A/N: Lurker/Newbie here who finally decided to stop being a coward and publish the story she's always been meaning to write. I've had this plot percolating in my brain for years, but I just thought nobody would want to read it, because it represents a departure from canon (even though I will try to render the characters accurately). I know for some, any other endgame but Darcy/Lizzy is blasphemy, so I completely understand if many will not want to try it out. In the end I decided that I wanted to read the story, so why not write it for myself? And maybe some of you will join me. If you do, please be gentle with me, I'm only an admirer of Austen (and of many other excellent writers on this platform) but I could never rival her craft. Thanks for reading!

(p.s. the title is inspired by the collection of poetry written by max porter)


chapter 1: the world carries on

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Fitzwilliam Darcy never left a blank page in his diary if he could help it. Every evening after supper, he allotted a quarter of an hour in his study for this personal record-keeping. The fact that he allowed himself only fifteen minutes to accomplish this task was a testament to his capacity for protraction and diligence. He jotted down the meaningful events of the day with a few cursory observations that always felt more general than private. He usually ended the entry with two things that needed doing the following day. He was good at adhering to this routine.

But when his wife Elizabeth abruptly died giving birth to their second child, he wrote nothing in his diary for seven months.

This was the only way he could mark the event – with absolute silence. A sea of choking white.

When he finally returned to his habit, he found he had either too much or too little to say. But seven months after his wife's untimely death, he wrote in his diary,

The lake has frozen over, but there isn't much snow this year. Little Fanny is looking healthy. Georgie leaves me today to return to her husband. In her place, they are sending Mary Bennet.

The first observations were true and pertinent. The last line he felt like crossing. It sounded peevish and mean, but it reflected a partial truth. His family did not believe him capable of weathering his grief on his own, though he had managed for the past months. They were afraid he would crumble without some watchful presence. Georgiana had already mourned with him for the better part of autumn and she was needed at home, where Cousin Fitzwilliam and her infant son, Arthur, required her presence. Jane Bingley seemed in worse spirits than him and Charles was tasked to console her, and neither of them could be spared anyway. Lady Catherine had written her nephew a very fine letter in which she sounded sincerely pained by the loss of a "formidable partner, notwithstanding her station". She even attended the funeral in all her faded grandeur, but she could do no more than that. Mrs. Reynolds was a good comfort during the day, but at night she left Darcy to his own devices and he traipsed from empty room to empty room in a state of restless abandon. His son, George, named after the late Mr. Darcy, was only six years old and consumed by fits of sentimental rage whenever his mother's name came up. Darcy managed to put on a brave front for him, but more often than not, he had to ask for the child to be removed so he wouldn't see his father shaken with misery.

But surely, despite this sorry state of affairs, his spirits would not be improved by having to play host to his late wife's unmarried sister. As the proclaimed spinster of the family, Mary had stayed at home to take care of her parents. She had been of vital help to her father when Mrs. Bennet had passed away the spring before last. Therefore, she had ample experience with husbands wracked with grief. It had been rather a shock to Mr. Bennet to discover that he had cared more for his wife than he had initially believed. Her "poor nerves" had won the final match between the two and now he could only submit to the strange, unexpected feeling of missing her. Mary was a great comfort to her father – another surprising discovery – and now she would apply her newly gained knowledge to another widower. She was declared by both Georgiana and Charles to be up for the task.

The well-intentioned scheme was embarrassing to Darcy. The only thing that made him accept in the end was that Mr. Bennet took it upon himself to write him, asking him to take Mary in because he was not sure if he himself would see many more springs and once the estate was passed over to his cousin, Mr. Collins, his daughter's future would be in the hands of her sisters' families. Darcy was moved by the letter and knew it was his duty to observe it, yet he still selfishly hoped that Charles could take in the remnant sister, because he did not feel capable of welcoming anyone else to Pemberley. Still, it was what Lizzy would have wanted. And her memory was now sacred to him.

Darcy dipped his quill once more and crossed out the last line in his diary. Instead he wrote,

Mary Bennet is to arrive at Pemberley on the 14th.

.


Mary wished it had snowed. The land was desolate, bare-boned. She removed her head from the window and fixed her eyes on the dark coach ceiling. She'd only been to Pemberley twice before: once for Georgiana's wedding and a second time on Christmas, after her nephew George was born. Both occasions had been marked with great cheer. She remembered the beautiful garlands that had been hung from every arch and beam of the ball room. She remembered a rosy-cheeked Georgiana opening the first dance with Colonel Fitzwilliam – a glorious, youthly display.

Mary remembered having envied her, as she did all women who had found a place and a person to call their own. But with the passage of time she discarded these "unhelpful" emotions. That was what she called them – unhelpful because they only increased her disappointment and distanced her from the considerable good she had in her life. She no longer felt pity for herself and her old maid's destiny. She embraced it as well as she could. After all, she never had to worry about a roof over her head, being so well connected with the Bingleys and the Darcys. Deep down, she thought she would not have been able to get along with a man as well as her sisters did. So perhaps marriage for her would have been a trial. Not that she had had a great deal of time to contemplate these things in the past two years. Two deaths in the family had dried up her tears and worn her down. The people who knew her said she was a little more "amiable" now, but this was only because her rigid resolve had been shattered. Her mother's death she had countenanced, but Lizzy's demise had seemed like the cruel whims of a foreign god. Her God would not have allowed this. Lizzy had been the strongest of them all, the healthiest, the most robust. To have her cut down in her prime was senseless. Mary still prayed in the morning and at night, still believed her sister was in heaven, smiling down at all of them, but the brunt of her conviction was weaker now, lacking in fortitude. Her zeal was gone. She might not have been a handsome girl, but at least she had always been upright, standing in the midst of her shortcomings without shame. Now she was both ugly and wilted. Defeated, almost.

But she did not pity herself, no. She was simply stating a matter of fact. Perhaps in time she would stand up again.

She closed her eyes briefly and wished that time would glide like a bird in the sky – fast and without effort. When she woke up, she would be her old self again. If only such things were possible.


"Miss Bennet has settled in well. Shall I ring for tea or will you be joining her directly at supper, Sir?" Mrs. Reynolds asked with a slight reproach in her voice. Darcy knew he had been absent-minded with his sister-in-law upon arrival. He had shaken hands with her and parroted all the civilities required, but he had sounded stiff and unpracticed. Without Lizzy to coax him into social niceties, he was hopelessly lost. It did not help that Mary was shy of nature and was all too happy to stay quiet while he wracked his brains for something to say. At length, they were both reduced to silence and Mrs. Reynolds had to carry her away.

Darcy rubbed his thumb against the spine of his book. He set it aside, realizing he had not grasped much of his reading.

"Supper shall do."

Mrs. Reynolds nodded and looked at him for one more moment before turning on her heels and walking out of his study. The woman knew how to make her opinion known.

Darcy knew supper would not fare much better. Mary had looked sober and composed, as she always did - almost to a fault – but there had been something decidedly weary about her that had little to do with the exhaustion of travel. Two deaths in the family must have shaken her badly. He wondered for the first time if perhaps she minded this inconvenience just as much as he did. Perhaps she had been foisted with this duty against her will. Lizzy would have let her mind be known on the matter, but her younger sister had less gumption. Did she know that her father was sending her off without plans of return?

Darcy rose from his seat and paced in heavy thought to the western window where the last cold rays of winter painted the cornices a faint, bleeding red. He would humor this arrangement without further protestation, but in time he thought it only proper that Mary should go and stay with Jane. They would find comfort in each other. As for him, there would never be solace again.


Mary took the spinning tops offered by her nephew with a small smile.

"Thank you, George."

"That one is my favorite," he informed her in a grave voice and pointed at the yellow top that had a small crack at its centre. "It spins the fastest."

"Well then, show me how it spins," Mary beckoned him. She watched as George crouched on the nursery floor and fiddled with the top. He looked so much like Lizzy. Even his deliberate movements were a copy of her. Mary suppressed a sigh.

"Aunt Mary? Are you looking?"

"Yes, George."

The sweet, almost bashful way he called her "Aunt" made Mary feel strange. The child did not know her very well, but had accepted that she was part of the family. Still, there was something shadowed in the word, something resentful. The Aunt is here, but not the Mother.

Little Fanny was sitting on the nurse's lap, her fat little thumb in her mouth. From time to time she would make a noise like the gurgle of a river and she'd look at Mary with incomprehensive eyes. She had no notions of aunts yet, and for all she knew, the nurse was her mother. But her origins were indisputable. She resembled her father very much.

The nurse, Hannah, had more or less implied that Mr. Darcy did not come up very often. Mary could not entirely blame him. The children were a fresh reminder of loss. She felt a kind of abstract affection for them, but without Lizzy in their midst, Mary felt they were strangers.

Still, she would grow to love them better.

George raised his head all of a sudden and looked around the room, as if sensing the absence of someone important. His lower lip trembled slightly.

Mary picked up the orange spinning top. "Are you sure this one isn't faster?" She'd learned from spending time with her grieving father that pointing out life's small inconsistencies to him was the best distraction.

George clenched his tiny fist against the rug. "I'm very sure, I've tried them all." But he grabbed the orange spinning top and proceeded to show his aunt the difference.

The wooden toys became a blur. And the pang inside her chest became a blur too.

.


Mary still remembered that afternoon in October when her mother had told her to stop playing the piano because Lizzy was going to marry Mr. Darcy. It felt like a century ago. Mrs. Bennet had stormed into the room with the news, startling the poor tabby cat which had found shelter at Mary's feet.

"Lizzy?" Mary had asked, slightly peeved. Her elder sister had refused Mr. Collins, their own cousin. She would certainly not pledge her troth to a man she did not like, even if he was rich and Mr. Bingley's friend.

"But she quite hates him. She disparaged him on several occasions," Mary insisted, thinking perhaps her mother had run off with some mad notion. But then Lizzy entered the room, looking flushed and embarrassed and happy and it was plain to see that the improbable had occurred.

When did she find time to like him? Mary wondered as their father came into the room. He looked very pleased with himself. "Well, Mrs. Bennet. Have I not done well? I daresay your girls have made the best matches in the country."

It was just like him to take credit for his wife's concerns.

Mary remembered being overcome with a feeling of sadness she could not account for. She was not intimate enough with Lizzy as to ask her how she'd fallen in love with Mr. Darcy. She did not even know if love was a deciding factor in the match.

When she went up to bed with Kitty that evening she felt orphaned somehow. As if she'd lost something precious.

"I wouldn't have married him for all the money in the world," her sister said, sniffing in her pillow. "He's tall and ugly and full of himself. He wouldn't ever dance with us."

Mary knew Kitty was only acting out her jealousy, but she did wonder how such a proud man would ever put up with the Bennets. To be frank, she was a little scared of him. The few times she had spent in his or his friends' company, she had felt small and stupid. She hated feeling small and stupid. She also thought he looked very severe - like a stern Roman emperor who never forgave his enemies. To please him would require an extraordinary feat. Yet Lizzy had managed it. She had charmed him. Her sister now appeared to her like a fantastical creature, endowed with mysterious powers. Mary wondered how one went about acquiring these powers. She knew no matter how many books she read to better herself, she would never possess such qualities. It often left her feeling very empty when she realized books could not provide for everything.

"Perhaps he has cousins," Kitty murmured, halfway to sleep.

Mary stayed awake until the first inklings of dawn, contemplating her sister's husband-to-be. He cast a long, ominous shadow across the chambers of her mind.

And now? Now when she walked into the dining room and greeted her brother-in-law she found that while his figure was still imposing, still Romanesque, he had lost that terrifying quality. He had become fallible and human.

She still found it difficult to converse with him because she felt that, for all his irreproachable courtesy, he did not have enough patience for her musings. He seemed even more disinclined to indulge her in his current state. But there was still more softness to him than when she had first spoken to him in the parlour at Longbourn. He had descended upon them as Lizzy's formal betrothed. Mary remembered asking him if he liked Virgil. She was very proud that she had begun reading the Eclogues. Darcy had replied that there weren't any good translations in English, which had silenced her, since she was only reading him in English. He had answered her in a stark but friendly fashion, yet she had felt mortified.

Mary couldn't believe that she was now dining with him, the man who used to scare her.

"George has grown so much since I last saw him," she said after the two of them had made their way through the first course in silence. There was no one else present to dine with them, as Darcy had shunned company since the funeral.

"Yes… he benefits from exercise greatly. He will start riding lessons in the spring," Darcy replied with factual sobriety.

Mary wondered what manner of reply she should make. Eventually, she said,

"Is it not too early?"

"Too early?" he repeated, his tone flat. "No, I should think not."

Mary sipped at her watered wine and decided to leave it at that.

Darcy, at length, cleared his throat. He was trying to make an effort. "Do you yourself ride?"

Mary shook her head. "No, I never learned."

"Elizabeth –" he began and stopped shortly, looked down at his own plate. He began anew. "Elizabeth learned to ride beautifully."

"Yes, I think she mentioned it in her letters. Her favorite horse was called Blueberry."

Darcy cleared his throat. "I have made a gift of him to one of my neighbors."

"Oh..." Mary trailed off sadly. "I understand, though I would've liked to meet him."

"There are other horses," Darcy said abruptly. "If you wish to learn, one of my grooms would be more than happy to assist –"

"Oh, no," Mary said quickly, her tone betraying panic. "That's not necessary. That is, thank you, but no."

"Very well," he said, feeling foolish for suggesting it. "Do you still play the piano?"

"Not as much as I used to," she replied mournfully.

Darcy said nothing. They were a fine match; two people ill-equipped at conversation.

No other subject bore much fruit. They exchanged some tepid remarks about the frozen lake, with the promise that she might see it soon. But it went no further than that. They ate in silence, the clatter of their forks and knives making conversation in their place.

Mary would have retired to her room once the meal was finished, but she had promised Jane she would make some kind of effort. Therefore, when Darcy made the civil but very insubstantial invitation to join him the drawing room, she said yes. He did not manage to hide his displeasure at having his evening confiscated, but he consoled himself with the notion that they could both sit and read. He remembered Mary spent hours in his library whenever the Bennets came to stay at Pemberley.

Mary was happy to pick up one of the available volumes in the drawing room cabinet, left behind precisely for such an occasion. She buried her head behind a book on the Peloponnesian War and said not a word for the length of an hour. This suited Darcy well, as he made more progress with his own volume of natural history.

Still, there was something strange and stultified in the atmosphere. He felt her presence as a kind of imposition, even though she did not make a sound except for the rustling of pages. Perhaps, oddly, he would have preferred her to chatter, to be like her younger sisters and fill his head with nonsense.

An interruption came, eventually, when Mrs. Reynolds brought more candles. She stopped to ask Mary about Longbourn and the health of her father.

Darcy watched as Mary's brow smoothed out. She looked almost ill-tempered when she read. Her face was a strange study for him. There was little of Lizzy in her, but he tried not to dwell on her plainness. What did he care for beauty anyway?

When time came for them to bid goodnight, he felt a little chagrined knowing they would go on exchanging these empty pleasantries for the foreseeable future.

Before Mary took leave, she told him she would go say goodnight to George and Fanny.

Darcy had not intended to do the same, but he felt rather shamed into it now. He usually reserved a short amount of time for his children in the morning, because the task was rather taxing to him, but he decided to change his habit on this occasion.

He waited for Mary to retire before going upstairs.

Upon seeing his father, George did not want to go to bed anymore. He sat up, eyes brimming with excitement and began to tell him the stories he had made up while playing with his soldiers and horses. He told him about the spinning tops too.

"Aunt Mary didn't believe me. She though the orange one was faster than the yellow. But I showed her."

Darcy stroked his son's hair absently. He felt and heard Lizzy in his voice and it cut him to the quick, as it always did. He should not have come up here. He rather blamed it on Mary.

"Father, do you know when Mummy's coming back?"

Darcy looked down at his son. George had asked the question innocently enough, no hint of tears or petulance in his expression. But Darcy knew this was only the calm before the storm.

"You already know the answer, George. You must be brave, like I told you," he replied sternly, trying to inspire the boy. George's eyes shone wetly in disbelief.

Darcy called the nurse into the room.

"Now, you had best listen to Hannah and go to bed or you will not be allowed outside tomorrow."

Hannah nodded eagerly. "Yes, Master George. We must be good and go to sleep now."

Darcy could hear his inconsolable cries as the nursery door shut behind him. But he could do nothing to remedy them. He felt the temptation to weep himself, but he fought against it. He was not safe in his solitude anymore. There was his new guest to contend with.

He attempted to start several diary entries that evening, but not a single one satisfied him.

In the end, he wrote tersely,

The world carries on.

And it did. It would, whether he liked it or not.