Note - if you have not read the updated version of chapter 2 you might be confused about this chapter, please go back and read chapter 2 before continuing.
Chapter 3 - Brave Faces
Lady Anne Darcy sat in the carriage watching the magnificent bulk of Windsor Castle come into view. Below it, nestled by the Thames, lay Eton College, where her eight-year-old son would soon begin his new life.
The familiar leather seats of their travelling carriage offered little comfort today. Every jolt of the wheels over the cobblestones seemed to heighten Lady Anne's awareness of her condition, and the usual faint scent of leather and wood polish now made her stomach turn slightly.
She tightened her grip on Fitzwilliam's hand, trying to memorize every detail of his dear face as he pressed against the window, eyes wide with wonder.
"There it is," George Wickham whispered from the opposite seat, his usual confidence subdued. "It's enormous."
Lady Anne felt a surge of maternal affection for both boys - her quiet, serious Fitzwilliam and the more ebullient George, who had spent so many hours at Pemberley he seemed almost like a second son. Now she would lose them both to this imposing institution.
"Your father and I met at Windsor," she said softly, trying to keep her voice steady. "At a ball during the King's birthday celebrations."
"And now our son will be just across the river," George added, his hand finding hers briefly.
The carriage rattled through Eton town and into the school yard. Other carriages were arriving, disgorging boys and their parents. Lady Anne recognized several northern families making the same journey, but she could focus only on the moment when she would have to let her son go.
"Ah, Darcy." A tall, austere man in clerical dress approached as they descended from the carriage. "Welcome to Eton. I am Mr. Hetherington. Young Master Darcy will be in my house, as discussed in our correspondence."
His gaze shifted to George. "And young Wickham will be in Mr. Norbury's house."
Lady Anne felt her heart sink. She had assumed… but of course, how naïve of her to think they would be housed together. Of all people, she should have known how rigid these distinctions could be. Had she not experienced similar separations in her own youth, the careful sorting of people into their proper places?
She watched the boys' faces as the news settled over them. George's usual smile faltered, while Fitzwilliam stood a little straighter, already learning to hide his disappointment behind the mask of dignity expected of a Darcy. They were so young - too young, surely, to be learning these harsh lessons about their different stations in life.
Before they could be led to their separate houses, Lady Anne drew them both aside, reaching into her reticule. "Mrs. Reynolds sent these specially," she said softly, pressing a small package into each boy's hands. "Your favourites - seed cake for you, Fitzwilliam, and those honey biscuits you like, George. Something from home."
She touched each boy's cheek in turn, a gesture she knew might be considered improper by some, showing such affection to a steward's son. But George had spent so many afternoons in her sitting room with Fitzwilliam, both boys sharing treats and stories of their day. How many times had she watched him carefully match his manners to Fitzwilliam's, trying so hard to belong? And now, with this separation, would begin the slow unravelling of their childhood friendship?
Lady Anne watched as her husband stepped forward, his expression carefully composed. There was a gentleness in the way he placed his hand on George's shoulder, guiding him toward Norbury's house - the perfect balance of kindness and propriety that George seemed to understand instinctively. This was why she had married him, she thought, this ability to maintain dignity while showing compassion. She would have preferred that the boys were prepared for this separation, but it was too late now to do anything about it.
How many times had she watched them together at Pemberley - Fitzwilliam and George sharing books in the library, taking tea in her sitting room, racing their ponies across the grounds? She had encouraged their friendship, delighting in how George's natural vivacity drew her serious son out of his shell, how Fitzwilliam's quiet steadiness seemed to ground George's more impetuous nature.
She should have known Eton would not permit such easy companionship to continue unchanged. George would have understood, she thought. He had always been remarkably perceptive about such things, carefully adjusting his behaviour depending on who was present. But Fitzwilliam, for all his awareness of duty and position, had never quite grasped why his friend should be treated differently.
As she watched her husband accompany George into Norbury's, she remembered his earlier words: "Perhaps we might stay a few days in Windsor. To ensure the boys are properly settled."
"Now then," Mr. Hetherington said, turning to where she stood with Fitzwilliam, "shall we see your quarters, Master Darcy?"
Lady Anne kept her hand on Fitzwilliam's shoulder as they followed Mr. Hetherington into his house. She had been in such buildings before, of course - the great public schools were all similar in their ancient grandeur - but never as a mother leaving her eight-year-old son. Every shadow seemed longer, every corridor more imposing.
The dormitory was full of other families performing this same ritual of settling their sons. Fathers stood tall, offering last-minute advice about upholding family honour, while mothers fussed with bedding and arranged belongings.
Lady Anne recognized several families from northern society. Sir John Fairfax was speaking quietly to his son Thomas, while Lady Fairfax arranged books on a nearby desk. The Fairfaxes would be glad of Thomas and Fitzwilliam's acquaintance, she knew - good northern families should stick together at Eton. She exchanged a knowing look with Lady Fairfax, both of them pretending not to notice how their sons kept glancing anxiously at their mothers.
The Markhams were there too, though Lady Anne noted how Mrs. Markham seemed determined to mention her husband's new connection to the Duke of Devonshire to anyone who would listen. Social climbing was so tedious, especially here where everyone was trying to establish their son's place in the complex hierarchy of an Eton house.
She watched how the other parents managed these delicate moments differently. Some fathers were already withdrawing behind stern advice about family honour, while others lingered, clearly reluctant to leave. A few mothers were weeping openly, making their sons uncomfortable. Lady Anne was determined to maintain her composure - Fitzwilliam had enough to manage without worrying about her.
She found herself studying the other boys who would be sharing her son's daily life. Some already knew each other, forming small groups and eyeing newcomers with interest. The subtle signals of rank and connection were already at play - who spoke to whom, who stood apart, whose father commanded the most deference from Mr. Hetherington. She wondered if Fitzwilliam noticed these undercurrents, or if George, in his house across the yard, was already navigating them with his natural charm.
Lady Anne found herself assessing her son's place in this intricate social web. As Lord Milton's cousin and heir to Pemberley, Fitzwilliam would be expected to take a leading position among his peers. Yet she knew her quiet, serious boy would find it challenging - he had none of George's easy charm or Richard's natural confidence. Would the other boys mistake his reserve for pride? Would they understand that behind his formal manner lay a gentle heart?
She busied herself with arranging his belongings, turning each familiar item from home into a small ceremony of care. How many times had she supervised the maids packing his things at Pemberley? Now each carefully folded shirt, each well-loved book seemed to carry the weight of her love, her worry, her hopes for him. She found herself wondering how George was faring in Norbury's, grateful that her husband was there to smooth his way.
The sound of measured footsteps in the doorway drew her attention. Her husband had returned, his expression composed but with a slight tension around his eyes that only she would notice. He had always been better at maintaining proper distance, she thought, while she struggled to hide her maternal feelings behind the mask of social propriety.
"Young Wickham is settled with Mr. Norbury," he said quietly, coming to stand beside her. His hand found the small of her back, offering silent support. "A good house for him, I think. Several sons of professional men there."
Lady Anne heard what he wasn't saying - that George would find his own level there, away from the higher expectations of Hetherington's house. She wondered if their kindness in sending George to Eton might prove cruel in the end, making him too aware of the differences in station that Pemberley had somewhat softened.
Her husband's voice dropped lower, meant only for her ears. "I've arranged for us to stay a few days at the Castle Inn. To ensure the boys are properly settled."
Lady Anne felt a rush of gratitude for his understanding. He hadn't mentioned her red-rimmed eyes or trembling hands, but had anticipated her need to stay close, at least for these first few days. His quiet thoughtfulness, so often hidden behind his reserved manner, was one of the reasons she had fallen in love with him.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Perhaps… perhaps we might arrange for the boys to take tea with us tomorrow? After their first full day?"
"I'll speak with Mr. Hetherington about it," he promised. "Though we must be careful not to make things more difficult for them. Especially for George."
She nodded, understanding what he meant. Too much attention from the Darcys might make George's position among his peers more complicated than it already was.
"Now then," he said, his voice returning to its normal volume as he turned to their son. "All settled then?" He asked Fitzwilliam.
Lady Anne turned back to her son and took in the image of him standing next to his bed, looking so serious.
"Yes, Father," Fitzwilliam replied, his voice strained. "Mother helped me arrange everything."
Mr. Darcy nodded, his gaze taking in the neat arrangement of books and writing materials. "Very good. The carriage is waiting, and we should let you begin settling in properly." He placed a hand on Fitzwilliam's shoulder, and Lady Anne noticed the gentleness in the gesture, belying his matter-of-fact tone.
"Remember who you are, son," he said. "A Darcy of Pemberley."
Lady Anne stepped forward, unable to resist drawing Fitzwilliam into one last embrace. "Write to us as soon as you're settled," she whispered, trying to pour all her love into these final moments. "And remember, my darling, you make me proud every day."
She felt Fitzwilliam's arms tighten around her, and breathed in the familiar scent of his freshly washed hair. "I love you, Mother," he whispered, his voice trembling slightly.
"We'll see you at half-term," Mr. Darcy said, his tone carefully measured though his hand remained gentle on Fitzwilliam's shoulder. "Your cousins will look after you until then."
"Yes, Sir." Fitzwilliam's voice was barely steady, but he stood very straight, exactly as a Darcy should.
Lady Anne allowed herself one final glance as they left the dormitory, catching sight of her son's brave attempt at composure before the door closed behind them. The image stayed with her as they walked down the corridor - her little boy, standing so straight and serious beside his neatly arranged belongings, trying so hard to be the Darcy heir when all she could see was her child.
Lady Anne's steps faltered almost imperceptibly as they left the dormitory. George's hand found the small of her back, steadying her as they walked down the long corridor. Neither spoke until they reached the stairs, the echo of their footsteps filling the silence.
They passed other parents in the stairwell - Mrs. Markham dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, while her husband looked uncomfortable. Lady Anne kept her composure, though her hands were clasped tightly together. She found herself grateful for George's quiet strength beside her, his understanding that needed no words.
The autumn sunlight seemed harsh after the dim corridors of the house. The stone walls still held the morning's chill, and the scent of beeswax and old wood hung in the air - the same scents Lady Anne remembered from her brothers' school days. Now they would become part of her son's memories too.. Lady Anne paused in the yard, her eyes drawn to the windows of Norbury's house, wondering which one belonged to young George Wickham. How different his first night would be from Fitzwilliam's, surrounded by strangers who might view him with suspicion rather than the easy acceptance he'd known at Pemberley.
"The carriage is waiting," George said quietly, his voice carrying its usual authority, though she could detect the slight strain around his eyes.
Lady Anne nodded, not quite trusting her voice. As they settled into the carriage, she allowed herself one final glance at the great buildings of Eton, looming against the sky. Somewhere within those ancient walls, two boys who had grown up together were beginning very different journeys.
The carriage door closed with a decisive click, and George gave the signal to depart. As they pulled away from the school, he covered her hand briefly with his own. "The river walk provides an excellent view of the chapel," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "We might hear the evening bells from there."
Lady Anne managed a small smile, grateful for his understanding. "Yes," she said simply as she found a handkerchief to wipe her eyes dry. "I should like that very much."
The Castle Inn stood proudly on Windsor's high street, its well-maintained facade a testament to its status as the finest establishment in town. As their carriage drew up to the entrance, Lady Anne noticed another familiar conveyance already in the courtyard - her brother's travelling coach, bearing the Earl of Matlock's arms.
"William is here," she said, straightening slightly. "And Lady Matlock."
"Yes," George replied. "I thought you might appreciate your sister-in-law's company today."
Inside, the air was warm and carried the scent of beeswax candles and fresh flowers. The familiar sounds of a busy inn - servants' footsteps on the stairs, the distant clatter from the kitchens, the murmur of voices from other private parlours - seemed both too loud and oddly muffled to Lady Anne's sensitive ears.
The Earl of Matlock was waiting in the private parlour, his commanding presence somewhat softened by the genuine warmth in his expression as Lady Anne entered. "Well, sister, we've done it - delivered our boys to Eton's tender mercies."
Lady Matlock sat in a chair by the window, her small white dog nestled in her lap. Her serene presence seemed to soften the room's formal atmosphere. Her older daughters, Lady Charlotte and Lady Mary, had positioned themselves by the window overlooking the road to Eton, eagerly watching for glimpses of their brothers. Little Lady Rowena dozed in her nurse's arms nearby, who rocked her while keeping an eye on Lady Henrietta, who was busy arranging her dolls in a careful tableau. Charles sat quietly with his picture book, occasionally glancing up at his older sisters, while the governess sat near him.
"No, no," Henrietta corrected her favourite doll earnestly, "you must bow deeper than that. Edward says a proper bow shows proper respect."
"Will Edward teach me to bow properly too, when I go to Eton?" Charles asked softly.
"Of course he will," Lady Charlotte assured him from her post by the window. "Edward teaches everyone everything. Though Richard says half of what Edward teaches isn't in any book."
"Richard says lots of things he shouldn't," Lady Mary added knowingly, pressing her face against the glass. "That's why Edward has to keep telling him to behave properly."
"Come, Anne dear," Lady Matlock said, her gentle voice carrying easily despite its softness. "You must be in need of tea after such a morning."
"Edward took his responsibilities quite seriously," Lady Matlock observed, stroking her dog's ears. "He will make certain Fitzwilliam is properly settled before the day is over. Though I suspect Richard was more interested in showing Fitzwilliam all the places he shouldn't go."
"And young Wickham?" she added after a moment, her careful tone suggesting she understood all the complexities of the situation.
"Oh! There they are!" Lady Charlotte exclaimed, pressing closer to the window. "Edward is showing them the way to chapel - see how Fitzwilliam tries to walk exactly like him?"
Lady Mary had already joined her sister. "Richard's not even pretending to walk properly," she reported with all the disapproval a seven-year-old could muster. "And who's that other boy with them?"
"That would be young Wickham," George replied, his tone measured. "He's settled in Norbury's house - several sons of professional men there. He should find his place easily enough."
Lady Matlock remained serenely in her chair, her small white dog dozing in her lap. "I do hope Edward remembers to write," she murmured, seemingly more to her dog than the room at large. "Though Richard never does, unless he needs something."
Lady Anne felt a wave of dizziness that had nothing to do with the morning's emotions. She had been suspecting for a few days now, but hadn't yet shared her hopes with George. The noise and movement in the parlour suddenly seemed overwhelming - Lady Henrietta's quiet game had evolved into a whispered conversation with her dolls, while Lady Rowena stirred in her nurse's arms.
The Earl of Matlock turned to George. "Perhaps we might discuss those matters we spoke of earlier? In my private parlour?"
As the gentlemen left, little Lady Rowena, having woken fully from her doze, wriggled free of her nurse's arms and toddled over to Lady Anne. "Up?" she asked, holding out her arms trustingly.
Lady Anne lifted her niece onto her lap, breathing in the sweet, clean scent of the child's hair. The familiar weight of a small body in her arms brought both comfort and a sharp awareness of her own suspicions about her condition.
"My dear," Lady Matlock observed languidly from her chair, "you do look rather pale. Though Rowena seems quite content with you. She fusses so with most people. I'm sure the boys will be perfectly comfortable. Edward is quite capable, though I wish he wouldn't walk quite so far in this heat."
Lady Anne stroked Rowena's soft curls, so like Fitzwilliam's had been at that age. The familiar gesture brought back memories of other children she had held, had loved, had lost. Her arms tightened slightly around her niece.
"Mama says Edward will look after Fitzwilliam," Mary announced with a child's simple certainty, as Rowena playing with the ribbon on Lady Anne's dress.
"Edward says he'll teach Fitzwilliam all the secret passages," Lady Charlotte added from her post by the window. "Just like he showed Richard when he started."
Lady Anne swallowed hard. If only all of life's uncertainties could be settled with such childish confidence. Her free hand drifted unconsciously to her middle, where hope warred with terror. She had been here before - the early suspicions, the cautious joy, the desperate prayers. And then the devastating loss, three times over.
"Anne?" Lady Matlock's voice cut through her thoughts, unusually sharp despite its softness. When Lady Anne looked up, she found her sister-in-law's typically languid gaze focused intently upon her. "Perhaps you might wish to rest before dinner? The journey has been taxing."
But Lady Anne barely heard her. The weight of Rowena in her arms, the sound of Lady Henrietta's childish chatter, Lady Charlotte and Mary's excited observations - it was all too much, too painful a reminder of what she had lost, what she might lose again.
"Mama," Lady Charlotte called from the window, "I think I can see them in the courtyard again. Edward's showing them the way to the dining hall."
"Indeed?" Lady Matlock murmured, her seemingly idle gaze never leaving Lady Anne's face. "I trust they won't be late for dinner. Edward is quite particular about punctuality. Though Richard, I fear, considers it a virtue best admired in others."
Lady Mary pressed her face against the glass. "Richard's walking properly now. Edward must have said something."
"Edward says something rather frequently," Lady Matlock observed, adjusting her dog's position in her lap. "Though I find it remarkable how seldom anyone appears to listen. Anne, my dear, do move away from that draft. The window seat is quite pleasant, and you might see the boys for yourself."
The window seat was further from the noise of Lady Henrietta's play, and the movement would give Lady Anne a moment to compose herself.
"Look!" Mary exclaimed. "There's Cousin Fitzwilliam - he's carrying books just like Edward does!"
Lady Matlock's hand stilled on her dog's ears. "How fascinating," she said, tone languid. "Though perhaps we might ring for tea? The journey has been rather long, and I'm sure Anne would appreciate some refreshment."
The nurse rang the bell arrange for tea.
"Mama says Edward will teach them all about Eton," Lady Mary continued, unaware of the undercurrents in the room. "Though I don't see why they need to learn about a school when they're already there."
"Edward takes his responsibilities very seriously," Lady Charlotte explained with all the wisdom of her twelve years. "Papa says he'll make an excellent Earl one day."
The rustle of Lady Matlock's silk dress as she adjusted her dog, the tap of Lady Charlotte's shoes against the floorboards as she stood by the window, little Rowena's warm weight in Lady Anne's lap - seemed to press against her consciousness. Even the gentle afternoon light filtering through the windows felt too bright, too immediate.
Lady Matlock's fingers resumed their gentle stroking of her dog's ears. "My dear Charlotte, do remember what we discussed about repeating Papa's observations." Her voice remained soft, but her eyes flickered briefly to Lady Anne, still holding little Rowena. "Anne, the tea will be here shortly. I find it quite reviving after a trying morning."
Note -The original school, Repton, I could not find enough information on what it was like in the 1780s, but what I did find lead me to believe that neither Fitzwilliam Darcy nor his cousins would have attended, hence the change to chapter 2, since the schools are very different.