Left to Follow

By DJ Clawson

Author's Notes

(0) Before I begin discussing this story, I just wanted everyone to know that I've opened a publishing company to reprint Dorothy Hunt's lost P&P fanfic, Pemberley Shades, which is regarded as one of the best published sequels ever. The writing is nothing like mine (more like Austen's), just to warn you, but if you're interested, here's the FFnet compatible link:

www (dot) laughingmanpublications (dot) com

The book is in public domain and the author is deceased, so the author's profits goes to a charity for treating autoimmune diseases. Please, if you're interested, pre-order now so I have the capital to do the print run.

(1) Wow. What a long, strange trip it's been. I think I bit off a little more than I could chew in one story – 140,000 words is a bit long, but I decided on a number of plotlines that had to be done concurrently and I had to give them all the proper attention. Thank you all for hanging on through Brian and Nadezhda's story, which I tried to make interesting. It's a concern to me when I introduce new characters, much less spend a lot of time on them alone. Fanfic is really about familiar characters, and people (including myself) tend to hate the new ones the author introduces. I know Dr. Maddox has a following and Mugen now has a following, but we also have Brian and Nadezhda, Grégoire, all of the kids, and this Darcy back story with his father and uncle (though they're dead so it's hard to spend much time with that). I know it's a lot to handle, so thanks for reading, and tell me what you think about new characters. A bunch of people asked to hear about Brian's adventures in Romania when I ended the previous one, which is how Left to Follow all got started.

(2) There are a number of mistakes I've since caught, though I want to thank Brandy for being my beta and catching my typos (I have the habit of using the wrong word that's spelled correctly so spell check doesn't catch it and I don't see it). Of course there were no monasteries in Bavaria – it was secularized in 1804. Damn you wikipedia, for leading me astray! And St. Sebald, for all we know, is still buried in Nuremburg, and was not carried off by Jane Austen fanfic characters and buried in Derbyshire.

(3) People have asked about the book that Maddox burned last chapter. It was briefly mentioned either during his incarceration or when he was shaking Darcy out of his stupor, but actually it physically present in a chapter I cut for being too gruesome, which is Dr. Maddox's torture scene with Trommler, who taunts him with the book. I may post it in a series of higher-rated short stories on FFnet.

(4) As to future stories, I have written some of the next one, which skips ahead five years, and have plans for 3 more after that, but my audience has either whittled down or you guys are not leaving responses, and it's a huge chunk of time for me. If you want me to continue the series, let me know. (Oh, and comments are IN NO WAY a status symbol on FFnet. Absolutely not). The next story largely focuses on Bingley's trip to India, Grégoire's own spiritual journey, and the kids starting to transition into adulthood as the older ones hit puberty. Eventually, of course, they will begin to be the central characters in terms of action and resolution, but I'm trying to make you invested in them first. In the next story we see young George Wickham's troubles when his mother remarries, Geoffrey begin to grapple with being heir to Pemberley, and Georgiana Bingley try to find her place without losing who she is.

(5) If you have questions about events that happened or character actions, I will answer them either here in a revision or in a separate chapter post (if there's enough of them). Or I'll post the deleted scene if there's requests for it with the understanding that it's rated M. Either way, you might want to keep your story alert on.

(6) Final note – This epilogue is unique. I have no intention of doing something like this again. I prefer to stay in Period.

Thanks for reading!

Epilogue – Road Trip

The annoying persistence of the phone was enough to eventually wake Darcy. He rolled over, groaned, and looked at the clock first. A very reasonable nine in the morning. Normally he would already be deep into his work day, during session. He grunted and picked up the phone, "What?"

"Mr. Darcy? This is Mr. Collins from the Derbyshire Historical Society – "

He put the covers back over his head but didn't hang up the phone, merely bringing it in with him. "What is it?"

"It's uhm – we need you to come up, if you can. To signature some things."

"Is it – absolutely necessary?" He looked at the clock again.

"I'm afraid it is. The Vatican is really pressing us and – "

"Wait. The Vatican?"

"Yes. There's been some sort of discovery at Pemberley and they would like to bring in some investigators."

This, finally, made him sit up against the headboard. "What kind of discovery? And why would it involve me?"

"Because, technically, we don't have rights within the limits of agricultural and preservation laws to alter any of the contents of the graveyard, beyond brushing up the stones themselves."

"So, you mean to say you can't dig up my ancestors' graves?"

"Precisely, but there's no reason to be so grim about it. You know we have only the highest respect for the estate and its heritage, Mr. Darcy," he said, in that annoying pleasant way of his. "The point is – "

"Yes, I would appreciate if you'd get to it."

"The point is, we made a rather interesting discovery when we began to clean up the tombstones, which you did sign the waiver for last September – "

"I remember. Go on."

"It seems that one of the grave stones is labeled Saint," he paused, obviously checking his records, "- Sebald."

"Don't know him."

"He's one of the patron saints of Bavaria. An early Christian missionary from the 19th century. As we've been told, his bones disappeared with the dissolution of the monasteries during Napoleon's invasion. And, from what we can tell with only preliminary research, that area of the yard does date to about that period. So, we contacted the Vatican and they are interested in sending a team. There are all kinds of things they could do – honestly, I don't know what precisely the procedure is here – but we would need your personal approval, as this could be a mislabeled relative."

His brain still sluggish, he had enough sense to say, "Honestly, I'm not sure the Vatican can get involved. Pemberley belongs to England and I don't exactly want to sign off on something that crosses borders without the proper paperwork."

"We have the proper paperwork. It seems the Vatican is used to this and already has the proper clearance to send in at least a small survey team. You can go over the forms if you want in London. I can fax them over – "

"No, it's fine," he said. "I'll be there later today."

"Will you be staying? We could fix something up for you."

"I might."

"Very good. Looking forward to seeing you, sir."

Darcy hung up the phone without a response. He sat there for a few minutes, taking in the recycled air of his perfectly-conditioned apartment and looking out the ceiling-high windows before dialing his cordless again.

"London Exports International."

He never wanted to say that the name was redundant. He felt like maybe they had to be. Corporate law or something. "Extension 228, please."

"Please hold."

After a woman prattling on about the new financial services of the company that had replaced the old annoying hold music, he was finally transferred to someone yelling in Chinese, before breaking off and saying, "Will?"

"Charles. Hope I'm not interrupting your day."

"I have the Chinese Prime Minister on hold, but go ahead."

"You do not."

"Fine, fine. What are you doing up so early? Parliament isn't in session, is it?"

"No. How was your trip to Shanghai?"

"Hot, smelly, congested, but with bloody amazing food. So, the same. You should go some time."

"Do you have a concept of how many forms I would have to fill out to do that?"

"Do you have a concept of what you could do if you could manage your diplomatic immunity?"

"It's too early for filthy thoughts, Charles. Care for a holiday?"

"Sure, I'll put everyone on hold. Tell them it's our crappy Imperialist phone system. What's up?"

"Pemberley. I have to go. Sign some forms or some bollocks. You want to come?"

"Really? I'm intrigued. Do we get to sleep in proper bedrooms?"

"Probably the servant's quarters."

"When was the last time you were there?"

Darcy stumbled. "Don't know. I was very young."

"So you want to see it."

"No, I want to go up their, sign their fucking forms, and get the Vatican off my back!"

"Vatican? Huh. Well, you'll have to tell me all about it when you pick me up. Say, noon?"

Charles, as always, was ready to skip about like a hyperactive child. Sometimes Darcy thought he was one. "I don't have a driver during off-session."

"But you have a license. Come on, I'll chip in for gas if parliament's left you that hard up."

"I'm going to hang up on you now," Darcy grumbled. "Noon."

Will Darcy liked being punctual. He pulled up the rental to the corporate offices promptly at 12:00, no earlier, no later. He was surprised he still knew how to drive that fast, but he was on time, and so was Charles, who removed his jacket and undid his tie as he climbed in next to him. "I may get a call I have to take, when the Tokyo Stock Exchange opens." Charles made up for his age at his company by being a consummate businessman, an expert at closing the deal and doing it in the native tongue of the other person. Darcy made up for his age at the Ministry of the Peace by being a legacy and by being extremely proper and discreet when he wanted to be, which was most of the time. Well, all the time. When he wasn't drunk.

"So tell me about Pemberley. I've never seen it."

"Uh ... it's very large, and forever being renovated. I'll send you a guidebook when they finally make one up."

"Are you at least getting a cut of that tourist quid? A small pittance for them taking away your ancestral home for 'the good of England'?"

"They didn't take it away. My grandparents vacated it during the war to allow refugees access; after their deaths, it was declared a national treasure. And apparently, no one can live in a national treasure."

"'The Stately Home of Pemberley.'"

"Precisely."

The ride only took a few hours, and much of Charles yelling in Chinese into his cell. "My G-d," he said, grabbing Darcy. "Look at that."

They had just made the turn off the newly paved road and around the bend, when the stately home of Pemberley came into view, with its marble fountains and impressive façade. The massive fountain in front was empty, but cleaned out, and there were men actively working on spraying down the columns. They didn't get much further before encountering a guard. "Name?"

"Darcy. I have an appointment with Mr. Collins."

Whether the guard had any emotion in recognizing who he was, he did not express it, and merely asked him to sign in before waving him on. The parking lot was not paved, and he pulled in beside the next car over.

"Mr. Darcy?" said a man in slacks and a many-pocketed vest. "I'm Mr. Collins. So nice to meet you."

"You, as well," he said. "This is Charles."

Charles waved from across the car.

"Things have changed considerably since your last visit," Mr. Collins said proudly. "In fact, we're almost ready to open some of it to the public. Would you like the grand tour or would you like to go straight to the graveyard? The papers are all here, and the photographer is already there."

"The photographer? I thought this needed my approval?"

"Not for basic photography, provided she doesn't disturb the grounds."

"She? So I'm not to meet the Pope himself?"

Mr. Collins awkwardly managed a laugh. "Of course not. They sent some professional freelancer."

"Oh," Darcy said as he took the papers and the three of them walked around the massive building and through the brush to the graveyard in back. Everywhere there was evidence of work, with piles of newly-cut brush and ivy piled up outside the neglected fence.

"Not everyone here is a Darcy, of course," Mr. Collins explained as they made their way over the very uneven ground and somewhat haphazardly placed stones. "There are some graves of stewards and some that we can't identify the proper connection to, even with the genealogical research. And here – here are your parents, Mr. Darcy."

That was the last time he had been back here, for the funeral. He barely remembered it, after the car crash, but it stated in their wills that they be buried in this old house up north, beside their grandparents and great-grandparents and the like. They were the only graves clearly legible, with the marble not worn away.

"If you'd like a moment – "

"Yes," he said, annoyed that his voice betrayed so much emotion. George and Anna Darcy lay side by side, and he could not recall their faces aside from the treasured photographs that he had, and the family video from his sister's first birthday. Other than that, there was nothing. Charles politely disappeared, leaving to go yell at someone in Mandarin. No one disturbed him for quite a while, and he was lost in his own thoughts and in the peace that surrounded him, except for that damned clicking. Finally, he turned away and moved deeper into the graveyard, to its source.

A grave had been sectioned off by tape, and the old stone cleaned. A young woman in similar worker-type gear to Mr. Collins was kneeling in front of it, as close to the tombstone as she could get, and snapping picture after picture with what looked like an extraordinarily expensive camera. When she noticed him suddenly towering over her, she rose. "Excuse me."

"Are you the photographer?" Stupid question. Pretty eyes, though. "From the Vatican, I mean."

"I do some work for them, if that's what you mean," she said, her accent obviously American, her hair in a tight braid. "Liz."

"Will," he said, taking her offered hand and shaking it.

"Are you from the society?"

"No. I'm William Darcy. They've just phoned me from London to sign away the rights to dig up my ancestors' graves," he said.

"Oh," she said. "That Mr. Darcy. You're an MP, right?" She went right on with her work, walking around the grave in question to look for a new angle.

"Yes."

"With all due respect, Mr. Darcy, I don't think this particular one is your ancestor," she said, and fiddled with the controls a bit before snapping a picture of the back of the stone. "According to the survey team, this grave does date to the period that the bones of Saint Sebald disappeared."

"But no one can account for how he got here," he said. "And it's Will."

"Well, Will, we haven't established that it's him, but you would be doing Rome a tremendous favor by allowing them to very respectfully look."

"How – how would they establish it?"

"Well – I'm not a forensic expert on bones, but I've done some work photographing them, but basically they would try to date them. We know when Sebald lived, and with carbon dating, we can get an extremely accurate age of the remains. From the soil, we can tell when he was buried here. Of course, Mr. Collins is all over the old family records now to see if there's any references to him, though there's no logical reason why he'd be here."

"You're – Catholic, then?"

"What?" Liz said, looking up at him. She did have very pretty eyes. "Oh, no. I'm a non-practicing Unitarian."

"Then why are you working for the Vatican?"

"Because they pay me, Mr. Darcy. Excuse me, Will. And sometimes I get very interesting assignments. Like this little mystery here." She stood up and put the camera back over her shoulder. "I'm done here. Unless you're signing those forms."

"I don't know. Do I really want to put up with His Holiness?"

"I don't actually know the guy, but no, you do not. But they are very respectful about remains."

He put his hands in his pockets. "Well." Fortunately, Charles had returned, pulling his earpiece off.

"Sorry. So uhm – "

"Liz, Charles. Charles, Liz," Darcy said quickly.

They shook. Charles had that stupid smile on his face. He always looked retarded when he smiled; Darcy had told him this on numerous occasions, but that hardly helped. "Pleasure."

"Are you related to the Darcys?"

"Just friends from college. So – you're the photographer?"

"Yes," she said, "are you also an MP?"

"Oh no, I'm in international commerce. Terribly boring stuff. But Will here could tell you all about Parliament's dirty secrets."

"No I couldn't."

"How about the time you met Tony Blair in the lift and you said-"

"There was nothing extraordinary about that and you know it," Darcy seethed. Why was Charles acting like this? All right, he normally acted like this, granted, but it was still unacceptable. "Excuse us." He grabbed Charles by the arm and nearly dragged him out of the graveyard. His friend only succeeded in freeing himself when they got to the parking lot, where Darcy leaned against the car, his heart racing.

"You all right?"

"Bug off."

Charles frowned. "Why do you always do this?"

"Do what?"

"Clam up whenever there's a girl you want to shag. Are you off your Paxil again?"

"None of your bloody business. Still taking your Ritalin?"

"Only before board meetings. Look – "

Darcy held up his hand. "I don't want to have this conversation. If I wanted to ... I don't know, take her out somewhere – I'd do it."

"Really."

"Yes, really!"

"Dare you."

"Dare me? Are we in school again? You may still have the mind of post-pubescent teenager, but I don't. If you're so keen on her, why don't you ask her for a drink?"

"You know she's not my type."

"She could get a dye job."

As rare as it was for him to joke, Charles was to determined to appreciate it. "What I said stands. Ask her out. I'll buy you a pint."

"You'll buy me a scotch. Johnny Walker with the blue label."

"Fancy tastes you have. Fine, blue label. Now go." He even gave him a push.

Sighing, Darcy stuffed his clammy hands into his pockets and tried to breathe normally again. That attempt ended when she emerged from around the overgrown ivy and his heart nearly stopped. What was it about her that did that? He barely knew this woman.

"Oh, Mr. Darcy."

"Will," he said, too quickly. "Would you like to – possibly – I don't know – there's a pub around here, I'm sure. I forget the name of the town – "

"Lambton," she said. "Are you asking me out?"

Yes I'm bloody asking you out! "Yes, I'm bloody – G-d, I'm no good at this."

"No. But you admit it."

"Yes." Thank my therapist. "Would you like to get a drink? Or d-dinner of some sort?"

"What about your friend?"

"He – he could be our chaperone. Make sure nothing untoward happens," he joked nervously. Very nervously.

"Untoward? Are you gay or just very British?" But she answered her own question. "Well, I suppose you're asking me out, so it's not the first option." She zipped up her camera case and put it over her shoulder. "All right."

Did she say yes? She said yes! "Brilliant. Do you have more work to do?"

"Actually, I have most of what I need, if I upload it tonight. The Roman office is already closed so there's no rush. You hungry?"

"I could use something, yes." He smiled. She returned it, and he just melted.

Liz did not upload the photos or write her report that night, even though her computer was working perfectly. In fact, she fell positively behind on her assignment, something which shocked her director, as she had never done it before.

"Lizzy, a week late?"

"I know, I know. Something came up. The conditions weren't good anyway – rain and all that. They can't do the soil examinations when it's wet, you know that. Look, I'll call you tomorrow, all right?"

He had to take that for an answer, because she hung up. "I just hung up on my boss. I'm going to get so much shit for this."

"Oh," Darcy said, still in a haze, and kissed her on her shoulder as she lay beside him. "Why don't you just send him the photos?"

"I don't know. I mean, what if it is a saint, and they dig it up and send it back to Nuremburg or Rome? That's sort of rude."

"Rude to whom?"

"The saint, Will. Whom else?"

"Americans. Your grammar is intolerable."

"And you can't take a joke," she said, smiling as he kissed her. "I just – well, I feel like I owe him – and by him I mean the saint or whoever's in there – a favor. After all, if he didn't have that tombstone sitting there, I wouldn't have met you."

Neither of them wanted to think of that possibility, at least not for the moment. "Point taken. So, lie on the report then? I do think lying is a bit less than grave robbing."

"That's because you work for the government."

"Very funny." He turned to her more seriously. "What do you say?"

"I could take pictures of a different grave, photoshop in the tombstone – it could work."

He kissed her. All he could think of to say with this beautiful woman lying beside him was, "I do think we owe him one."

The End