Chapter 8

~ Is your future plan as clear as the sea on a foggy day—full of potential, with just a hint of danger and a few challenges to navigate?

"It's Jane's birthday," Lizzy said, taking a big bite of the almond cake. "Ten years old. Mama declared a month ago that Jane would reach 'the dawn of her blooming,' as if she's the morning sun rising over our family. Poor Jane nearly melted into her chair when Mama announced that she would organise a party for her."

Fitzwilliam frowned. "Doesn't Miss Jane like all that attention?"

"Not in the slightest," Lizzy said with a grin. The two of them had wondered into the garden. "She squirmed like an eel when Mama started praising her beauty and virtues. 'Jane is the very picture of perfection and grace,' she said. 'So gentle, so serene.' Jane blushed so hard I thought she might burst into flames."

Fitzwilliam tilted his head. "But she is sweet?"

"Oh, she's the sweetest," Lizzy agreed, tossing a candy into her mouth. "But that doesn't mean she enjoys being paraded about like a prized marlin. She'd much rather be left to her embroidery or tucked away in the still room."

"Your mother doesn't see that?"

Lizzy rolled her eyes dramatically. "Mama is too busy composing odes to Jane's perfection. 'Look at her shining hair, Lizzy. See how straight she sits. Observe how Jane doesn't muddy her skirts during a walk.' You'd think Jane were the queen of the sea Dione, the way Mama goes on about her."

Fitzwilliam crossed his arms, his expression darkening. "She shouldn't compare you."

"Oh, I don't mind," Lizzy said airily, though her eyes flashed. "Well, not much. Sometimes I want to grab a clump of seaweed and wrap it around my head, just to see if Mama notices I'm in the room. But then I remember—Jane hates it as much as I do."

"Really?"

"She told me last night," Lizzy said, her tone softening. "We were in our room, and I teased her, saying she'd need a ship to carry all her admirers today. Do you know what she said?"

Fitzwilliam shook his head.

"She said she'd trade them all to spend the day making sweet scents with me in the still room," Lizzy said with a proud grin. "She'd even wear one of my old dresses if it meant Mama wouldn't fuss over her curls."

"Your sister does love you."

"And I admire her," Lizzy said quickly. "She's steady, like the tide. Jane keeps me from crashing about too wildly. I keep her from sinking under Mama's expectations. Together, we're a good crew."

Fitzwilliam glanced at her curiously. "So… no jealousy?"

"Only a smidge," Lizzy admitted, holding her fingers close together. "It flares up when Mama says things like, 'Jane is a perfect pearl'. Then I remind myself—pearls sit in oysters all day, doing nothing, gathering dirt. I'd much rather be a lively starfish."

Fitzwilliam nodded. "That does sound more like you."

Lizzy's eyes sparkled. "Exactly! And today, while Mama hosts Jane's grand birthday party and forces her to wear that horrid pink lace, I'm going to whisk her away later."

Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow. "Whisk her away? To where?"

"To the woods, of course," Lizzy said triumphantly. "We're not in Longbourn, so we don't have the still room. But we can still study and gather wildflowers and herbs, finding new ones not available in Hertfordshire—well, I'll gather them, and she'll press them. No ribbons, no compliments, just us. Jane deserves a birthday that makes her happy, not Mama."

"She's lucky to have you."

Lizzy pretended not to hear him, munching a piece of cookie. "I'll even let her pick which path to walk. If that's not sisterly devotion, I don't know what is."

"You're a good sister," Fitzwilliam said quietly.

Lizzy smirked. "Careful, Fitzwilliam. Compliments are Mama's job, and she's much better at it than you."

Fitzwilliam gave a rare smile. "Not this time."

For a moment, Lizzy didn't respond. Then, with a mischievous grin, she tossed a candy at him, which he caught easily. "All right, you've gone soft. I shall have to teach you to skip rocks properly next time we're on the beach. That'll toughen you up."

Fitzwilliam raised his eyes, but Lizzy's expression suddenly turned curious. "Speaking of soft, Fitzwilliam…" She leaned toward him with a teasing glint in her eye. "Would you like a sensitive, sweet wife one day?"

Fitzwilliam flushed a deep red, his usual quiet composure unraveling like a poorly tied knot. "I—I haven't thought about it. Why are you so interested in this?"

"You haven't thought about it?" Lizzy asked, eyes widening in mock disbelief. "Not once? Mama has been listing the qualities Jane should seek in a husband for the past month. Naturally, her focus has been entirely on matters like pin money, carriages, and the like! Surely, you've some idea. Blonde or dark-haired? Tall or short? Or perhaps," she added with a theatrical gasp, "you mean to stay a bachelor forever and live in a draughty old house with a thousand cats!"

Fitzwilliam spluttered. "I don't even like cats!"

"Not yet," Lizzy said, nodding sagely. "But give it time. Bachelors always end up with cats, you know. It's a law of nature, like tides or seagulls stealing bread rolls."

Fitzwilliam sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't plan to stay a bachelor. I have a duty to the Darcy name."

"Good!" she said brightly. "Then tell me—what sort of girl do you like?"

Fitzwilliam shifted uncomfortably, staring very hard at the ripples in the pond. "I don't know," he mumbled.

"'I don't know,'" Lizzy repeated, mimicking his tone. "That's not an answer, Fitzwilliam. You must have some preference. Do you want someone elegant, like Jane? Or spirited, like me?"

Fitzwilliam risked a glance at her. "You're not asking this for Miss Jane's sake, are you?"

"Jane?" Lizzy laughed, tossing her hair. "Don't be ridiculous. She'd faint if she knew I was asking you such things. No, this is entirely for my ownentertainment."

"Of course it is," Fitzwilliam muttered, cheeks still aflame.

Lizzy leaned forward, her expression alight with mischief. "Do you want someone who can dance? Or someone who can climb trees? Or, better yet, someone who can wrestle a shark!"

Fitzwilliam stared at her. "Why would I want someone who can wrestle a shark?"

"Why wouldn't you?" she countered. "Think of how useful she'd be on a sea voyage. You could sail the world without fear of attack!"

Fitzwilliam groaned. "Lizzy…"

"You're no fun," she said, pouting dramatically. "All right, what about a quieter girl? Someone who sits demurely with her embroidery. Is that your dream?"

"Not… exactly," Fitzwilliam said hesitantly.

Lizzy's eyes gleamed. "Not exactly? So you have thought about it!"

"No, I haven't!" Fitzwilliam said quickly, his face turning an even deeper shade of red.

"Well, you must start," she declared. "You can't go into life without a plan, Fitzwilliam. It's unwise. Now, let me help you."

Fitzwilliam groaned again. "I don't need help."

"Of course you do," Lizzy said cheerfully. "Let's see… You're serious and brooding, so you'll need someone lively. But not too lively, or she might drive you mad. Someone who can make you laugh but knows when to be quiet."

Fitzwilliam stared at her. "You're describing yourself."

Lizzy arched her eyebrow and grinned. "I'd make an excellent wife, wouldn't I?"

Fitzwilliam choked on air, his eyes widening. "I didn't mean—"

"Oh, calm down," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "I wouldn't marry you, Fitzwilliam Darcy. You're far too sensible for me. I'd spend all my time trying to make you loosen up, and you'd spend all your time trying to make me behave. It wouldneverwork."

Fitzwilliam wasn't sure if he felt relieved or insulted. "I see."

"Besides," she continued, "you'd want someone who can admire your brooding without poking fun at it. I'd laugh at you every time you tried to look mysterious."

"I don't try to look mysterious," he muttered.

"Oh, you absolutely do," Lizzy said, smirking. "But don't worry. Some girls like that. They'll sigh and say, 'Oh, Mr. Darcy, you're so intriguing!'"

Fitzwilliam's mortification reached its peak. "Lizzy!"

She doubled over with laughter. "Oh, your face! I wish I had a sketchbook with me. You look like a lobster boiled in its shell."

"You're impossible," Fitzwilliam grumbled, though a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth despite himself.

"I know," she said breezily. "But back to the matter at hand—what do you like? You'll have to decide one day, you know."

"I suppose I'd like someone kind," Fitzwilliam said at last, his voice hesitant.

Lizzy tilted her head, ignoring first part of his question. "Kind. Well, that's a start. What else?"

"Someone… clever," he added.

"Kind and clever," Lizzy mused. "So far, so good. But clever in what way? Book-smart? Or clever enough to outwit you when you're being moody?"

Fitzwilliam shook his head. "Why am I even answering these questions?"

"Because you know I'll keep asking until you do," Lizzy said, flashing him a triumphant grin. "Go on, then. One more thing. What's your most important quality in a wife?"

Fitzwilliam hesitated, his gaze drifting to the floral decoration in the room. "Someone who understands me."

Lizzy's playful expression softened. "Oh, that's a good one. A bit sentimental, but good."

"Thank you, I think," he said dryly.

"You're welcome," she said, standing up and brushing off her skirt. "Well, I've learned a lot about your mysterious future wife. Kind, clever, and understanding. I'll be sure to keep an eye out for her."

"I don't need help finding a wife," he protested.

"Oh, but you do," she said, tossing him a teasing look. "You're hopeless on your own. But don't worry, Fitzwilliam. That's what friends are for."

Fitzwilliam's expression turned serious, and for a moment. He shifted his weight against the wall and began, "I suppose there's one thing I should tell you."

"About what?"

"About my cousin, George."

"What did this Wickham do now?"

"George used to taunt Georgiana and me, call us weak, even made fun of how poor an estate master I would be one day."

"But wait... you said 'used to.' So, what's changed?"

"Well, Father and Mother decided to encourage George to read more. They think George needs to focus less on causing trouble and more on learning. So, Father gave him books about gemstones and their properties, since George is supposed to start an apprenticeship soon. Father hopes George can learn patience and how to care for things—like he would in an actual career."

Lizzy's lips curled into a mischievous grin. "Ah, so your father is attempting to make him a 'gem' of a person? A bit of polishing here and there, and maybe he'll become a sparkling precious stone himself?" She paused, her grin widening. "Do you think George will just sit on the floor and mutter about rubies and emeralds in a bad mood?"

Fitzwilliam shook his head, despite himself, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice. "He's trying, I suppose. But George isn't exactly... well, what you'd call 'motivated'. He's still got that lazy streak. He'd rather be fooling around the estate or mocking anyone who actually does something with his time. He's still got a foul mouth, too, although he has tempered it these past few days. He continue to swear when he gets frustrated."

Lizzy tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Hmm. So, it sounds like George is more of a blustery old ship captain than a precious gemstone. A bit too much hot air and not enough solid ground to make him into anything shiny. But, you know, it's good that he's trying." She leaned in closer with a conspiratorial whisper, "Maybe he just needs a little seafaring sense knocked into him."

Fitzwilliam snorted at that. "Maybe so. But even if he doesn't change overnight, I do think he might be trying. I don't know if it's the reading or just the idea of an apprenticeship, but there's a part of him that's... different. A little more serious than he used to be. I just don't know if I can trust it yet." His voice wavered between scepticism and hope.

Lizzy placed her hands on her hips, her tone playful. "Well, you are the steady ship, aren't you? So, maybe you can give George a hand at steering his own course. Besides, with your father encouraging him, I'm sure he'll be polishing gemstones or making proper decisions in no time. All it takes is a little pirate spirit—y'know, that whole 'treasure map' approach. Show him where the X mark on the map!"

Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow. "Pirate spirit, eh? Should I throw George into the sea to see if he sinks or swims? Maybe then he'll really learn something."

Lizzy grinned widely. "Well, I wasn't thinking of literally tossing him into the waves, but that's a good idea too! Just picture it: George floating in the water, grumbling about 'being thrown to the sharks' while you stand on your pirate ship, all dignified, waving your compass. That would get his attention."

Fitzwilliam laughed outright now. "I don't think it would be quite that dramatic. But maybe George needs something like that—some kind of wakening. Perhaps if he feels like he's adrift, he'll finally stop complaining about everything and start taking responsibility."

Lizzy's expression turned more thoughtful, her grin softening. "You're right, though. He might need a little adventure to get out of his rut. Just because he's lazy doesn't mean he doesn't have a bit of treasure buried underneath. It's probably just waiting to be uncovered, hidden like a chest in a shipwreck somewhere."

Fitzwilliam nodded, more hopeful now than before. "Maybe. I'd like to think there's something in him that could be... useful. Even if he's stubborn. I guess I just need to give him time."

"If you do decide to throw him overboard, you'll know I've totally approved of the idea too. You know, in the name of treasure hunting, of course."

"You are quite right. And if I do decide to throw him in, I'll make sure to send a message in a bottle to let you know how it goes."

"Indeed," Lizzy said, "as you're leaving Ramsgate next week, right? Back to your estate and then off to Eton."

"Yes," Fitzwilliam said. "It's all arranged."

"I'd give anything to trade places with you," she said, throwing her arms out dramatically. "A proper school! Books, lessons, tutors who don't scold you for asking too many questions. You're the luckiest person alive, Fitzwilliam Darcy."

Fitzwilliam frowned. "I wouldn't call it luck."

"Oh, here we go," Lizzy said, hopping off the log and plopping down beside him. "What's wrong now? Don't want to leave your family? Or is it that you can't stand the thought of parting fromme?" She patted her chest in exaggerated fashion.

Fitzwilliam gave her a look. "It's both, actually."

She blinked, surprised. "Oh. Well, that's very flattering. Though I'm sure it's mostly your sister you'll miss."

"I'll miss everyone," he said, staring out at the glimpse of sea. "And… I'm not sure I'll like the boys at Eton."

"What's wrong with them?" Lizzy asked, leaning in with interest. "Are they bullies? Do they bite? Do they duel at dawn for sport?"

"They're proud," Fitzwilliam said simply. "And idle. They don't care about learning—they only care about showing off and causing trouble."

Lizzy's brow furrowed. "Well, they don't sound like students at all. They sound like a flock of peacocks."

Fitzwilliam couldn't help but smile. "It feels that way sometimes."

"Well," she said, tapping her chin, "you'll just have to find a way to ignore the peacocks and focus on your studies."

"Easier said than done," Fitzwilliam muttered.

"Not if you're clever about it," Lizzy said brightly. "For instance, you could pretend to be deaf whenever they try to talk to you. Just nod and say, 'I beg your pardon, I can't hear nonsense.' That should discourage them."

Fitzwilliam shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea. They might beat me up."

"All right, how about this?" she said, warming to her subject. "Carry a book everywhere you go. If they bother you, open it dramatically and say, 'Ah, I was just getting to the best part!' Then start reading aloud until they leave."

"That might actually work," Fitzwilliam admitted.

"Of course it will," Lizzy said confidently. "But if it doesn't, you could always write letters to me. Long, detailed letters about all the dreadful things they say and do. I'll write back with advice."

Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow. "Advice like pretending to be deaf?"

"Exactly," she said, grinning. "Or pretending to be mad. That's always effective. Start talking to yourself in Latin—'Amo, amas, amat,' and so on. They'll think you've gone completely addle-pated and steer clear."

Fitzwilliam chuckled, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

"I know," she said cheerfully. "But you love me for it."

He coughed, looking away. "Let's not get carried away."

"Oh, you're so serious," she said, poking his arm. "All right, then. Here's a practical idea—find the one boy who actually wants to learn and make him your ally. Every school has at least one, doesn't it?"

"I suppose so," Fitzwilliam said thoughtfully.

"Good," she said, nodding. "Stick with him. Study together. Share notes. And if the others make fun of you, challenge them to a duel of wits."

"Do you think that would work?" he asked.

"Of course," she said with a wink. "Unless they don't have any wits, in which case you've already won."

Fitzwilliam couldn't help but laugh. "You do have a way of making things sound simple."

"They usually are," she said, leaning back on her elbows. "People just like to complicate them."

"Like my father," Fitzwilliam said, his tone growing quieter. "He's so proud I did well at Eton last year. He says it's the path to greatness. But all I want is to learn—quietly, without all the expectations."

Lizzy studied him for a moment. "Well, then, do that," she said simply. "Forget about greatness. Be Fitzwilliam Darcy—the boy who reads books by the pond and writes letters to his impossible friend in Ramsgate."

"That doesn't sound very grand," he said with a small smile.

"It sounds perfect to me," she said.

Fitzwilliam glanced at her, surprised by her sincerity. "You mean that?"

"Of course I do," she said, sitting up again. "Greatness is overrated. Who needs fame and fortune when you can have wisdom and peace of mind?"

"You sound like my grandmother," he teased.

"Then your grandmother is a very wise woman," Lizzy said, sticking her nose in the air.

They stayed together in companionable silence for a while, listening to the birds chirping in the distance.

"When do you leave?" she asked eventually.

"Next Thursday," he said.

"That soon?" she said, her expression falling. "Well, then, we'd better make the most of this week. No sulking, no brooding—just adventures."

Fitzwilliam nodded absently. "And what will you do, Lizzy, when you return to your estate?"

"Oh, the usual," Lizzy said airily. "Climb trees, scare the stable boys, drive Mama to distraction. Perhaps teach Jane to skip rocks."

Fitzwilliam smirked. "Sounds productive."

"Well, what else is there?" she asked, kicking a pebble. "Young ladies aren't exactly drowning in opportunities. It's not as if I can march off to Eton or Cambridge."

"No, I suppose not," Fitzwilliam said.

"Of course not," she repeated, hands on her hips. "But…" She trailed off, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow. "But what?"

"Fitzwilliam," she said suddenly, spinning to face him, her face alight with mischief and excitement. "What exactly do they teach you at Eton?"

"A bit of everything," he said cautiously. "Latin, Greek, mathematics, history…"

"Do they teach you about medicine?" she asked, her tone sharpening.

Fitzwilliam blinked. "Medicine? I suppose… a little. Anatomy, perhaps."

"Anatomy!" Lizzy cried, clapping her hands. "Brilliant!"

"Why?" he asked, his tone wary now.

"Because I've just decided what I'll do when I get home," she declared, her face glowing with excitement.

"Climb more trees?" he guessed.

"No, you ninny," she said, waving him off. "I'll become a physician."

Fitzwilliam stared at her. "What?"

"A physician," she repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Or an apothecary. Or a surgeon. I haven't decided yet."

"But you're a gentlewoman," he said, still trying to wrap his head around it. "You can't… work."

"I don't mean to work," she said, rolling her eyes. "It'll be informal, of course. Just a hobby, helping tenants and neighbours. But I'll be better at it than embroidery, I can tell you that much."

Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow. "And how do you plan to learn?"

Lizzy grinned, tapping her temple. "There's an apothecary in the village, Mr. Jones —a grumpy old fellow with a face like a dried apple. But he knows everything about herbs and remedies. I'll visit him and ask him to teach me."

"You think he'll agree?" Fitzwilliam asked, skeptical.

"Of course," she said breezily. "I'll charm him. Or wear him down with questions until he gives in. Either way, I'll learn."

"And what if he doesn't let you into his shop?"

"Then I'll borrow books from Papa's library," she said, undeterred. "I know there are volumes about botany and flora. I've seen them gathering dust. I'll read them all—every page—and memorise the useful bits."

Fitzwilliam tilted his head. "That actually sounds… possible."

"Thank you," she said with a mock curtsey. "And I'll enlist Jane and little Mary to help me. We'll roam the estate, collecting plants and learning their uses. It'll be like a treasure hunt—only instead of gold or pearl, we'll find remedies for coughs and bruises."

Fitzwilliam couldn't hide his smile. "Do you think they'll agree to that?"

"Of course Jane will," Lizzy said confidently. "She loves anything that involves herbs in the still room. As for Mary, I'll bribe her with stories about how brave clergymen are—exploring the world as missionaries, preaching the Lord's words, and saving lives. She won't be able to resist."

"And what will you do if the plants don't work as you hope?"

"Oh, that's easy," she said with a grin. "I'll tell everyone it's not the plants' fault—it's the patient's fault for not believing in them strongly enough."

Fitzwilliam burst out laughing. "That's your grand solution?"

"Why not?" she said, shrugging. "It works for quack doctors, doesn't it? And besides, I'll be careful. I won't give anyone anything too dangerous. Just soothing teas and salves. Perhaps a tincture or two if I'm feeling ambitious."

"You're completely mad," Fitzwilliam said, shaking his head.

"Madness is just another word for creativity," she said, sticking out her tongue. "And don't pretend you're not impressed. You'd let me patch you up if your horse throws you, wouldn't you?"

"I'd rather not fall off my horse in the first place," he said dryly.

"Well, if you do," she said, "just remember I'm the one with the poultices and bandages."

Fitzwilliam chuckled. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Good," she said, satisfied. "And maybe someday, when you're a grand scholar, you'll write to me about all the fascinating things you've learned. Then I'll use that knowledge to improve my little apothecary hobby."

"You're very determined," he said, shaking his head in amusement.

"Of course I am," she said. "Someone has to be, and it certainly isn't Mama. All she wants me to learn is how to arrange flowers and remake my bonnets. But there's no use in arranging flowers when someone's fainted, is there? What they need is smelling salts—and a strong-minded apothecary."

Fitzwilliam laughed again. "I believe you shall prove a more competent apothecary than the mistress of an estate, that much is certain."

"Indeed," she replied, her face alight with joy. "And should my endeavors prove fruitful, who knows? I might even author a tome of remedies one day. 'Lizzy's Compendium of Balms and Brews'. What say you?"

"I believe I shall withhold my judgment until I witness your first patient survive," he jested.

"Oh, be silent," she chided, lightly nudging him with her elbow. "You shall see. I shall make an excellent amateur physician, and I shall write to you of all my findings."

"Do you expect me to correspond in return?" he asked, with a mischievous smile.

"Of course," she said, tossing her hair with a flourish. "How else shall I outshine the other apothecaries in the village?"

"You are incorrigible," he said, shaking his head affectionately.

"I know," she replied, grinning. "But confess it—you are somewhat intrigued to see if I can accomplish it."

He laughed, conceding the point. "I suppose I am."

Dear Colleen S, Mvnlaredo, Jansfamily4, Kayrowe, ANZA946, DW.618, ashiana, Levenez, Dizzylizzy.60, Katherine Dissmore, Joan G. Brand, Anmaon, ercilia, RHALiz, Mary Moloney, liysyl, Curlyqt1, Sallyb25, AVK, IGuessThisWorks, Marauder007, BillR, Audny, Lisa, lizzyt7, a la silhouette, Chuck Kimball, LoveInTheBattleField, Regency fan, guests,

Many thanks for the regular encouragement! I devour your comments like a hungry kraken at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Without your support, my stories would be as bland as a pirate without a parrot.

Also, I'm thinking of diving into some shorties. I'm hoping they will be like tidal waves of storytelling, making a big splash in a small amount of time. Due to my current lack of stamina (or persistence, depending on the day!), I find these short bursts of creativity more manageable. If you have any ideas, please feel free to PM me or leave the plot bunnies in the review. I can't promise to take up every bunny but I'll do my best to make each one an exciting adventure! You can read the latest one at FFN, press my profile and press A-Series-of-What-ifs

Now, I've been shaping this chapter like a sandcastle—does it look like a grand fortress or a lopsided lump ready for the tide? Leave me some comments.