Chapter 2

~ Like the tides that bring them together, some new friendships flow endlessly.

With the necklace safely stowed away in the pocket of her frock, Lizzy turned her inquisitive gaze back to Fitzwilliam. "You know all about my family now," she said, tilting her head to one side. "But you haven't told me anything about yours. Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

Fitzwilliam sat back on the sand. "I do," he said, smiling fondly. "I have a younger sister. Georgiana is eight."

"Why," Lizzy exclaimed. "Miss Georgiana and I must be like two young turtles lapping from the same wave at the same time!"

"Ah, so you are eight as well." Fitzwilliam nodded his head, finally got the young girl to reveal her age.

Lizzy arched her brow. "I'm not saying anymore," she said slowly, "so, would you say you are like a big, sensible lobster to Miss Georgiana? You know, the kind that crawls around very grandly and thinks it owns the whole ocean?"

Fitzwilliam laughed at the image of himself, strutting about like a pompous lobster. "Not at all," he said. "I'm sensible and always try to give advice, whenever others ask me of it. But I never fancy myself the head of the family whenever Father is away."

Lizzy nodded hesitantly, like she doubted Fitzwilliam's self assessment . "And what about Miss Georgiana? Is she more like a starfish—very pretty and glittery but with a sharp side if you poke her the wrong way?"

"Not at all," Fitzwilliam said, his eyes twinkling. "She is very sweet and quiet. I wish she is more outspoken." He thought about Wickham's taunts. "She likes to have her hair and her dresses in a certain way. But if anyone teases her, she's not confident enough to give them a piece of her mind."

Lizzy cocked her head to one side. "She reminds me of a tiny, fluttering seahorse, clinging tightly to a piece of seagrass, uncertain of where the ocean currents might carry her if she lets go. But who is so cruel as to tease sweet Miss Georgiana?"

"Our distant cousin," Fitzwilliam found himself pouring out his frustration to a total stranger whom he only met today.

Cousin George Wickham had taken up permanent residence with the Darcys, due to his family's financial troubles. At 16, George was older than Fitzwilliam by two years, but he often acted much younger, his behaviour more spiteful and childish than even Georgiana could muster.

George would wait until Fitzwilliam was alone, tending to his studies or reading in the library, before slipping in and making some sly comment about the family's wealth or Fitzwilliam's privileged position. "You think you're so much better than me, don't you?" he would say with a scoff, leaning against a bookshelf with the air of someone much older and wiser. "But all that money won't make you any acceptable, boring prick! It won't teach you how to deal with real men." His words were often accompanied by a mocking smirk that made Fitzwilliam's jaw clench.

Georgiana became a frequent target of George's nastiness as well. George seemed to derive a particular sort of satisfaction from teasing her. He would make sarcastic faces at her whenever he had the chances, or try to trip her when she was running in the garden. Once, when Georgiana was playing with her dolls in the parlour, George swooped in and snatched one away, holding it high above her reach. "Come now, little Georgie," he sneered. "Surely a girl your age shouldn't still be playing with dolls. What are you, a baby?"

Fitzwilliam's face burned with anger each time George tormented Georgiana, but he found himself at a loss for how to deal with his cousin. Confronting George often seemed to only make things worse. George had a talent for turning any attempt at reprimand into an opportunity to make Fitzwilliam appear foolish. If Fitzwilliam shouted at him, George would simply laugh and say, "Temper, temper, Fitz. That's not very noble of you, is it? Do you really think you'll inherit Pemberley one day?" he asked, his tone dripping with scepticism. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you wouldn't know the first thing about running it. Too busy burying your head in books and playing with your little sister. I'm sure Uncle Darcy will disown you one day." Fitzwilliam felt his hands curl into fists at his sides but if he hit George, it would only lead to punishment by his father.

Lizzy listened with wide-eyed as Fitzwilliam recounted his latest encounter with George. Her face alternated between expressions of concern and barely contained indignation. "You mean to tell me that he actually tried to trip Georgiana in the garden?" she asked, her eyebrows shooting up. "What a little snake! Well, we can't have him treating you both like that, can we?" She tapped her chin thoughtfully, a mischievous glint in her eye. "I think it's time we teach him a lesson."

Fitzwilliam wasn't sure what Lizzy had in mind, but he was willing to hear her out. Lizzy leaned closer and said, "Let's start with something simple," she said. "How about we give him a taste of his own medicine? Next time he says something mean, you will both laugh at him like he's told the silliest joke in the world. Make him feel ridiculous. If he tries to act all high and mighty, you will just point and say, 'Oh, George, do tell us another one of your funny and mean stories!'"

Fitzwilliam nodded his head, imagining George's face turning red with frustration as Georgiana and he treated his insults as mere jokes. "That might just work," he admitted. "But what if he doesn't stop?"

"Then you will have to get more creative," Lizzy replied with a wicked smile. "How about slipping a spider into his boots in the morning? He'd go hopping around like mad, trying to shake them out! It might teach him to be careful where he steps—especially if he keeps stepping all over other people."

Fitzwilliam shook his head, trying not to laugh. "That might be a bit much," he said. "Though I must admit, the image is rather tempting." He hesitated before adding, "But I'm not sure Georgiana would like it if we scared him too badly. She is so kind-hearted."

"All right, fair enough. If pranks aren't the way to go, maybe you should turn to words—fight fire with fire, so to speak. You could spread a rumour that George is secretly afraid of the dark. Then, he will act brave and you can dare him to wander into the attic and jam the door for a night. That might keep him in check."

Fitzwilliam considered it, but a pang of guilt made him hesitate. "I don't know if I want to stoop to his level," he said. "What if we tried something different—something that doesn't involve trickery? Like, what if we made it harder for him to be nasty in the first place?"

Lizzy tilted her head, intrigued. "What do you mean? Like, being extra nice to him?" She made a face as if the thought of showering George with kindness was utterly preposterous. "Imagine you complimenting him whenever he says something horrid. 'Oh, George, that's the cleverest insult I've ever heard! Do tell another!' Hmm, that could be funny, come to think of it."

Fitzwilliam wasn't sure that flattery would help much. "I was thinking more along the lines of finding a way to keep him occupied. If he's busy, maybe he won't have time to bother us."

Lizzy snapped her fingers. "That's brilliant! What if you told him about some imaginary treasure buried in the woods? You could make up a story about an old map hidden in one of the books in the library, and lead him on a wild goose chase. That should keep him running around for a while."

Fitzwilliam's eyes sparkled with interest. "I like that idea," he said.

"Oh, that reminds me of something." Lizzy grinned and grabbed a sturdy stick from the sand, twirling it like a pretend sword. She thrust the stick in the direction of a small cove. "There's a hidden grotto just beyond those rocks, filled with secret pools. I heard people say it's where smugglers used to stash their treasures."

Fitzwilliam's eyebrows shot up. "Smugglers' treasures? Are you quite certain? I should hate to encounter any ghosts of dastardly old pirates."

"Ghosts don't bother me," Lizzy replied with a wave of her hand. "Besides, they'd be very poor sports to haunt us just for poking about. I say if they didn't want people finding their treasure, they should have hidden it better."

"Fair point," Fitzwilliam conceded. "Lead on then, Captain Lizzy. I suppose I'll just have to guard our backs in case any restless spirits or disgruntled crabs appear."

"Very wise of you," she said with a dramatic nod. "Though if we do find any crabs, you'll have to do the honours of convincing them to part with their valuables. I'm not very good at negotiating with shellfish."

They set off toward the cove, the sand crunching beneath their feet as they climbed over boulders and scrambled across seaweed-covered rocks. Fitzwilliam walked close behind Lizzy, as she scurried ahead with the energy of a young adventurer.

"Are you certain you know the way?" he asked as they neared a particularly narrow passage. "You aren't leading us straight into a rock pool, are you?"

"Of course not," Lizzy shot back. "I've been this way several times, and I haven't gotten stuck in a single pool yet. Besides, you're tall enough to pull us both out if we do happen to fall in."

Fitzwilliam raised his eyes. "I'm glad to hear you've taken my usefulness into account. I'd hate to think I was merely here for decoration."

Lizzy peered around the bend and gasped. "Look! There it is!" She pointed toward a small, cave-like grotto nestled between the rocks. It was dimly lit from above by a narrow crack in the stone, allowing a faint stream of sunlight to filter in and cast shimmering reflections on the water below.

Lizzy darted ahead. After a few moments of scrambling over uneven rocks, she paused by a hollow, dead tree trunk wedged near another side of the grotto entrance. She knelt down and carefully reached inside its dark, splintered interior.

"I hid this here last time I explored," she said, producing a half-used candle and a flint from the shadows. She held them up triumphantly, a mischievous smile curling her lips. "A good captain always prepares for unforeseen adventures."

Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow. "And how do you know the ghosts haven't already claimed it as part of their treasure hoard?"

Lizzy struck the flint against a rock, lighting the candle with ease. "If they have, they're being remarkably generous about lending it back," she quipped.

"Well then," Fitzwilliam said with a grin, "lead on, Captain. Let's see where this treasure map of yours takes us."

Fitzwilliam followed her inside, glancing around in awe. "It really does look like something out of a book," he remarked. "I almost expect a pirate's skeleton to be sitting in that corner, guarding a chest full of gold."

"Or perhaps a selkie," Lizzy added, her eyes sparkling with imagination. "Lurking just beneath the water's surface, waiting to shed their seal skins to become human."

Fitzwilliam nudged a small rock with his foot. "I wouldn't be surprised if she's down there now and watching us."

Lizzy giggled, dipping the end of her stick into one of the pools. "Well, if we do see a selkie, I hope she appreciates my sense of humour."

As they wandered deeper into the grotto, Fitzwilliam noticed a glint of something shiny in the sand near one of the pools. "What's that?" he asked, stooping to pick up a small metal object. It was a rusted old key, with a tiny piece of chain still attached to the end.

Lizzy's eyes widened. "A key! It must be from the days when the smugglers were here. Perhaps there's a chest hidden somewhere in this grotto, and we've just found the very key that unlocks it!"

Fitzwilliam turned the key over in his hand. "Or perhaps it belongs to an old fisherman who lost it here while looking for crabs. But I suppose your explanation is more exciting."

Lizzy shrugged, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Oh, it could be both. Maybe the fisherman found the smuggler's chest and hid it somewhere, but lost the key before he could come back for it."

"Now that's a proper mystery," Fitzwilliam said, pocketing the key. "We'll have to keep our eyes open for any clues—a strange marking on the rocks, or a pile of suspiciously arranged stones. Who knows what we might uncover?"

"I'd wager there's a hidden passage somewhere," Lizzy said eagerly, scanning the walls of the grotto. "Or a secret door behind a loose rock. If I were a smuggler, that's exactly where I'd hide my treasure."

"Well, let's not leave a single stone unturned then," Fitzwilliam declared, taking up a stick of his own. "If there's any treasure to be found, I'd rather not let some ghostly pirate beat us to it."

As the two of them went poking about the grotto, lifting rocks and tapping on the walls in search of secret hiding spots, Lizzy suddenly paused. Her stick had tapped something solid but not rock-like, wedged under a cluster of seaweed. She reached down, tugging it free with both hands, and pulled out a lump wrapped in oilskin cloth.

"What do you suppose this is?" she asked, shaking off the clinging seaweed.

Fitzwilliam's eyes widened as he saw the bundle. "It looks like it's been here for ages," he said, taking it from her to inspect it more closely. The oilskin was weathered and salt-stained, but the knot was still intact. Whatever it held inside had been carefully wrapped to protect it from the sea.

"Go on, open it," Lizzy urged, practically bouncing on her toes. "If it's treasure, we'll split it equally. But if it's cursed, you have to promise to share the curse with me."

Fitzwilliam laughed as he worked the knot loose. "Agreed. Though I'd much prefer treasure over a curse." He peeled back the oilskin layers slowly, revealing a peculiar object within.

It was a carved wooden box, about the size of a pocket book, with intricate symbols etched along its surface. The patterns were unlike anything either of them had seen before, curling and twisting in elaborate designs that seemed almost to dance. "These look like symbols from the Orient," Fitzwilliam murmured, tracing a finger over the carvings. "I wonder how something like this ended up all the way here."

Lizzy's eyes were round with curiosity. "Maybe it was brought by sailors who traded with far-off lands," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper as if speaking too loudly would somehow diminish the box's mystery. "Or perhaps a pirate stole it from a ship journeyed back from the Orient and hid it here. Do you think it's valuable?"

Fitzwilliam shrugged, though his curiosity was thoroughly piqued. "It could be. The craftsmanship is remarkable—look at how detailed these carvings are." He turned the box over, finding a clasp at the front that seemed to be fashioned from bronze. "Shall we see what's inside?"

Lizzy leaned in eagerly, her face just inches away from the box as he slowly lifted the clasp. "Yes, but do be careful," she whispered. "It could be anything—ancient coins, a strange relic… or even a map leading to something even grander."

Fitzwilliam hesitated for a moment, his pulse quickening as he opened the lid. Inside the box was a tiny sculpture, delicately carved from jade. It depicted a long dragon without wings coiled around a pearl, its eyes inlaid with what appeared to be tiny rubies. The same intricate symbols decorated the base of the sculpture, each mark flowing into the next like a continuous thread.

"Look at that," Fitzwilliam breathed, his eyes fixed on the gleaming jade. "It's beautiful—definitely not the sort of thing one expects to find on an English beach."

Lizzy reached out to touch it, then drew her hand back as though afraid to disturb it. "It's like something out of a myth," she said, her voice hushed with awe. "A dragon guarding a pearl—maybe it's a good luck charm, or some sort of offering."

Fitzwilliam turned the sculpture to examine the base more closely, where the symbols appeared to form a pattern that seemed almost familiar, yet entirely foreign. "These markings… they must mean something," he said thoughtfully. "I wonder if there's a way to find out what they say."

"Well, I know one thing for sure," Lizzy declared, breaking the moment of solemnity. "Whatever it is, we have to hide it from your cousin George."

Fitzwilliam nodded in agreement. "I think we've found something quite extraordinary." He gently placed the sculpture back in the box and closed the lid.

"We should show this to someone who might know more about it." Lizzy nodded eagerly. "Perhaps my Uncle Edward—he's travelled widely for his business. I'm sure he'll be able to tell us if it's some ancient relic or just a very well-made trinket."

Fitzwilliam tucked the box securely under his arm, a glint of excitement in his eyes. "We could keep it as our secret treasure, hidden away from everyone else."

Lizzy grinned. "I like that idea. It could belong to a powerful sorcerer from the Orient who enchanted it to bring fortune to whoever found it… or to curse those who tried to steal it. And we'll need a proper name for our little treasure." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "How about 'The Dragon's Pearl'?"

Fitzwilliam smiled. "The Dragon's Pearl… I like it. It sounds suitably grand and mysterious."

Fitzwilliam and Lizzy walked out of the grotto, the carved wooden box containing the jade dragon clasped in Fitzwilliam's hands. They scanned the stretch of sand and rock, each trying to pinpoint the ideal place to hide their newfound treasure. Lizzy squinted thoughtfully at a tall dune dotted with beach grass. "How about there?" she suggested, pointing. "We could bury it beneath the sand. It would be nearly impossible to find unless you knew precisely where to dig."

Fitzwilliam considered her idea but shook his head. "The problem with dunes is that the wind shifts them constantly. One good storm, and our hiding spot could vanish entirely." He glanced toward the cliffs, rubbing his chin. "We need somewhere more stable—something fixed that won't be moved about by nature."

Lizzy tapped her foot on the ground. "Well, what about that old wrecked boat near the cove?" she proposed. "It's half-buried already, and nobody ever goes there. We could tuck the box in one of the compartments—it's practically made for hiding things."

"That's true," Fitzwilliam admitted, "but the boat is too obvious. If anyone else did happen by, they'd surely think to search there. We need something a little more out-of-the-way."

"I wish we are back in Longbourn," she said. "There is an old oak tree in our garden with a hollow in its trunk. I used to hide all sorts of things there—letters, books, little treasures I'd found." She chuckled. "It was my own secret hiding place."

Fitzwilliam's eyebrows lifted with surprise. "A hollow tree? That sounds rather romantic," he said. "But it doesn't sound very well protected if someone were to stumble across it."

Lizzy shrugged. "I suppose not," she admitted. "Our estate is rather small, really—nothing like those grand houses one hears about. But it's cozy and very dear to us. Besides, there aren't many people around to go poking into my hiding places."

"Well, my family's estate is in Derbyshire," he said. "It's fairly large, with plenty of old rooms and corridors—though I don't know if it's grand in the sense of what you're imagining."

Lizzy tilted her head. "Fairly large? How large is large?"

"Our park is ten miles round, not including the tenant farms," he said, sounding almost unsure himself. "I suppose it feels bigger than it is because there's a maze of hedges, and we've got some secret passages in the house that I used to explore as a child."

Lizzy stared at him, wide-eyed. "Secret passages? A maze?" she repeated in astonishment. "You didn't mention you were the lord of some grand estate!" She said it with playful exaggeration.

"My father and I are no lord," he said, shaking his head. "It's just an old family estate—big enough to get lost in, certainly. But it can be lonely, you know. I wish I had more brothers and sisters."

"Indeed. What good is a grand estate if the only sound within is one's own echo? I'd rather have a modest cottage filled with laughter and conversation any day." Lizzy remarked.

"Precisely," Fitzwilliam said. "Give me a lively gathering around a table in the kitchen over the stiff formality of a ballroom any time. It's not the size of the drawing room that matters, but the friends gathered within it."

"And when things go awry," Lizzy added, "it's not the gilded ceilings that offer comfort, but the company of a loyal sister or a steadfast friend. Those are the true treasures, far more lasting than stone or marble."

She grabbed Fitzwilliam's hand and shook it as a gentleman would. "Friends!"

He replied solemnly, "Friends!"

Dear lovely readers, I've poured my heart, soul, and probably a few typos into this chapter—care to tell me how it fares?

P.S. If this tickled your fancy, you might enjoy diving into my book. "Gentleman Needs a Wife" is now available on Amazon. A sprinkle of your positive ratings would be much appreciated! Just search for "Enid Wilson" there to see my books.