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eyed the imposing parcel that Mary had set before him with the air of a man who would have chosen almost any other occupation. It was bulky, plain, and possessed an altogether serious air that made it resemble a legal brief more than a wedding gift. And on the evening of his nuptials, he had formed one or two ideas of how he might prefer to spend the time, none of which involved unwrapping objects of dubious origin.

And none of them involved ribbons or papers.

Yet Mary, his wife of but a few hours and newly enthroned in the command of their domestic sphere, remained unmoved. Her countenance bore that particular composure—an expression of serene assurance, untouched by his protests.

And , a soldier long schooled in the prudence of yielding to superior authority, had already resolved to defer to finer judgment—perhaps forever. He might even, if recollection served, have uttered words to that very effect at the altar.

He turned his gaze upon her. She appeared provokingly composed, her dark eyes lit with quiet amusement.

“Mary,”

he said, releasing a sigh.

“are you quite certain this is the one we must open at present? Why this one, and not another?”

There were, indeed, many others—a veritable heap of parcels, most conveyed from Longbourn in their carriage after the rather lively wedding breakfast, with several more delivered directly to the house.

The house had been graciously lent to them by Aunt Catherine herself, who now styled Mary he.

“most promising niece by marriage,”

with all the pomp of one conferring a royal distinction. They were to remain there until Rosemont should be ready to receive them.

“You should open this one, ,”

said Mary, with that provoking serenity which left him both comforted and somewhat threatened.

“May I at least inquire who sent it? There is no note, no inscription. It looks less like a gift and more like a diplomatic communiqué.”

Mary’s lips curved ever so slightly. “Open it,”

she said, her tone light and a touch mischievous.

“I assure you, there is nothing within that could harm you.”

He narrowed his eyes at her.

“There is something in your voice, Mary. It sounds dangerously like mockery.”

“Not mockery,”

she replied, wholly unabashed.

“Mild anticipation, perhaps.”

With the weary sigh of a man besieged by forces he could neither fight nor flee, set to work. The paper yielded with a sound of stubborn resistance, revealing beneath it a substantial wooden case, its brass corners polished, its latch secure. It was finely made, almost military in construction, and heavy enough that he half expected to find ammunition or a sabre within.

He examined it once, then looked at Mary.

“Let it not be a set of sermons,”

he muttered.

“Or worse, philosophical essays on the moral constitution of man.”

Mary only shook her head.

“Open it, .”

He unfastened the latch.

The moment the lid fell open, froze. His brows rose, his mouth parted—then settled into a soundless exhalation of disbelief.

“Well, that is the devil’s work,”

he said at last, drawing a soft, triumphant laugh from Mary.

Inside the box, nestled with reverence upon velvet folds, lay a sculpture—no delicate porcelain or classical figure, but a robust carving in warm oak. It depicted a boy, no more than twelve, in short breeches and a slightly oversized coat slipping from one shoulder, mischief as if carved upon the curve of his mouth. His knees were dusty and his tousled hair defied both brush and propriety.

In one raised hand, the boy held a small stone—not wooden, but real.

bent nearer, his eyes narrowing. The stone, nearly round yet with jagged edges—My God, he knew that stone.

“Good heavens,”

he breathed.

“Is that—? Is that—?”

“Your pebble,”

Mary said, her tone perfectly serene.

stared.

“Then they knew.”

“Yes.”

“You told them.”

“I did no such thing,”

Mary replied with mock indignation, folding her arms.

“How little you think of my loyalties.”

“Then—Darcy?”

“Not Fitzwilliam. Nor Charles. Nor anyone we know.”

shook his head, bewildered.

“Then who?”

Mary gave him a long, knowing look.

“, my aunt and uncle may be warm-hearted souls, but they are not witless. There were guests at their wedding, and some of them saw—something. A boy. With very poor judgement and very accurate aim.”

swallowed.

“From that day,”

continued Mary.

“my aunt and uncle began to seek. They took careful note. All the boys within my aunt’s acquaintance—family, visitors, anyone remotely connected to her by visits to their home or her father’s shop—were placed upon a private list. A long one, but not an endless one.”

’s eyes widened again, this time with dawning understanding.

“And Darcy and I were among them.”

“Exactly,”

said Mary, her tone mild, though her eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

“And so, one by one, they began to eliminate names. They visited the boys in question, subtly, of course—watching their expressions, their reactions. Most revealed themselves by innocence alone. But you and Fitzwilliam—well, you were not so easily approached. The son and nephew of an earl, no less.”

“So they waited,”

said , as the full picture began to emerge—bringing with it a reluctant admiration.

“They waited until Darcy happened upon their circle, when he called upon your uncle in search of investment.”

Mary gave a prim nod.

“Just so. Did it never strike you as curious that Fitzwilliam, who had counted my uncle a friend these five years, had never once met my aunt till recently?”

paused.

“Now that you mention it—it is curious.”

“Because my uncle never spoke of her,”

said Mary.

“Not her name, nor her origins. Not even that she was from Derbyshire. He kept her quite hidden. They wished to observe his reaction upon meeting her unawares.”

gave a low chuckle.

“And his reaction?”

“Startled, yes—but not in the least guilty.”

“Which left me,”

said , running a hand over his face.

“the last suspect on their list. And when I saw your aunt…”

“Ah, you looked like his day of judgement had come—and it wore a bonnet.”

He groaned.

“And that is why you would never let me confess. I wanted to. I had apologies prepared. Sincere ones. You wanted them to give me this present.”

“Guilty as charged,”

said Mary, entirely unrepentant.

had to laugh. He could do nothing else. At the very least, he could not repine. He had found a lady to call his own—a clever, implacable creature with eyes like starlight and a mind sharp enough to cut through any pretense. A woman who would keep him on his toes for life, and no doubt smiling while doing it.

“Well,”

he said, glancing at the carved relic of his disgrace.

“what am I to do with this… object of eternal mortification?”

Mary tilted her head, her expression all innocence.

“Oh, my uncle was quite clear. It is to reside in the morning parlour at Rosemont—pride of place, always visible, and ever a reminder.”

exhaled slowly, equal parts amusement and resignation. He had been raised among intelligent people—shrewd, deliberate, strategic. He had spent his adult years in the art of war, after all. But nothing, in all his campaigns, had ever approached the elegance of this retribution.

No public scolding. No private scorn. Simply a boy immortalised, forever mid-mistake, and placed where all might see—and smile.

It was brilliant. It was unbearable. It was perfect.

“A masterstroke,”

he murmured.

“Not a flogging, but a felling blow to vanity. It is a gift designed to keep a man humble for the rest of his natural life.”

Mary’s smile deepened.

“Then you agree with the placement?”

“I do,”

said , solemn now. He looked once more at the wooden boy with the carved smirk and the mischievous glint—his own reflection in miniature.

“This gift shall sit in the morning parlour, with all the prominence it deserves. Let all who enter Rosemont know its story.”

Mary laughed, a sound that caught him like a memory he had never known he needed.

“And what a fitting end,”

she said.

“To a boy’s mischief… and a man’s beginning.”

offered her his arm.

“Then let us begin properly, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”

And so they did—leaving behind the wooden boy and stepping forward together into the future. One humbled, one triumphant—and both entirely, improbably happy.

Wednesday, January 29, 1812

Matlock Town House, London