k, here's the third and final part of darcy 1.0's story. if you've been waiting, well. go back to chapter 5 and read straight through.

"Elizabeth!" His cry was so unexpected, his face crumpling at the utterance of her name, that Darcy was frozen in disbelief and horror, but not in response to the man's obvious distress. Darcy was horrified that Elizabeth, the sensible, intelligent Elizabeth, could do such a thing! The two men sat there, both silently struggling to compose themselves for different reasons with the same tragic cause. Elizabeth Bennet acting without forethought to save her wayward sister was not out of character, but it was certainly misguided. Darcy closed his eyes and removed the imagined expression of terrified shock on Elizabeth's face, breathing deeply until his heart ceased racing. He opened his eyes to see that William was still in anguish; he was doubled over, clutching at his sides and gasping. Darcy was unsure what to do; finally, he leaned forward and attempted to pat the man on the back, but William sat up and smoothed his face back into the somewhat bitter expression that seemed to be his norm.

"Elizabeth," he continued, his voice cracking only slightly, "had taken it upon herself, in light of her father's recent downturn, to find her sister. Foolish, foolish woman! What could she have been about, traipsing around London trying to find an un-findable fiend! I suppose she justified it in her own mind, but we both know that Elizabeth Bennet keeps to her own counsel regardless of the situation. Anyway, by the time I had learned of what had happened, which was weeks of torture, I can assure you, Elizabeth had vanished. Everyone was in an uproar. Mr. Bennett, in hearing that not one but two of his daughters were missing, took a turn for the worst, and I'm afraid to say that his passing occurred but shortly thereafter. Mr. Gardiner, with assistance from both myself and Richard, sought any news of Wickham, Lydia, or Elizabeth, to no avail. I promise you, Darcy. I used every bit of information at my disposal. Mrs. Younge- you remember her, Darcy- led me on a roundabout sort of trail that turned up cold. The closest we ever came to finding Wickham's whereabouts was the dubious intelligence that he had stayed in a dank, disgusting lodging house with 'that busty lass with the 'orrible temper', but I never learned to which lady they were referring. Nothing. Nothing at all.

"Can you possibly imagine how terrible those days were? It was… I cannot describe it. I tell you this story with little emotion, my outburst of a few moments ago aside. It has been so long since all of this happened, you see; I think it was in these darkest moments that all of my hope for the future died. That seems like a melodramatic assessment of the situation, but I assure you- that is exactly what came to pass. I never had another light, hopeful feeling again after that, save when Annie informed me that she was to give Pemberley an heir. Oh, and when I realized that the heavens had answered my prayers and sent me to you, of course." At that, he gave a wry smile and tipped his cup of tea in Darcy's direction, to which Darcy gave an exasperated laugh.

"And… and how did you come to… you said you found her grave?" Darcy was unwilling to ask this question, so caught up in the terrible tale he was. The man's words, his every reaction; the solemn bitterness in which he related most of the tale solidified every doubt Darcy had regarding the veracity of the man's existence; strange as it was, it was as though he was watching himself in a mirror. He recognized the man's mask as his own, aged approximately twenty years; he saw the bitterness, the rejection. The only real difference, aside from some grey hair at the temples, was that despite their lifeless appearance, his eyes shone with a zealous light when he mentioned Elizabeth, and Darcy was almost afraid to speculate as to what end they shone.

"Ah. Well, let's see. I told you that no news of Miss Elizabeth was to be found. At least, not for several years. Let me return to Bingley for a moment; he did propose to Jane, but she did not immediately accept him. The worry over her sisters and her father prevented her from doing so, and Bingley patiently waited. When Mr. Bennet passed away, Bingley was prepared to wait out the full mourning, but surprisingly, Jane insisted they marry right away. She recently told me that she didn't give a damn what society thought of her, shocking several years from my life at hearing that fine lady curse and putting a rather large grin on Charles' face.

"Now to me. It took a while for me to stop being so frantic about finding Elizabeth. I would like to say that I never gave up the search, but there were some days that I was so unsure as to what avenue to search next that I gave up and sank into a deep state of melancholy. Nothing could cheer me. I would wake at my desk, my hand still wrapped around a tumbler, Walsh trying to pry it from my fingers. That poor man. You ought to pay him more, Darcy.

"One day, Georgiana stormed in to the study at the London house, demanding that I snap out of it. I did not even recall the date. Apparently, I had missed her presentation at St. James'." William looked deeply mortified and coughed into his hand. "I hoped, rather than believed, that she forgave me. I had told her a month or so into the search for Elizabeth everything that had transpired, but I suppose even a most beloved younger sister has a limit on just how much she will take from her older, drunken brother.

"She informed me that with our Aunt Eleanor's assistance, she was making it through her first season and that she was, in fact, engaged to be married. She ignored my sputtering and informed me, in the firmest voice I have ever heard her use, that I was to get cleaned up and make myself ready to accept her suitor's request for an audience.

"I do not know how well I performed, but the man's sweet, stuttering appeal to my dark mood did something to me. Darcy, I had behaved a fool. I had neglected everything, everything I had ever held dear, and what had it gotten me? My pride? I resolved to move on, in action if not in heart.

"Georgiana married near the end of the season. A week after that, I went to Aunt Catherine and informed her that I was ready to wed Anne. I shan't go into any detail on either lady's response. It would seem that our cousin Anne has held a tendre for us for quite some time, Darcy. As previously stated, she always knew that I loved another, but even my cold, dutiful affection was preferable to a Mother's smothering attentions.

"I say with abject shame that I did not see Annie at the altar next to me on our wedding day; I didn't see Elizabeth, either. I simply saw the altar, and the vicar, and the smug face of Aunt Catherine, and the weeping eyes of Georgiana, and the heartbroken expression on Jane Bingley's face. Me? I was all solemnity. I made a vow, and I kept it.

"Aunt Catherine was rendered even more smug and satisfied than was her wont when Annie became pregnant a few months after the wedding. Do not look at me so, Fitzwilliam! It does not signify. Nothing mattered. I had cleaned up at that point. I was no longer attached to anything; it was as though I were observing everything from afar, or perhaps reading it in a particularly distasteful book. Fitzwilliam Darcy performs his duty: a boring collection of stories following the societal expectations of a gentleman. Pemberley was safe, Georgiana was married. The only exciting thing to happen was when Kitty Bennet came to Pemberley for a visit and I was unable to look upon her for too long, for it would seem that Miss Catherine had grown into the very image of her sister Elizabeth. Not precisely, but I think you may remember enough of the girl to see that she had the same long, graceful neck, the same laughing mouth. The same tilt of the eye, the same prim 'ahem' when she is attempting to refrain from saying something impertinent. Perhaps I should have married Kitty. But no, she and Georgiana had a grand old time celebrating Christmas at Pemberley, and I took a page from Mr. Bennet's book and hid in the library the entire visit.

"Annie died that January," he said softly, and Darcy's mind, still reeling at the recent revelations, focused on one particular image he had of Anne hiding a smile behind a fragile-looking hand one evening when Elizabeth had challenged Aunt Catherine. "It was a quiet affair, both her death and the funeral. Her coffin was small; the babe's smaller. I named her Elizabeth Anne Darcy. No one dared contradict me. Aunt Catherine tried, but I shut her down with a fierce look into her eyes and a clenched fist at my side. I think that perhaps she did love her daughter, for after Anne's death, she lost much of her ability to force her will upon anyone again.

"It was clear to me at that point that I was not destined for any sort of happiness whatsoever. I did not even make an attempt at it. One day, Caroline Bingley came over to 'bring me some much-needed cheer.' After an incessant, falsely cheerful bit of prattle, I interrupted her with a weary entreaty to stop, that I would marry her were she to simply stop. I am not at all sorry to say that her shocked silence was worth the resulting marriage.

"Once again, I found myself at the altar. Aunt Catherine, unsurprisingly, did not attend this one. Charles did, as did his Jane, the only person that I can seem to receive pitying looks from with any sort of equanimity. Caroline was everything that was correct and fashionable. I visited her bed, I believe… three times. No heir resulted. It did not matter. Georgiana had an heir, and all of it was to go to him, to young Fitzwilliam. I think even my sister sensed that I was to die alone and childless. Oh, not that Caroline died or left me. She simply is not a part of this. We lived separate lives from the beginning, which is, I'm sure, all that she ever wanted. She stayed in London or visited with the Hursts, and I remained at Pemberley." His flat affectation of the recitation of these events affected Darcy in a similar fashion; this part of the story was so repugnant to him that he did not waste one moment reflecting upon it.

"So I spent a year or so in maintaining the estate and my brandy habit. I was not constantly drunk nor was I constantly sober; I was simply constant. I rode the estate, saw to the tenants. Kept order. All for my nephew, who is a bit of a delight, I must say. Georgiana is a wonderful mother. Richard came to visit, but I fear that my lack of emotion whatsoever saddened him, and his visits became less frequent and of shorter duration. The same can be said for Bingley; I once overheard him and Jane arguing over whether to shorten their stay, but dear Jane insisted that I needed them.

"And then…" and here, William's voice cracked. His hands shook as he poured himself more tea; Darcy's cup remained untouched. William swallowed the entire cup of now-cold tea; setting it down roughly, he resumed his narrative, his voice rough despite the refreshment.

"I remember how fine it was that day; the harvest was underway, the weather cool and brisk. I was on my way to seeing about repairs for the bridge on the edge of the property when I spied a rider, hell-bent on reaching the estate. I rushed over, my mind in a panic. Was Georgiana ill? Had something befallen my nephew? Was it Richard, or Bingley, or Jane? The faces of the only people who gave a damn about me paraded in my mind in time to the beats of my horse's hooves. With a feeling of abject dread, I rushed into the house. Reynolds came to me at once, her eyes full of worry (or, I should say, more worry than her normal expression the past few years). It occurred to me that it could be news of my wife, but I tore the seal on the letter anyway.

"I recognized the writing immediately; it was Jane's. I scanned it quickly, looking for 'Charles' or 'Frances' (did I tell you that they had two children?). It took several readings before I apprehended the meaning of the letter.

"Elizabeth had been found. Her sentences were few, but I could tell that Jane had no joy in the discovery. I reread the letter several times over, and during the trip to Hertfordshire, I would pull it out and read it again and again.

Dear Mr. Darcy-

Please, I hope this letter finds you well. Some news regarding my sisters has come to light. I beg of you to travel to Hertfordshire at your earliest convenience. No need to make haste, sir, however- I should prefer to convey the intelligence to you in person. Charles has requested that you stay with us here at Netherfield, and I can think of nothing that would bring me greater comfort than for you to spend a few weeks here in Hertfordshire at our estate. Please inform us of your anticipated arrival date. I do look forward to your presence, sir.

Your friend, Jane Bingley.

Darcy, I tell you. I read that letter so many times, attempted to interpret Jane's wording in so many different ways. Surely, if it were good news, she would have said so? Surely, if Elizabeth were in trouble, she would have demanded I be there to help in whatever way I was able?

"I arrived on horseback, Walsh and my things well behind me in a carriage. I did not wait for a servant to attend to me, rudely barging in the already open door… when I stopped. Weeping, Fitzwilliam. The weeping that is unimaginable; the weeping of a woman with a broken heart. I say without joy that I finally realized I had been in error for years; my heart hadn't been dead when I married Anne, nor had it been dead when I married Caroline. It had simply been asleep. My heart woke up at the sound of Jane Bingley crying, and unfortunately, it began to die a moment later.

"I walked into the bright, sunny sitting room and saw Bingley embracing Jane, a look of pain contorting his features. In a daze, I entered the room. Before I realized it, Jane was embracing me, her wet face buried in my neck. 'She is gone, Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth is gone.'

"I do not know my reaction. I think I knew of Elizabeth's demise before I entered the house. The old sense of dread had returned, the one I had in those days when we were all looking for any sign of her or of Wickham. Eventually, Jane ceased crying and took my hands, leading me to a chair. She did not let go of me as she stilting told me that a letter had arrived from her Uncle Gardiner the previous week; you see, he had never ceased his search for Elizabeth, worthy man that he was.

"It seemed that Lydia was gone as well. No trace of Wickham was to be found except for a small boy who resembled him in stature and Elizabeth in countenance. Yes, Darcy! A child. A bastard. Bingley took me aside later and informed me that Wickham had most likely taken Elizabeth against her will and left her soon after. I can easily envision that she would have felt the disgrace of it; Mr. Gardiner and I spoke after that and he assured me that she most certainly would have done everything to keep the taint of scandal as far away from her family as possible. She died alone, Fitzwilliam! Alone and attempting to raise that villain's bastard!

"She named him Thomas Fitzwilliam Bennet. Can you imagine, Darcy? Wickham's bastard, named after me? I was both elated and disgusted. His son carrying my name… but she had named her son for me! In my most desperate hours, in the dark time when I am lying in bed and sleep refuses to claim me, I think of this. That there is a child in the world bearing my name and George Wickham's heritage, and that it could mean only one thing- Elizabeth Bennet had forgiven me, and perhaps had felt something for me. Let that serve as a reason for you to wake in the morning. Somewhere, in some far-off future, Elizabeth Bennet does care enough about you to do such a thing. She is not mean-spirited enough to have harbored any malicious intent in the action.

"So, there you have it. Elizabeth had been found; she had written a letter to her landlady that was to be sent to her uncle in the event of her death. She had been living in a room above a dress shop, working as a seamstress in a dreary section of town; I went and paid an exorbitant sum for the property and had it torn down. The plot of land stands empty to this day. I refuse to sell it. The landlady, a Mrs. Cole, informed me that Elizabeth had been chronically ill, consumptive. She often watched the boy when Elizabeth was feeling the effects of the disease most keenly; I paid her well for the information, as well as for the last thing Elizabeth had been working on- repairing a hole in the boy's well-worn coat. I wanted to keep it for him, for I intended to care for the boy as my own.

"Of course, Caroline would have none of it, but I shan't bore you with the details of her vituperative attack on the character of the boy's mother. I would have put my foot down, but Jane insisted that she be the one to raise the boy. She allowed me to set aside a generous sum for the child's education, and he came to call me 'Uncle Darcy'. He's a good sort of boy, exactly like his mother- kind, loyal, prone to mucking about in the mud.

"Before I knew any of this, however, I had to ask Jane about Elizabeth. I was numb, you see; denial and all that. We were still sitting in the drawing room at Netherfield. She looked up at Bingley and he nodded grimly. She stood and took my hand. 'Come. She- Lizzy has been taken to Longbourn.' I was startled, Darcy. She was- I could not bear it. How could I bear it?

"Before I knew it, I was unceremoniously shoved into a carriage and traveling down the well-known path from Netherfield to Longbourn. I vaguely recollected that Collins was now the master, having taken over a few short months after Mr. Bennet passed away. I remember wondering whether Mrs. Bennet was still alive, but I did not dwell on it.

"Next I remember, Jane was squeezing my hand as I helped her down from the carriage. Bingley stood a respectful distance away as we walked, her hand on my arm. Longbourn's burial area is well behind the main house, in a secluded but tidy bit of land sectioned off by a low wall of crumbling stone. I could see where her grave was- there were fresh flowers there, wildflowers of just the sort of variety that she would prefer. I- I could not go on. Jane had to pull my arm. It was as if she sensed I needed to see it, needed to see her name etched in that stone. I first saw Miss Lydia's grave marker; they had been buried one over from Mr. Bennet.

"I won't describe my feelings to you, Darcy. I don't need to. You look as I must have that day. No tears, no real expression, save for your eyes. And that is the thing of it. Right now, you look devoid of emotion. But you see, your normal look is of indifference, or perhaps detachment is more accurate. Some call the look pride or arrogance, but it isn't, is it? No, you mask all of the inner turmoil that you've felt since the day your father died. All of the uncertainty that you're doing what is best, the millions of ways in which you question whether your actions shall have the intended good consequences. You hide your passionate nature, your inquisitiveness, your perpetual wonderment with all that the world has to offer. But most of all, you hide your emotions.

"But not now. Much like I was that day, you have nothing to hide. Can you sympathize with me for a moment, Fitzwilliam? You have this reaction hearing about a death that occurs in the not-so-far future. I had to live it, Fitzwilliam. I had to stand at the grave of the woman I was still hopelessly, torturously, and now fruitlessly in love with. The death of my heart was complete. I had nothing left to give.

"I stayed with Jane and Charles for weeks after that. The boy came to live with them, and I avoided him at first, but it would seem that he was fascinated by the man 'mamma had told him 'bout that he was named after'. Here I had a miniature Elizabeth in boy form, asking me questions about caterpillars and insisting I take long walks with him while listening with rapt attention to my descriptions of the Little Tyrant's adventures on the Continent. He had all the charm of his father with none of the wickedness. The sparkling set of eyes he inherited from his mother.

"He grew into a fine young man, eventually attending King's College and graduating with top marks. One day I received a letter from him, begging me to come to London on a matter of some urgency. I arrived, feeling old age and older regret; I had not been to town in years. I was not even sure as to the whereabouts of my wife, who was no doubt engaging in liaisons of an illicit nature. Not that I blame her. I'm afraid I took to bed with many a woman over the years; they were always dim replicas of Elizabeth. Oh, do not look at me so! What else was I to do, behave with decorum?

"It seemed that young Thomas was in love, with a lady far above him in station and far below him in manners. She was the jewel of the Season, well-dowered and beautiful, but cold and cutting. I cannot for the life of me understand why he was so taken with her. As I sat there in this very townhouse listening to his rhapsodic description of her virtues, I became weary with the telling. What was love, really? How would this end? Not well, surely. The boy was a part of my life. How could anything end well for him?

"I'm afraid I was not kind in my assessment of his situation. He stormed out of the house, vowing that he would have her despite my loud objections. I laughed bitterly at his denouncing of my advice. And why should he listen to a bitter old man?

"I drank myself to a stupor. That night, I dreamt of her. For the first time in years. She was looking at me in that horrible way, judging me and finding me wanting, just as she had so long ago.

"And that's where we come to you. I awoke in my study. I decided to go for a walk against the protestations of Walsh and probably the rest of the staff. The rain caught me unawares. I fell to the ground, retched horribly. Shook my fist at the sky. Passed out. Awoke to your face.

"So there you have it." William sighed and fell back in his chair. Darcy did not know what to say. What was there to say?

"I'm afraid the telling has left me rather fatigued, old boy," William said before Darcy could formulate a coherent response. Suddenly, a cough seized William, and Darcy rushed to his side, alarmed. William fell over muttering nonsensical words, and Darcy called out for help. Several footmen and Walsh arrived to assist the men, and they had William up and to his room immediately.

Once he was put to bed and Mr. Townsend was called for, Darcy wearily made his way to his own bed. He fell to sleep and did not wake until the following morning.

thanks, guys, so so so much for your thoughts and comments. some of the stuff you say is so kind that I get all :') :') :'), and that's quite a feat considering that I'm cold and dead inside.