Society had already seen London thin of company before Darcy had arrived home from school. Therefore, with every reason to leave and preparations for the journey all but completed, his father directed that the family set off for Pemberley without delay and Erewile House be closed until Parliament was again in session. Accordingly, the next day the servants’ parlour was cleared for a night of merriment to be preceded by the household staff’s Christmas dinner before the family departed. Darcy, along with his mother and father, attended the opening of the party, his father presenting the upper servants with their Christmas gifts and entrusting Witcher with the distribution of the family’s appreciation to the lower staff. He then toasted them and the evening, wishing them a very merry Christmas and year to come, before they retired above stairs and left the staff to their dancing and bowl of Christmas punch.

Darcy almost wished to stay behind. The smells of the greenery combined with Cook’s marvellous pastries and cakes were intoxicating to a boy fresh from a term of school fare. To his embarrassment, his stomach had actually growled upon his first whiff. Of course, he could not stay. They would be home at Pemberley in a few short days, and Pemberley’s cook was every bit the equal of the artist at Erewile House. Darcy knew from experience there would be nothing to regret. Nevertheless, it was with undisguised delight that he found a plate of his favourite sweets next to his bedside candle after bidding his parents goodnight.

The following day they were off, travelling now in the great coach whose springs had been lately replaced to make the trip as smooth as possible for Lady Ann. His mother directed both he and his father that they were not to tax her with their solicitude at every bump or jolt, and they did not, although it tore at Darcy’s heart to see how bravely she bore them. Gripping a book assigned for next term and hiding behind the pages was, he found, the only way he could abide by his mother’s wishes.

Their trip was uneventful, save for the few hours on the second day that Darcy was allowed to sit up with Samuel in the box and observe a master at the whip and reins. “How do you do it, Samuel?” Darcy ached to imitate the expert manner that the family’s coachman handled the yards of whip, tickling the leader’s ear and then swirling the end to wrap elegantly around the handle.

“That would be tellin’, now wouldn’t it, young master.” The coachman smiled at him and winked to his son James on Darcy’s other side.

“Telling what?”

“A tradesman’s secret, a secret of the brotherhood, so to speak.”

“Brotherhood? There is a brotherhood of coachmen?” Darcy looked at him curiously. “I have never heard of that!”

“Well, yer not supposed to be knowin’ such,” he declared gruffly but then seemed to relent. “But I know yer a close lad and won’t tell summat you’ve sworn not to tell. You do so swear?” Samuel demanded as he peered down at him.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Darcy promised. He glanced over at James, who nodded his solemn approval.

“Well then, next summer, when yer home from school,” Samuel promised, “we’ll see what may be done about inductin’ you.”

“Into the brotherhood?” Darcy asked, not quite sure how far this unexpected good fortune extended.

“Into the first ranks only, young sir. It will likely take the whole summer to get far enough to call you a cub.” Samuel eyed him with a measuring look. “If you will practice, that is.”

“Oh, I will!” he assured them, grinning from one to the other. “This is famous!”

They arrived home the following day. Darcy’s hopes for the holiday were not certain until they reached Lambton, the village that lay five miles west of Pemberley House. There the several inches of snow in the fields and ice on the pond that greeted them promised a Christmas of sledding, skating, and general sport enough to satisfy the desires of any young man. Leaving the village behind, the coach traced the path of the Ere River until it wound north of the road that took them to the gates of Pemberley. The drive through Pemberley’s park was designed to be taken slowly, each turn in the road created to present a new aspect to delight the traveller and heighten expectations for what was to come. For Darcy, however, anxious to be freed from the confines of the coach, it was tedious beyond belief; but the misty smile it brought to his mother’s face persuaded him to hold his peace and force himself to sit still.

The horses’ gaits changed at the exact moment that Darcy heard Samuel’s whip crack, and he knew that they had gained the sweeping approach that led down to Pemberley’s door. He sat up closer to the edge of the seat and tried to see around the coach and horses to the pond, but the vehicle dipped and swayed to a faster rhythm now, making it impossible. He glanced in exasperation to his parents only to see his father take his wife’s hand. “My dear,” he questioned softly, “shall I tell them to slow?”

“No, I am well enough, Mr. Darcy, and longing to be home,” she answered him, her voice tired and strained. “Do not stay the horses.”

“As you wish,” he agreed, but his glance at Darcy was apprehensive even as he stroked her hand.

“Mama,” he began, attempting to distract them both, “have you ever noticed how well Samuel wraps his whip?”

Lady Ann’s lips curved into a tight smile. “No, I cannot say that I have,” she replied, her brows raised in invitation to more conversation despite the obvious pain she was battling.

“Oh, he is quite the best whip in the country…for a coachman. Do you not think so, Father?”

“Undoubtedly,” his sire agreed, a light of amusement entering his eyes. “He taught me, you know.”

“Truly?” Was his father part of the brotherhood then? Darcy looked at him speculatively but could come to no conclusion, for at that moment, the coach slowed and stopped before Pemberley’s front stairs. In only seconds, the great doors of the house were flung open. Reynolds, Pemberley’s butler, and his army of footmen surged down the stairs and around the coaches and other vehicles in the entourage. The stable lads appeared, seemingly from nowhere, to welcome back their equine charges, attacking the harnessing and leading them away to a well earned measure of grain.

“Mr. Darcy, my lady, welcome home!” Reynolds bowed to his master and mistress as soon as one of his subordinates had opened the coach door and let down the steps.

“Happy Christmas, Reynolds,” Mr. Darcy replied as he rose and descended first in order to help his wife. “Are you ready for your mistress?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Mrs. Reynolds prepared everything exactly as your letter required.” Reynolds turned then to the coach’s other occupants. “May I help you, Ma’am?” He extended his arm, which Lady Ann took as well as that of her husband’s on her other side. Slowly, she descended to the pavement before Pemberley’s stairs.

“Thank you, Reynolds,” her ladyship nodded and leaned upon her husband. “Mr. Darcy has me in charge now.”

Reynolds stepped away and bowed again before turning to his young master. “Master Darcy!” he exclaimed as the boy rattled down the coach steps. “You have grown quite tall since the summer!”

Darcy grinned into the butler’s lively face. Reynolds had always been one of his favourite people at Pemberley. “I believe I have! Happy Christmas, Reynolds!”

 “And to you, sir,” he replied as they walked into the hall. “Mrs. Reynolds charged me to tell you that Cook has something special for you in the breakfast room as soon as you are settled.” He then lowered his voice, “I expect that your parents may wish to rest before taking any refreshment. I am sure there can be no expectation that you should wait upon them.” He gave the boy a wink and left the hall.

Turning his eyes to the stairs, Darcy saw that his parents were still ascending them, his father with an arm about his wife’s waist as they slowly assayed each step. He could easily recall his mother taking those stairs with quicker, lighter steps. Her slow, laboured procession now was yet another reminder of what lay ahead and a further cut to his young heart.

“Master Darcy!” Darcy looked around to find the owner of the warm voice.

“Mrs. Reynolds,” he smiled. “Happy Christmas!”

“Happy Christmas, indeed! Did Mr. Reynolds not give you my message?” The eyes of Pemberley’s housekeeper rested upon him briefly before glancing up the stairs behind him. She softly clucked her tongue but then centered her attention wholly upon him again. “Did he not tell you Cook has something that requires your attention in the breakfast room?”

“He did, ma’am. I was just on my way,” his voiced trailed off as he looked over his shoulder, unable to stop himself from searching out his parents’ slow progress on the stairs. They had paused for his mother to catch her breath. He looked back at Mrs. Reynolds, his face taut with the effort to disguise his fear. She had followed his gaze, but when he turned back to her, her eyes snapped back to his face. Her tongue clucked again.

“Come, young master; I would not be surprised if Cook’s treats have yet to leave the kitchen. Like as not, they will taste as good, if not better, the nearer they are to the oven.” She cast him a reassuring smile that was transformed into a yet broader one when his sister and her nurse appeared in the doorway behind him. “Miss Georgiana!” she cried. “Is that my little poppet, then?” She patted Darcy’s shoulder, gently urging him to the kitchen below before bustling over to greet the newcomers.

He heard his sister’s insistent call of “Fiss!” on his way to the kitchen but did not pause to do more than wave to her. Cook’s treats and the warmth of Pemberley’s kitchen awaited him, and after the cold and strained trip from London, the delicious normalcy of both sounded splendid, indeed.

Later, his stomach warmly content from the culinary welcome afforded by Cook and the kitchen servants, Darcy slipped up the stairs, intent upon gaining the safety of his rooms. He carefully made his way past his parents’ chambers, unwilling to be drawn into the suffering that lay behind its door by a summons precipitated by the sound of his passing. Opening his own door, he ran straightway to the windows of his bedchamber that faced out upon the pond and the snow-drifted hills that swept down from Park. The ribbon of gravel that was the drive was the only disturbance in the crystalline expanse. The snow lay glinting under an impossibly blue sky and the pond, already cleared of its cover, awaited him, as was all the familiar, consoling beauty of Pemberley. He sat on the broad sill and drank it in, vista to vista, infinitely grateful that home, at least, had not changed.

~~~~~&~~~~~

Dinner that night was largely a silent affair. Lady Anne did not come down and Darcy’s father kept his own counsel for much of it, his eyes pools of sadness that barely comprehended the food before them. Darcy chanced quick glances at him, hoping for the appearance of something of the father he knew. He would not ask after his mother, he decided. Her absence and his father’s pain made that polite exercise only an occasion for the further eroding of their tenuous composure.

The unusual silence, broken only by the clink of silver against china and the swish and step of the servants as they attended them, began to work on him. Darcy shifted in his chair and straightened, seeking relief from the tension that would not also draw his father’s notice. It did not, but the dining room door behind his father opened just then, and Darcy looked up to see Reynolds standing in the doorway surveying the room. The servants all stiffened and paused, unsure what was causing their superior to shake his head in such a manner. Only Darcy dared to follow Reynolds gaze. It fell squarely upon his father’s back and then shifted to him. Reynolds’ lips pursed before falling into a grim line that transformed into a solicitous smile as he approached the dining table. Motioning the other servants to proceed with their duties, he presented himself to his master.

 “Excuse me, sir,” he began and bowed.

Darcy’s father looked at him in surprise, then in trepidation. “Reynolds! What is it? Her ladyship?” He made to rise from the table.

“No, no, sir. Her ladyship is resting comfortably,” Reynolds assured them. “I merely wish to ascertain whether there is anything amiss with dinner. Cook stands ready to prepare something more to your taste, if you wish it.” He glanced over to Darcy, then back to his master, his face an open invitation to them to express their desires.

 Mr. Darcy’s face flushed slightly and some animation returned to his features. “No, Reynolds, this is perfectly good fare. I just do not seem to have much appetite this evening. Perhaps, Master Darcy would prefer something else.”

“No, sir,” Darcy responded to the combined regard of both men. “This is very good, Reynolds. Much better than school,” he murmured. “But, I am not so hungry, either.”

“Very good, Master Darcy; I shall have the plates removed. Shall dessert be held or—“

“Oh, no, Reynolds!” Darcy blurted out before thinking. He coloured at his father’s arched brow but relaxed a bit when Reynolds winked at him from behind his master. “That is, I should very much like dessert.”

 “Why ‘very much’?” his father asked, his features softening. “Do you know what it is?”

“Yes, sir. I visited the kitchen earlier, and Cook said that since I had been away so long to school he was making my favourite to remind me what good food tastes like.” Actually, Cook had said something so astringent about the food at school that Darcy deemed it appropriate to paraphrase. Even so, his father chuckled, and Reynolds’ lips twitched.

“Well, then,” Mr. Darcy said with a smile, “I am not one to stand in Cook’s way when he has a point to make, especially when it concerns dessert. Reynolds,” he commanded with a light in his eye, “bring the dessert—for both of us.”

“Very good, sir,” Reynolds replied with mock gravity. Bowing to both, but adding another wink to the one to his young master, he straightened and walked out the door like a man who had accomplished his mission.

Darcy grinned sheepishly up at his father, hoping that his impetuous incivility to Reynolds had broken through the fortress of his father’s sadness enough to continue the evening in a semblance of their old companionship. “Father,” he began, “are you part of the Brotherhood?” The question of his sire’s place in the world of whipsters was one that had plagued him at school, long before Samuel Coachman’s shared confidence. He’d asked Richard what he knew of his father’s standing, only to be vaguely assured by his cousin that “Uncle Darcy is a rare one” and took second to no boy’s father.

 “The Brotherhood?” Mr. Darcy replied, taking a nut from a bowl and cracking it open. “Which Brotherhood might this be?”

“Samuel Coachman’s Brotherhood.”

 “Samuel’s?” his father queried, his brow wrinkled, then cleared. “Ah, I remember now. No, not the Brotherhood of Coachmen; that is not for gentlemen.”

Darcy reached for a nut and tried to crack it open with his hands as his father had done. “The Four-And-Go Club?” he asked with some hesitancy. “Some of the lads at school boasted that their fathers were Four-And-Goers. Only the best whips could be members.”

His father slid the nutcracker over to him without comment and waited for the loud crack before answering with his own question. “What have you heard of the Goers, Fitzwilliam?”

Here was dangerous ground! What he’d heard had been exciting: mad dashes across country, fantastic wagers won and lost, the heroic feats of legendary horses, but some other things had been rather shocking. “Well, sir, “he began carefully, “a candidate must have first passed a test of driving skill even to be considered. It is rather exacting.”

“Yes, it is, “his father agreed with a nod. “What else?” “His Highness, the Prince of Wales was rejected for membership and threatened the club’s officers, but they stood firm. That was rather brave; was it not?”

 “Perhaps.” Mr. Darcy reached for another nut, cracked it, and shared it with his son. “Do you think it was brave?”

“I thought so when I heard the story,” Darcy responded. “The other lads declared it was a topping thing to have done.” He paused, his brow wrinkling. “Was it not bad form for the prince to threaten them?”

“Yes, it was, Fitz, very bad form; but was it brave for the officers to have wounded the pride of a very powerful man for the sake of a driving club?” He cocked his head. “What might have become of them or their families?”

 “I don’t know, sir,” Darcy confessed after a short consideration and looked down at his hands, away from his parent’s intent gaze. The clatter of the dining room door opening put a pause to their conversation. Darcy looked up at the plate in the footman’s grasp and followed its descent to the table in front of him. It looked absolutely marvellous and smelled even better. The anticipation must have been written plainly across his face, for his father laughed and told him to tuck in before his jaw hit the table. They ate in companionable silence for the first several bites. Then, Mr. Darcy relaxed against the back of his chair and turned his attention once more to his son. Darcy grinned back at him between spoonfuls but continued to pay his immediate respects to his dessert.

“Clearly, we will have no worthwhile conversation until you have finished becoming one with your dessert,” he addressed Darcy affectionately. “Therefore, I will assume the burden of it and begin with an answer, proceed to a confession, and end, as any good father should, with a caution. Whether I have made my case, you must decide and order your life accordingly.” He motioned a servant to pour his coffee, amended it himself with sugar and cream, and sat back in his chair once more to regard his son. “To begin—yes, I was a member of the Four-And-Go Club.”

“Oh, Father!” Darcy cried, his face alighting with pride and some relief. What a grand thing he would have to boast of when he returned to school! The Four-And-Goers’ exploits were the stuff of legend and the envy of less proficient whipsters the country over. Membership was extremely selective, and the test for admittance was said to require the most exacting bits of driving imaginable, a team of four impeccably matched and fearless examples of horseflesh, and a good deal of raw nerve. Its prestige was enormous; witness, that His Highness had petitioned for membership. The Prince’s failure to qualify and resultant tantrum remained the prime example of “bad form” whispered among schoolboys even to the present day. But, why had he not known this before or seen any indication of his father’s expertise in their drives together?

Mr. Darcy responded to his son’s look of adulation with a wry self-conscious smile. “You may wonder why I have never told you of this or even mentioned the Goers. That is where the confession I mentioned enters our conversation.”

Darcy looked curiously at his father, intensely interested in his extraordinary revelation. At the same time, he could not but be conscious of the fact that his father was speaking to him differently than he had before he had left for school, and with it, a new sense of maturity settled upon his shoulders like a cloak. “Please, go on, sir.”

“I must also tell you that I was, in my youth, a founding member of the Goers.”

“One of the Originals?” Darcy could scarcely believe it; his esteem for his father grew exponentially. His father, an Original! The beginning of the Goers was shrouded in a mystery still perpetuated by the current membership. The founders, or “Originals” as they had been dubbed, were never named and only identified by the aliases with which they had christened themselves. While the membership were known to each other, the Originals, it was said, never appeared among them unmasked. Darcy fairly shivered with the wonder of it. His father!

“Yes, an Original,” Mr. Darcy affirmed and then grimaced, “and as foolish and hot-tempered as anyone in that time. Fitzwilliam, I know it sounds terribly exciting—and it was, for a time—but I would remind you that this is a confession.” He reached for another nut and rolled it back and forth between his palms. “As you have probably already deduced, I was one of the officers who rejected His Highness’s petition for membership. We were a devil-may-care set, and demanded driving of the most reckless sort to qualify for membership. We were, at least, perfectly sober for our races; it was an absolute rule and one with which all the Originals knew the Prince incapable of compliance. For that reason alone, he should have been rejected; but he was a rather ham-fisted driver as well. So, it was with derision of his driving that we, in our pride, spaded him.”

Darcy nodded his understanding. It was not an uncommon way of voting on membership into a group: a heart card was laid down for acceptance, a spade for rejection. The higher the value of the card, the greater was the vehemence being expressed for or against the candidate.

“Doubtless, you have heard somewhat concerning His Highness’s reaction to our dismissal of his suite. It might have gone badly, very badly, had his agents ever discovered who we were. I tell you honestly, our pride and bravado lasted less than a fortnight before it was brought home to us how dangerous it is to enrage a monarch or a future one. A way would have been found to bring down our families in disgrace, endangering all of our futures for nothing more than the temporary pleasure of sitting in judgement on one above us in station and rank on as ridiculous a subject as his ability to drive four ill-tempered beasts to our satisfaction.” A thrill of excitement at his father’s story, heightened by the dread his sire meant him to feel, raced up Darcy’s back. Mr. Darcy checked a sigh at his son’s excited shiver and continued. “Was it brave? No, Fitzwilliam, it was not. It was as foolish a thing as we might ever have done, save for that with which I will conclude—the caution.”

Darcy pushed his empty plate away, at one and the same time burning to know and dreading to hear what could be worse in his father’s eyes than the disgrace he had nearly visited upon his family. Of all things, the possibility of disgrace was held as a delicately balanced sword above the heads of every boy of his class, serving to curb all but the most dissolute in the chase after excitement or dominion. Every temptation was weighed against it until, in the ceaseless exercise of that equation, the young man’s character was fixed.

“Yes, Father?” he finally replied, signalling his readiness.

Mr. Darcy rolled the nut between his palms once again and then laid it back in the dish. “About four months after rejecting His Highness’s application, we were approached by another, a young lord not even a year out of University who fancied himself equal to the test. He was a very likeable young man, amiable, gentlemanly in almost every instance except in one, his passion for racing and, in becoming a Goer, proving his was up to any challenge. I, for one, liked him immensely until it came to that subject, upon which time he became exceedingly tiresome. The Originals, myself included, decided that, after the come-uppance of a severe test of driving skill to the tune of impossible time constraints allowed him to acquire some humility, we would card him into the club.

I shall never forget that morning. It was not yet light when we accompanied him out of the inn and boosted him up to the driver’s seat. His face was as white as a gander’s wing, though his eyes were bright and hard in the torchlight as he wound the lines about his gloved hand and uncurled his whip. I remember entertaining the fleeting thought as I watched him that he would never acknowledge the absurdity of our test but would press all to the uttermost. How I wish I would have stopped him, confessed our plan! But the impression was only a momentary one, and none of us thought he would fail to exercise reason even as he courted the danger.

The test began with the first ray of dawn. At the crack of his whip, his team sprang forward, and our whoops spurred him on to the first checkpoint. He made the first and then the second, but later that morning, a boy from a farm near the third rode into the yard on the checkpoint observer’s horse, calling for help.”

Darcy sat very still, barely breathing, and completely unable to take his eyes from his father’s face. He knew what was to come and did not want to hear it. He blinked several times and swallowed hard. His father nodded his understanding but, leaning forward, continued.

“We found a physician and, bundling him onto one of the member’s horses, set out after our young lord. We arrived only moments before it was all over. He… he had taken a corner above a ravine too fast and overset the carriage. It rolled on him as he went down.” He paused to swallow the catch in his voice before continuing. “The sight of his broken body and the fearful confusion on his face as death rushed to claim him is something I can never forget, as well as the fact that I had a part in what had happened to him.”

His father reached again for a nut from the bowl and swiftly cracked it, giving him half. “It was a horrible thing and painful to confess to you, Fitzwilliam, but I wish you to know that your father is a fallible man, and as it is in man’s nature, it is inevitable that you shall be so as well. My hope in telling you this is that in your own battles with failings and foolishness, you will not be as heedless as I or suffer such pangs for them.”

Mr. Darcy fell silent and looked earnestly at his son in a wordless request for assurance that Darcy understood the moral. Shivering with the horror of the story as well as the burden his father bore, Darcy signalled his understanding but could not think what to say. His father pushed back his chair and rose briskly, motioning Darcy to do likewise. Then, putting his hands on his son’s shoulders, he gave him a loving shake. Darcy smiled and hesitantly asked, “What now, sir? Are you still—"

 “A member? I resigned as an officer on the day of his lordship’s funeral and have, since meeting your mother, been a member emeritus only.” He peered at his son, and then continued, “Which does not mean that I have forgotten how to drive to an inch.” Darcy grinned up at him, and his father smiled back before dropping his hands and assuming a more formal pose, his brows cocked as he measured his son’s stature. Darcy threw back his shoulders, anxious that his father’s examination would not find him wanting. “Hmm,” Mr. Darcy murmured as if coming to a decision which required some pondering.

“Sir?”

“Although I may be a bit out of practice, Fitzwilliam, I believe I still retain enough skill to teach you the finer points of how a gentleman whip handles a team." He laughed at the sudden brightening of his son’s countenance. “And I also believe that this summer is not too soon to start!”