

He always regretted it immediately. And deeply. It was so utterly unfair. But sometimes it just slipped out.

Earlier this year he had taken the plunge and explained to her why he was sometimes so harsh to her. It had been a fraught conversation; he still recalled it word for word.

Ginny and Philip had gone outside to play after their lessons that day. When they were nowhere to be found for tea, it had raised some eyebrows, but no one was overly concerned; the weather was fine after all. Let them play outside; surely they would come in when they got hungry.

When at dinner time there was still no sign of them, and he discovered that no one had seen them since they went outside shortly after the noon, fear for their fate had suddenly gripped him and he had almost frantically called for search parties to assemble.

They were just dividing up the search area when the two lost lambs came scampering over the hill, innocent as babes unborn.

Once he had assured himself that they were perfectly unharmed, his relief had turned to fury when he had learned that they had walked all the way to Bakewell, the nearest market town some three miles away, in order to see a Punch and Judy show they had heard the staff talking about – when neither of them was allowed to leave the park unchaperoned.

Philip had been repentant enough when he saw his father so angry, and he had quickly obeyed the order to go to bed right away with no dinner.

In Ginny however, he had had a defensive and rebellious young lady on his hands. "It's not fair!" she had yelled at him. "Henry has been allowed to go to town by himself since he was ten! And I'm twelve now, and you are still keeping me on a leash!"

His argument that she was a girl and it wasn't safe carried no weight with her. She considered herself old enough to take care of herself in the familiar surroundings of Bakewell, and responsible enough to look after Philip as well. Besides, she had taunted, nothing happened, so what was he so angry about?

It was that taunting tone that had really made him lose his temper. "You deliberately ignored every rule in this house, young lady – that's what I'm angry about!" he had roared.

"I did not!"

"You did, too! And you dragged along Philip in your hare-brained scheme as well! What were you thinking?! He is only seven!"

"I can take care of him!"

"It doesn't matter if you can take care of him or not; you were not allowed to leave this park – neither of you!"

"Well, those rules are terribly outdated! I'm not a baby anymore; for Pete's sake, I'm twelve years old! Why can't you grant me a little freedom, like Henry? Don't you trust me?!"

Those last words had done it: at that moment, she had looked and sounded so much like her mother, that he forgot who he was talking to. And in a reflex, totally livid, he had lashed out at her. "And what bloody reason have you ever given me to trust you, eh? The way you have been going, I cannot even trust you at an arm's length!"

Somehow, those words had punctured her indignation. She had just stood there, staring at him with her mouth half open, her eyes, her expression, her entire posture a witness of how much he had just wounded her with his words.

But before his brain had fully caught up and processed what he had blurted out, his daughter had burst out in tears and ran off inside.

For a few moments, he had just stood there. Numb. Until the import of his words truly sank in.

Had the ground before him opened up at that moment to swallow him whole, he would have welcomed it.

But he had more important things to do. His daughter, his dear, dear Ginny… he had hurt her so badly he wasn't sure he would ever be able to make it right again. But he would have to try. He would have to try with all his might to convince her that he did love her. And did trust her. That those words, those hateful words he just said were not meant for her, but for someone else. There was nothing for it: he would have to explain his fraught relationship with her mother. At least some of it.

With leaden feet, he trudged inside and upstairs to her rooms. At least he hoped that was where she had gone. Going by the sounds coming from behind her door, he had guessed right.

He knocked. But there was no reaction.

He knocked again. Still no reaction.

The sound of her wailing pierced his soul. The only other time he had heard her cry like that was when her pet rabbit had died.

And this time he was the cause of her pain.

He knocked again. But when there was still no reply, he took a deep breath for courage and pushed open the door. "Ginny? I am sorry."

"Go away," she choked out.

Instead, he came into the room and closed the door behind him.

She was lying face-down on the sofa, crying in utter despair.

His heart clenched. This was his doing. He had to fix this – somehow.

He sat down beside her and placed a hopefully comforting hand on her back. "I am sorry, sweetheart. I am so, so sorry."

At least she did not push him away.

For a long while, the tableau remained unchanged: she lay crying on the sofa, and he sat next to her, repeatedly offering his heartfelt apologies without getting any response.

But at long last, she turned over to face him. "Why can't you trust me?" she questioned plaintively. "I don't understand – what did I do? Is it so bad that I went to Bakewell without supervision, when Henry does it every week at least?"

Her tear-stained face was an accusation in itself, and tentatively, he reached out to her. He wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and cherish her as he had never cherished her before, but he sensed it was too soon. He needed to mend at least some of his fences first.

"Ginny." He rubbed her arm a little. "Those words were not meant for you. I should not have said them. I am so, so sorry."

"But you did say them," she accused him.

"Yes." He sighed, and rubbed his face. "And I deeply regret that they slipped out. But please believe me when I say that those words have nothing to do with you. For I love you; I love you with all my heart, and I do trust you. Really."

Her skeptical look was hardly surprising, but that did not make it hurt any less.

"Will you please allow me to explain myself?"

She nodded mutely before pushing herself up into a sitting position and immediately pull back to the far corner of the sofa. Another brush at her tears, a violent sniff…

He pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to her. She blew her nose, once more brushed at her tears and then looked at him. So warily he could have cried.

"I promise I will not try and justify myself; I was wrong, and I know that I was wrong. I should not have said that. But if you will allow me to explain why it happened…?"

A reluctant nod.

He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath before looking her in the eye again – imploring her, begging her to understand. "Ginny, have I ever told you how much you look like your mother?"

Timidly, the girl shook her head. "I do remember she was as blond as me though," she added, her voice still quite unsteady.

"Yes. Well, as it is, you are really the spitting image of her. And now that you are maturing into a young lady, the resemblance is getting more and more striking. If it wasn't for your ears, you could be twins."

The girl groaned, and covered her outstanding ears. "I hate my ears."

"I don't. In fact, I love your ears. You inherited them from me, and they are proof positive that you are my daughter, my dear Virginia Fitzwilliam. And that you really are not your mother."

Silence.

"But what does that have to do with anything? I know you didn't like her very much, but…"

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Confessing the truth to his children was never going to be easy. "Ginny, your mother and I despised each other."

"Oh." A frown. "Then why did you marry her?"

A sigh. "That is a long story; we had better leave that for another time. What I am trying to explain now, is that your mother hurt me. Badly. Real badly, time and time again – and deliberately."

Ginny's eyes widened. "She hit you?!"

"No. She hurt me with her behaviour. But most of all with her words. And you have just experienced yourself how much words can hurt."

She nodded vaguely.

Another sigh. "I suppose I hurt her with my words, too; I am certainly not some innocent martyr. But the thing is…" He rubbed his neck, trying to find the right words to explain. "Sometimes, like tonight, when I am really, really angry with you over something…" Another pause. "It is as if… as if… You two are beginning to look so much alike, that in my anger, it is as if I can't tell the difference anymore. It is as if when I see you, and my mind registers the anger I feel towards you at that moment, it automatically interprets the situation in the old familiar pattern of fighting with your mother." He hesitated. "Does that make sense?"

To his relief, she nodded subdued. "So what you said was actually something you would say to my mother."

"Yes." He sighed. "I know. Not exactly a shining example of how to treat other people."

She made no reply; instead, she fidgeted with a tassel on one of the pillows. He wanted to reach out to her, pull her in his arms. But something in her demeanour still told him it was too early yet.

Her next question confirmed that. "Do you hate me, too?"

"What?! No! Not at all! I love you, sweetie; you are a wonderful girl! I would not miss you for the world!"

"But you said I'm just like my mother. And you said yourself that you despised her."

"No, sweetheart, you misunderstood – I am sorry. I said you look just like her, and there is no denying that you do. But in character, you are very, very different from your mother. In fact, you are a Fitzwilliam through and through: you are friendly, and bright; you have a great sense of humour, and you are always ready to help others. You are a truly wonderful girl, and I love you very very much. Actually, you often remind me of your Uncle Richard when he was a boy. He was quite the mischievous scamp, but then a scamp with the biggest heart in all of England!"

She had a small chuckle; he was happy to hear it. "Really?"

"Really. Though he will probably deny it if you ask him." He hesitated, then stretched out his hand to her. "Ginny… Do you think you can ever forgive me for what I said tonight?"

She wavered for a moment; then, to his relief, she nodded. "But please don't say things like that again?"

He nodded earnestly. "I will do whatever I can to keep my temper and my tongue in check. For I love you with all my heart. You are a truly wonderful girl, and you have never done anything to deserve such harsh words. And no matter how much you look like her, you are not your mother."

The next moment he had his daughter on his lap and her arms tightly around his neck. At age twelve, she was getting a little big for that, but in cases such as these, the physical closeness gave them both some much needed comfort.

"I love you, Papa," she croaked in his neck. "I love you so very very much. Please don't ever say things like that again."

It sounded as if she was crying again.

Then again, so was he.

In the weeks – or rather months – that followed, she had proceeded to hug him and tell him that she loved him at every turn, as if to imprint upon him that she was not her mother, and that she did love him. She was such a dear and affectionate girl… And so very different from the woman she resembled so much in looks.

Still, with the memory of Agnes slowly fading into the background, he did have some hope that in time, he would be able to see his daughter without being reminded of his despicable wife. It would be a blessing indeed. For both of them.

Henry in comparison presented him with the least problems in that arena. Both in appearance and in disposition he was an interesting mix of the three Fitzwilliam brothers. He was in fact really happy to see clear traces of his late brother in his son and heir as well.

Gregory and he had been born only a year apart, and they had been practically joined at the hip as soon as Gregory could walk. In true Fitzwilliam tradition however, they had been sent off to Eton awfully young.

And then a bad case of scarlet fever had raged through the school. He had survived, but Gregory had succumbed. Leaving him to deal with the homesickness and the older boys' bullying all by himself.

He had begged his father to let him come home again. But his father refused, claiming that Eton would make a man out of him.

Perhaps it did. It was hard to tell. But as a result, he was loath to send off his own son to that same institution that held so many bad memories for him. His father pressured him about it every time they met. But he stood his ground. He would only consider it if Henry would ask for it himself, but so far, his son seemed happy enough at home studying with their governess and his tutors. If it was up to him, he would keep him home until he was ready for Cambridge.

He looked at his eldest across the carriage, where he was in an earnest discussion with Miss Kenway, their governess. He was growing up so fast… Thirteen already. Soon he would be shooting up, with his voice changing, and getting interested in girls… He suspected it would be quite an adventure to guide his son through all those changes to adulthood. But he was an honourable lad, honest, diligent and intelligent. He was sure he would turn out well.

It was already dark when their carriage finally pulled into the courtyard of the Matlock estate. The rattling of the wheels on the cobblestones woke up even Philip, who had dozed off in his father's arms.

Mrs Keith, the housekeeper, was standing in the doorway to welcome them home, and as soon as the footmen had placed the step and opened the door, Henry jumped out.

"Hello, Mrs Keith! Have you missed us?"

"Not at all!" she teased. "It was ever so nice and quiet – and I did not have to worry about finding frogs in unexpected places."

Henry grinned, and ran inside.

The footman handed Miss Kenway out, and then received the sleepy Philip from his father's arms.

Miss Kenway took her youngest charge by the hand. "Come on, Philip, let us get inside. I will be very much surprised if there is not a nice warm fire and some sweet hot cocoa waiting for us."

Ginny joined them, and Hartwell watched the threesome go in. He would join them in a moment; he just wanted to stretch his legs a little first. And a quiet moment of solitude.

As the carriage rattled away behind him towards the stables, he let his eyes wander over the house, with its warmly lit up windows here and there. He sighed in contentment. It was good to be home.

Not that he was often away; in fact, he rarely left his estate. But if this vague idea of finding a new wife would turn into something serious, he would have to.

He sighed. He dreaded going back to London. He had not been back there after Agnes's death either, other than one quick trip to take care of some legalities around her death. To be honest, he would prefer it if the ton would altogether forget that he existed.

But London was the place to find a wife, no matter how much he hated the process of being hunted for sport. At least he had learned his lesson, and he would zealously guard himself from making the same mistake again.

But there were undoubtedly other mistakes he could make. Besides, what guarantee did he have that this year's marriage market was populated by better, more sincere ladies than in his day? Ladies he could trust? Ladies who did not try to compromise or ensnare him at every turn, and instead would allow him the time to really get to know them?

And if such ladies indeed existed, where had they been hiding last time? If he could not find them back then, where would he find them now?

He sighed, and bit his lip. If indeed he were to go to London this winter, as the next Earl of Matlock and a still youngish widower he was bound to be branded the prize fox again – even at his age. The whole foxhunt would just start all over again. Was he truly up to that? Was it worth it?

He pictured Darcy in his mind. With his bride. And immediately, that envy, that longing washed over him again, involuntarily making him clench his hands.

He closed his eyes. "Stop it," he muttered to himself. "You can't have everything. You have three lovely and healthy children, you have a flourishing estate, you have some good friends among your relatives… Surely you are not unhappy anymore?"

Indeed he was not. He knew he was not unhappy. But it was as if seeing Darcy's besottedness with his wife had suddenly lit up a dark corner of his life, the existence of which he had not even been aware of. And now that he knew it was there, it was impossible to unsee it. To not long for its realization in his own life.

He laid his head in his neck in frustration. Face it – he had better keep a clear head. Chances were that the love between Darcy and his wife was already beginning to crumble as well. In a month, he would know.

No. He would have to go and see them before that. From what he had heard, Pemberley would be as full for Christmas as Netherfield had been this past week, and he knew all too well that it is far easier to keep up appearances in a large gathering than in a one-on-one setting.

Yes. That is what he would do. He would go and see them alone. In a few weeks, he would ride over to Pemberley for a day on some pretext, and check out the lay of the land. For if he were to brave the shark-infested ponds of the marriage market again, he wanted to have some reassurance that it was indeed possible to find love that lasted beyond one's wedding day.