Page 37 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Robert would have laughed. Richard would have checked George's pockets for pilfered trinkets.

But Darcy saw a victory. He saw a problem he had fixed.

"Keep the horse, George," he said benevolently. "Father would not wish you to be a pedestrian. Just... ride her to the chapel, not the tavern."

George exhaled, his shoulders sagging with relief. "You are too good to me, Fitz. Truly. You are a brother. A guardian."

"I am merely doing my duty."

"I shall go now." He picked up his books. "I have a seminar on moral philosophy. I intend to sit in the front row and nod vigorously."

He bowed—a jerky, humble movement—and retreated.

Darcy watched the door close. He felt a swell of satisfaction. He had saved the man. He had saved the name. The system worked.

Night fell over Cambridge. The shouts of the cricketers faded, replaced by the distant tolling of bells.

Darcy sat at his desk, a fresh sheet of parchment before him. He dipped his quill.

My Dear Father,he wrote.

I trust this letter finds you well in London. George and I have settled back into our routine with ease. You will be pleased to know that he has embraced his studies with a newfound rigour. His conduct is exemplary.

He paused. The ink glistened in the candlelight.

Exemplary.It was a heavy word. A final word.

A small voice in the back of his mind—a voice that had Richard's baritone—whispered that people did not change overnight. That fear was a poor teacher.

Darcy silenced the voice.

He was a Darcy. He controlled his world. If George wavered, Darcy would simply apply more pressure. He would build high walls of expectation and duty, and he would force the world to fit inside them.

He continued writing.

As for myself, I find the term progressing well. I have been reflecting on our responsibilities to the estate. I believe that strict oversight is the key to prosperity. One cannot leave weeds to grow unchecked.

He signed his name.Fitzwilliam Darcy.

He sanded the paper. He sealed it with red wax, pressing the Darcy crest into the hot liquid. The griffin glared up at him—fierce, proud, and unyielding.

He stood up and walked to the mirror.

The face staring back was young, but the eyes were old. The "Mask" he had worn at the gaming table had not fully slipped. It lingered in the set of his jaw, in the cold appraisal of his own reflection.

He straightened his cravat.

He was ready for Pemberley. He was ready for the world. He was ready to be the man who made no mistakes.

Darcy blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness, entirely unaware that he had just written the first chapter of his own tragedy.