Author's note: So sorry for the delay, everyone! It is now my sworn duty to work quickly and diligently so that these chapters can be posted sooner. I hope you will all forgive me! Just a quick reminder before you read this chapter: If you require any assistance in remembering past events in Mr. Darcy's life that are mentioned, you may easily return to chapter eight of this story for more information!

Thank you all for reading!

Chapter XII

Something Missing

A few weeks later Darcy was casually walking through Mayfair on his way to Bingley's London house. He was making almost daily visits there, his main purpose always being to carefully observe his friend's behavior. Was Bingley depressed, or was he content? Was he still pining over this girl, or had he seen reason? And at every visit Bingley greeted him with the same sad smile that had instantly repressed his normally irrepressible joy the moment Darcy had said, I think it would be best if you gave her up.

You're right, Darce, Bingley had said with the melancholy upturn of his lips. It was so silly of me.

Darcy's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone whispering his name. "Mr. Darcy," a feminine voice called in a hush.

Eyebrows raised in wonder, Darcy cautiously followed the voice around the corner.

Faster than the blink of an eye, Caroline Bingley materialized from out of the shadows, clinging to his arm in distress. "Oh, Mr. Darcy, thank heavens!"

Darcy was quite honestly nonplussed - and not only because Miss Bingley had near given him a heart attack. The willful woman, who throughout their entire acquaintance had kept a constant ladylike composure, was now uncommonly pale and ragged, eyes fearful and limbs weak. Darcy was almost worried for her. Almost. "What in the world is the matter, Caroline?"

Miss Bingley used all the energy in her power to say two vengeful words: "She's back."

Darcy sighed. If the woman was going to put on a melodrama, she could at least be a bit more specific. "Who is back, Caroline?"

She looked at him as if he were the worst sort of fool. "Who?! Jane Bennet, of course! She is here - the insolent little thing, - staying with some dreadful set of relatives in Gracechurch Street, of all places. Miss Bennet sent me a letter about a fortnight ago - which I ignored, of course. And then she had the impertinence to call on me at the house - just now!"

He did not like where this was going. "And was Bingley there?"

"Oh, thank heavens no. He was out doing something or other."

"But you did receive her?"

"Well, of course I did! - no matter how little I wished to converse with the chit."

Before Darcy could become angered by the reference to Elizabeth's older sister as a chit, he quickly diverted his attention by leading Caroline further down the street and away from staring passersby. "So," he continued as he walked with her, "what exactly do you intend me to do about this?"

"Anything! Occupy his time! Take him to do whatever it is you gentlemen enjoy - ride, shoot, gamble, drink, I hardly care which! You could even take him out of the city! - out of the country! Just keep him away from her! Thank heavens I rid myself of her company soon enough," Miss Bingley continued with an arrogantly ladylike sniff. "I made some paltry excuse about expecting your sister for a visit, although of course I know she is at Pemberley." Miss Bingley laughed and smiled confidentially at him, as if she believed him to be party to her amusement. "But I suppose what she doesn't know won't kill her."

Darcy could feel his lips tighten into a grim line. There were many things he could tolerate; but being ordered about by a priggish little shrew was not one of them. Nor was standing idly by while his innocent little sister's name was under the mercy of a cruel woman's prevarications. He utterly hated this! He hated deceiving his greatest friend in the world, he hated being involved in someone else's personal affairs, and most of all he hated being wrapped around Caroline Bingley's finger. Well, he thought. No more.

"That's it, Caroline," he very near growled.

Caroline continued without hearing him. "I was thinking Charles may like to visit our family up north and - "

"I said that is it, Caroline."

"Then perhaps - I'm sorry, what did you say? What's it?"

"I want no part in it."

Now that she had begun listening to him, she appeared exasperated. "You want no part in what, Mr. Darcy?" she cried so loudly, Darcy feared half the county had heard her.

"In this blasted scheme!" he replied in a discreet whisper. "This is Bingley's life and I won't impede him any further. Let him do just as he pleases."

Miss Bingley stared at him in wide-eyed shock. "But, Mr. Darcy, if we allow Charles to marry that - that - trollop - ! "

If he were a violent man he could have slapped her. "Stay out of it."

"But - "

"Just stay out of it," he repeated with a deathly even voice. "If you can manage to keep silent and leave well enough alone, perhaps I shall still be able to escort you home with a smile."

Caroline visibly blanched under his cold stare. She opened her mouth as if she were about to speak, then resolutely closed it. Good choice, Darcy thought.

"Would you like to come inside for a bit?" Miss Bingley inquired tremulously when they reached the front steps of Ashburn, Bingley's tasteful London home.

I'd rather go to hell, he thought with a mental grimace. But what he really said was, "No, thank you, I'm afraid I have another engagement." There was no engagement, but it was the only excuse he could possibly formulate without appearing rude. One didn't say to one's best friend's sister, I'm sorry, but I truly cannot stand the sight of you.

Caroline appeared vexed and disappointed, but said not another word as the butler let her into the house and closed the door behind them. Darcy turned around, and walked back to his own London home.

And had his things packed.

And ran away to Pemberley.

Well, no, "ran away" wasn't quite the proper phrase. "Running away" gave the situation a rather cowardly hue. He was… He was…

Well, he was running away.

But, truly, what choice did he have? Darcy quite simply found himself bereft of the power to remain in Bingley's company, speak with him as the truest of friends speaks, knowing the holder of his heart could be a mere walk away. Or, Good God, they may encounter her together. What would occur between them after they met Jane Bennet in the park one day, and the woman had pointedly mentioned that Caroline knew of her presence in London? Darcy would then have to tell him the truth, that he had plotted and schemed and worked with his sister against his interests. And kind, loving Bingley, one of the rare Darcy friendships that had withstood the spans of time - Bingley would hate him. He didn't see how their relationship could survive so large a blow.

The carriage made a jolting turn toward the line of ancient oaks that would eventually lead to Pemberley. Though fear may have been his primary inducement for escaping to his Derbyshire estate, Darcy truly had begun to miss and to yearn for the peaceful solitude only home could bring. And Pemberley was home to him, not Netherfield and certainly not Darcy House in London. Darcy's sole desire at this point in time was to relieve the dangerously taut strings of his once fairly faculties. He could envision the metaphoric instrument fairly well in his mind - a harp entitled SANITY. If there was one more discordant note struck, he knew the strings would snap and any possibility at attaining harmony would be no more.

Darcy firmly focused his attention on the fresh, green evidence of nature's beauty that continued to pass in a blurring rush of speed outside the carriage window. He was waiting for that enchanting moment when the monotonous line of trees would, at the perfect second, cease and reveal the endearing sight of his only home. They would greet each other like old friends, he and Pemberley. Steady companions that had been separated from each other's company for far too long, and were blissfully enraptured to be together again. Hidden behind the heavy overhanging of the trees' leaves, Darcy spotted the glimmer of the sun's rays shining on the rim of the pond and knew the time was near; and he reveled in the excited agitation of each slowly passing minute as the carriage wheels brought him nearer and nearer his first glimpse of the estate. He clutched at the seat of the carriage in anticipation, mentally counting down the seconds, and then…

He saw it.

And felt nothing.

There was no relief, or elation, or any of the emotions Darcy had expected. He possessed only an unthinking, impassive brain as he stared blankly at the home that suddenly seemed less satisfying now.

Darcy turned his body forward in disappointment and fixed an unseeing gaze on the interior of the carriage. There was something missing, an undetectable blemish present to tarnish the sense of belonging normally so tangible at the sight of the estate. What was it?

Darcy looked out of the window once more. Everything appeared to be just the same. The thriving flora and sturdy oaks were well in tact and beautiful as ever, and the perfect edifice of Pemberley itself was as incandescently white as it had always been.

What could it possibly be?

"Master Fitzwilliam, you've returned without a wife!"

Apparently, Mrs. Reynolds knew precisely what she thought was missing.

Darcy entered the main hall of Pemberley and embraced the well-loved housekeeper. "Mrs. Reynolds, will you ever tire of calling me Master Fitzwilliam?" he teased.

"Never. In these old eyes you are still that precious little boy who locked himself away in the library. Literally," she added with a playful pinch of his cheeks, "locked yourself in the library. Your father was forced to threaten he would forever expel your reading privileges unless you unlocked the door and ate something. And you know what you said to that? 'I could take my meals here,' you said!"

"I remember well," Darcy chuckled, as he smiled affectionately at the woman who was to him more of a second mother than a servant.

"Oh, well I'm sure you'll want to rest after your long journey. However, because someone did not see fit to inform me of his arrival, Fitzwilliam Darcy…" Mrs. Reynolds trailed off and darted a matronly glance of accusation at him. "Your room isn't nearly as prepared as I would have liked it. I could - "

"The room will be fine in any state, Mrs. Reynolds," Darcy assured her. "Regardless, I would like to see Georgie before I settle in. Where is…?" The far off sounds of a pianoforte met his ears. "Ah." Darcy smiled. It hadn't occurred to him how potently he had missed his sister until that moment. Perhaps that was the missing piece to the Pemberley jigsaw - the presence of his sister.

Darcy immediately climbed the grand staircase and made his way through the gilded hallways of Pemberley. Nearly the whole of the building's interior walls - saving only the bedrooms, sitting rooms, and parlors - were painted the purest of whites; and the ceilings were so high and the halls so wide, it was as though every step Darcy took brought him farther into the clouds. The floor was lined by a simply styled, yet elaborately patterned deep red carpet, and every antique hanging and side table was polished and sparkling. It was peaceful, it was quiet, it was neat and fine - precisely the way he liked it. And yet there was still a lingering sense that the beauty of home - peaceful, quiet, neat or fine as it may be - had suddenly become incomplete. If he looked closely enough, Darcy almost suspected he would spot a gaping hole in one of the doorways so that he could say, "Oh, that's it!" However, the double doors that led him into the music room were secure and fully constructed, as he slowly turned the brass knob and was greeted with the awe-inspiring sound of beautiful music.

Darcy stepped into the music room on silent feet, looking with nostalgic eyes on the figure of his little sister seated at the pianoforte. Georgie was completely oblivious to his presence, so enraptured was she in the rise and fall of the notes emitting from the her prized instrument. Her posture was so refined and womanly as her graceful hands touched each key with the tenderness of a true artist; and Darcy could hardly believe just how much his little girl had grown up.

"William, I'm so sorry! I broke it! I didn't mean to!"

Darcy sat at the piano beside his little sister. "No, no, darling," he assured her as he placed an affection arm around her shoulders, "You didn't break it, you merely pressed too many keys at once."

It was shortly after the death of their mother, and the elder Mr. Darcy had lately become accustomed to shutting himself away in his study and bolting the doors from the entire world, including his downcast children. Sweet five-year-old Georgiana had taken the passing of her mama in a harsh yet confused manner. She had cried in a voice of petulant rage that she didn't understand what had happened; but now the shock of the incident had worn away, she rarely had a voice at all. Darcy believed it his most profound duty to entertain poor Georgie as much as possible; so, when the girl's sad, thin lips had formed a sudden smile at the prospect of learning to play the pianoforte, her brother had wasted no time leading her to the music room and seating her in front of the black and ivory keys.

"But aren't I supposed to press many of the keys?"

"Well… Yes." Darcy paused, considering his next instructions. "Not like this." Here he slammed his right hand palm down onto the keys. "Like this." Then, he relaxed the same hand, and began to play a peaceful melody, his fingers dancing across the keys with the lightest touch. And, suddenly, the unspoken tension that had seemed to completely envelop both siblings in grief for so long - it was gone, replaced by the sound of Georgiana's innocent laughter as she placed her hands atop his.

"Oh!" she gasped in wonderment as she spread her tiny fingers so that they were atop his own. "Your hands are so big! And mine are so small!"

"Well, I wouldn't worry about that," Darcy replied with a smile. "You'll be a young woman soon enough. And one with pretty, graceful hands that are made expressly for playing the pianoforte."

Georgie giggled at the prospect, and then turned to face him. "William? You're a man now, aren't you?"

The straightforward manner of her question stunned him for a moment. "I… I - I suppose so."

"Good. Because…" She blanched and looked down at the skirts of her mourning dress. "I think I'm going to need you for a while."

Darcy froze in pure horror. He knew his precocious little sister to be right, but what a responsibility! What a crushing weight to be hauled upon his shoulders! And yet, he thought as he looked down at sweet Georgie - who had already begun to memorize the placement of his hands when he had played - it was a challenge he was willing to take on, and with all his heart. Because already he felt a bit like her father, and she his little girl.

Darcy's mind returned to the present moment as the very last key was struck. With a quick shake of his head to clear his brain from its dazed state, Darcy slowly began to approach the pianoforte, clapping his hands in rapturous applause. "Brava!" he cheered. "Brava, brava!"

Georgiana turned in surprise. "William!"

"I'm sorry, but I haven't any roses to throw onto the stage."

"Oh, Will!" She practically hurtled herself from her seat in order to embrace him. "You're home! Why didn't you tell me? Oh, I've missed you, brother!"

"And I you, Georgie." They remained in this pose for perhaps longer than was necessary, held captive in each other's arms by the sadness of their past parting, and the consequent onslaught of sibling affection now felt at their reunion. Darcy cradled Georgie's head as delicately as if she were a child still; perhaps entertaining the impossible notion that if he held her thus she would cease becoming a young lady, and his little girl would return to him.

Eventually, Georgiana pulled herself free from his arms and motioned for him to sit beside her on the settee. "How are you? What have you seen - what have you done? Was Netherfield very nice? Did you attend many parties? Oh, tell me everything!"

Darcy chuckled at his sister's exuberance, partly in amusement, but mostly out of joy. After the fiasco with Wickham, Georgiana had become rather sullen. Now she seemed to have returned to the happy girl he had once known, and he could not be more pleased. Her cheeks were as sunny as her curled blonde hair, and her slight figure was healthy and lively. She was merry and talkative and bubbling over with confidence, just as a young lady should be. But best of all, Darcy thought with a grateful smile, she was comfortable with him again.

"Slow down, Georgie, slow down!" he pleaded. "I will tell you all." Georgiana fidgeted about with excitement, and then remained perfectly still as she allowed him to tell his tale.

For the most part, Darcy told her everything. He described Netherfield and the surrounding Hertfordshire countryside in great detail, he told her of the assembly they had attended and then the ball Bingley had given. He said that he had mostly read and did go riding from time to time, both of which statements were basically true. Yes, that was really it. Nothing more to speak of.

Other than that obsession with a vexing country girl who hadn't a penny, of course.

"Oh, William, you mustn't end the story like that!" Georgiana protested.

"Like what?"

"That 'yes, that was really it' nonsense! Something else must have occurred during your travels besides reading and horseback riding!" Actually, he could think of a number of things, but none he was willing to mention. "What about the people?" Georgie continued excitedly. "What were they like, describe their personalities to me."

Darcy considered his answer…and then his head began to spin. "Exhausting," he sighed. The constant jumping and giggling and prattling! It had been almost as bad as London. Oh, he thought he would fall ill just thinking about it. "I'm afraid I cannot be suited for their ranks, Georgie. They probably thought me the worst of Grecian statues, standing silent while they all spun about like delusional tops."

Georgie stared at his frowning face in question. "I'm sorry, I don't quite understand…"

"Nothing, nothing," he insisted, instantly regretting he'd mentioned his woes at all. "The Hertfordshire people were very…obliging."

"Oh," she muttered, sounding a bit dubious. "Well, I'm glad to hear that." Her voice than dropped into lower registers, as if she knew her next words should not be uttered, but regardless had decided to take her chances. "What were the ladies like, Will? I shouldn't pry, but I would so like to see you happy - "

"What makes you think I am unhappy?" he practically barked at her.

He had expected Georgie to falter, to grow cautious at the force in his voice, but she held her ground and continued to pester him. It actually made him quite proud. "I am your little sister. And, therefore, I have the right to inform you that you worry me, Will. I should so like to see you settled. Now, I'm not saying you have to throw yourself at the feet of the next woman you see! I merely think you should look. And you should strive to find a woman who…suits what you are, Will. Someone with intelligence, affection, wit, humor - a woman who will turn that menacing glower of yours into a smile. A woman…you could love. Will, have you truly never met a single woman who fits that description?"

Darcy swallowed…thought…and chose not to answer. "Play me something, will you, Georgie?"

Georgiana appeared most disappointed. However, her brother's tone had clearly stated that the subject would be dropped; and so she remained silent, and seated herself once more at the pianoforte.

Darcy remained in his sister's company for many hours before determining it was time he went to his rooms and freshened himself up. He had found his reuniting with Georgie to be perhaps the most enjoyable time he'd had in months. But -

He still felt that something was not right.

Darcy entered the family wing of Pemberley and turned hesitantly toward the master's chambers. He had never slept there, and never would. The majority of English society would find this idea preposterous! The master of the house, still occupying the room of his adolescence? How bizarre! How uncouth! However, Darcy would quite prefer being looked down the noses of London prudes, rather than spend his every night two feet from the rug where his father had once lain dead. He supposed most firstborn sons slept in the very beds in which their fathers had passed on, but he simply could not tolerate the eeriness of it. Living with the daily reminder of the disrespect and vengeance with which he had spoken to his father, that day when they had parted…forever…

It was too much heartache to bear.

And yet he still returned to the late Mr. Darcy's quarters at the start of his every return to Pemberley. It was a ritualistic penance, almost. A somewhat spiritual instant of flagellation for the harm he had caused - the death for which he continued to feel so responsible.

Darcy slowly turned the knob…and entered.

The door was opened to an instant flurry of dust and grime that continued to permeate the air of William Darcy's old living space. Every piece of furniture stood exactly where it had been the day of the man's demise, only now they were all hidden under musty old sheets. The grime-ridden damask curtains were decidedly shut against the afternoon sunlight, the majority of the room's illumination provided solely by the comparatively bright hallway outside. On the far wall, in the vicinity of the now shrouded four poster bed, a perfect silhouette of Darcy's figure stood outlined in the light emitting from the doorway. He was quite large in stature, and the over exaggerated dimensions of the shadow made him look even more the giant. A sad, pitiful giant, just as old papa had been in the last years of his life. And Darcy could have sworn that if he moved just so, raising a hand to his lips, and allowing his head to loll slowly back as if he were languidly polishing off the last drops of a fine French spirit…he was his father.

He could never allow himself to become that type of man. Would never allow himself. That was certain. And so, with one last wary glance at the blanketed liquor cabinet - the one that held all of Father's most expensive and satisfying alcohols - Darcy left the scene of his self-flogging.

Sometimes, just picturing the despoiled sight of his sad, dead father, sprawled in an agonizing heap on the floor - he really hated himself.

Darcy's quarters were only a few doors away from those of his late father and mother. His rooms were nowhere near as large as the master's chambers, but they were cozy and familiar. The bedroom itself was perfect for a university lad who was still wet behind the ears. There was a large window that allowed a goodly amount of light for reading small print, a serviceable desk on which to write and study, and - perhaps the favorite among all students - there were the sinfully comfortable mattress and chair cushions, the kinds that were made perfect for afternoon naps. There was no true sense of order in the furniture - seats facing alternate directions, unkempt bookshelves, little to no pictures or decorations of any kind. Now twenty-eight years of age, Darcy had begun to feel he'd outgrown the indolent atmosphere of his bedchambers; but, overall, he was content with what he had, and really asked for no more.

He entered his dressing room, weary, but still avid for an escape from the dust he'd managed to collect on his journey. Some of the maids had been kind enough to have prepared a warm tub of water for him, and Darcy began to eagerly shed of his clothing. He needed and very well deserved a bit of relaxation. He was dirty, he was exhausted, and he was still plagued by a damning sense that something - he was still uncertain as to what, - something was quite simply off.

And then, just as Darcy was about to step into his bath, something caught his eye. A small box he often packed with him on his travels, wherein he kept a random assortment of various personal knickknacks. Old papers with which he had marked his places in books, buttons that had fallen from his undershirts and had never been mended back on - because, really, he didn't think it necessary to bother the servants over one little button - some small, pointless writings he had penned when he'd felt in a particularly inspired mood…

Darcy tentatively lifted the lid, and sifted his hand through the papers and buttons and the like, until he found at the very bottom of the box precisely what he hadn't realized he was looking for: a small, plain pouch with a draw string, just about the size of his fist. Slowly, he removed the pouch from the debris, and for a moment simply stared. This sort of sack was generally used for carrying tobacco, but Darcy did not smoke, and so he had only kept it for… Well, for nothing, he supposed. At least, up until recently…

He opened the pouch, and saw there lying a single white blossom, just as he had left it the night of the Netherfield Ball. For a moment he felt strangled by the force of his… What was it? Interest? No, that was too subtle a word. He thought it felt almost like…awe. Darcy paused to consider his choice of words, and shrugged. It made absolutely no sense to him, but he decided to stick to it. Then he carefully removed the delicate flower from its hiding place, and as he held it at a steady level with his blue eyes, began thoughtfully spinning it between his thumb and forefinger. If asked at that moment, he wouldn't have been able to express in any words what he was thinking or feeling. But once his eyes had remained narrowed for so long that his vision had begun to blur, he was able to determine that, whatever reaction he was having, it hurt, and brought Elizabeth Bennet's face to mind.

Without any conscious decision-making on his part, Darcy found himself sinking into his bath, flower still in hand. He saw her face before him, and he moaned. He heard her kind, captivating voice, and he shuddered. And yet all this torture made him feel just a touch more complete.

Could this be what I am was missing? a little voice inside him wondered. Could it be…her?

No, he insisted to his own self. No. No, no, no. No. It was ridiculous. Preposterous. Horrendous. He didn't need her in his life. Hell - he didn't need anyone in his life! Any woman of the uxorial persuasion, at least. He could get along very well on his own. This nonsense with Elizabeth - No, Miss Bennet. It would would be better for him to regard her as thus. This nonsense with Miss Bennet was plainly and simply a case of lust, just as he had told himself only about a million times. A phase - perhaps it was a phase! Were twenty-eight-year-old men prone to phases? He was nearing thirty. It must be some sort of early midlife crisis, he resolved as the muscles in his hands tightened with frustration. Which of course caused him to glance down at his hands and, by extension, the flower. Despite his intense study of the little bloom just moments earlier, he hadn't noticed that the petals were beginning to wither, and their pure white color was beginning to fade. It was a sign! he protested to his traitorous heart. This infatuation was OVER.

But then he looked at the flower again.

… It was still quite pretty, he allowed as he again began to spin the floret by its stem.

… Elizabeth was quite pretty. But not only was she pretty - she was intelligent! And she was witty, and charming, and loving. Downright adorable, and hilariously funny! And there were these certain moments where she would smile or chuckle - or bite her lower lip in an attempt not to smile or chuckle! - and she thought he didn't see it. But he did. And, God help him, but it made him want to -

That. Was. It.

He was done. He was done allowing the snares of an attractive woman to control him! Finished giving into the temptation of fantasizing over her! Good God, he was naked, in a tub, thinking about what her smiles made him want to do! Had there ever been anything less gentlemanly?! He had never been this type of man. And if he didn't stop wanting what he couldn't have, he would begin to go after it anyway, gentlemanliness be damned. And that would make him exactly like Wickham. Perhaps even worse than Wickham.

No, he would finally return to his regular purpose in life: doing the proper thing, the wise thing, the responsible thing.

Darcy quickly removed himself from the tub and wrapped a nearby towel about his waist, every movement emanating conviction and firmly placed purpose.

He would find a wife.