A/N Happy May Day! Please don't hate me. It had to happen. Just remember you'll get your HEA. The delay was because, for the first time ever, I had this chapter beta read in an attempt to not screw it up. I rewrote the last scene three times and cried several more times than that.

I absolutely loved that everyone had a different response to the last chapter. I can get three reviews in quick succession, all of them with a different interpretation. It's marvellous!

oOoOoOo

Wednesday 11th January 1797

Elizabeth was overjoyed for Jane in a detached sort of way. A haze of melancholy had settled over her, and she watched the wedding preparations as though through the thick bottom of a glass jar – everything was simultaneously magnified yet distorted. The ceremony was set for the middle of January, a week after Charlotte and Collins were to wed, and all of the principal families of Meryton were abuzz with excitement. Jane had long been a favourite of their neighbours, especially the sons, and while the mothers of the town were disappointed to be losing her to a newcomer, they were happy for her nonetheless.

Mr Darcy had grown distant since that day in the rose garden. When he called at Longbourn, he never chose his typical seat beside Elizabeth, and his visits to John had been shorter. The intimacy which had grown, stout and comforting, between them during the autumn seemed to have vanished with the winter storms which had descended in time for Christmas day. While he spent no less time watching her speak, his eyes grazing the elegant curve of her neck and the arch of her brow, Mr Darcy no longer challenged her to debates; he did not offer himself as a foil to her wit. He rode to Longbourn like an escort for Mr Bingley and then faded into the shadows.

His absence was largely unnoticed by Elizabeth. She spent the yule season tugged in all directions with her emotions and thoughts. It took all she had not to sink to her knees and crawl to a dark corner, and yet even when she felt as though she could not drag herself up from the floor, she was also joyously hanging decorations with little John and teaching him Christmas hymns. Elizabeth would lay him down to bed and read him part of the Christmas story, and would answer his innocent questions with a solemn delight. Then she would retire to her bedroom – the guest room, not the one she once shared with Jane – and she would weep herself sick. She sneaked down to the kitchens with John to steal spiced biscuits when they were still warm from the oven, and they would giggle as she tucked the child under one arm and the biscuits under the other as they raced away from the long-suffering cook. Yet the rich, buttery treats turned to ash in her mouth, and she choked them down behind a reassuring smile.

The world appeared to Elizabeth either as devoid of all colour or painfully vibrant in its volume. Jane, who was concerned for her sister but principally occupied with her own happiness, learned to ask after Lizzy's spirits before consulting her on ribbon colours and embroidery patters. Caught in a low moment, Elizabeth was liable to recommend a sickly green over a soft lilac, or scratchy tulle over silken lace.

By Twelfth Night, the fog had begun to clear, and Elizabeth was able to attend the wedding of her oldest friend with a cheerful smile. Her tears flowed from joy, not sorrow. She knew what it was to live the consequences of her choices, Elizabeth mused, and she wished Charlotte the best with hers.

The season of change brought a tumultuous atmosphere to Longbourn. Mr Bennet had been resigned to the loss of his daughters since his favourite had left the first time, but Elizabeth meant to leave for Somerford Park before the end of the month, and her father was disappointed to see her go. Mrs Bennet lived in a frenzied state of utter ecstasy and feverish pride. Lydia was her favourite child, with so much of the mother present in the daughter, but Jane was almost as dear, and Mrs Bennet was exceedingly pleased her eldest was finally married.

"She is but three and twenty," Elizabeth had grumbled, but Mrs Bennet was overcome with a fit of nerves and took to bed in raptures at four thousand pounds per annum[1].

Elizabeth wondered when life had become so tiring.

Her nights had been plagued by flashes of movement: large, warm hands cupping the back of her neck, a soft stomach pressed against her, the thrust of a warm body from beneath her. She would wake up aching and disconcerted, because sometimes the dreams were so vivid she could almost smell Richard's distinctive scent and hear the familiar rumble of his voice, but other times the voice and smell and hands and body were unrecognisable.

On the day of Jane's wedding, it rained. This was hardly surprising – it had been raining since the new year, the ubiquitous English rain that hung in the air like mist but would drench an overcoat in minutes – but disappointing nonetheless. Jane was a beautiful bride, a fact as inevitable as the rain. The church was decorated with winter greens and ribbons of palest pink, soft yellow and a sky blue which matched Jane's eyes. Mr Bingley could not restrain himself at the appearance of his bride in the doorway, and had bounded halfway down the aisle with the energy of spaniel before he was recalled to his senses by a fondly exasperated Darcy. The ceremony was conducted with all the expected pomp and procedures, and by the time Mrs Bingley emerged with her husband, having signed the register, Elizabeth was once again smiling as tears welled in her eyes.

To watch her beloved elder sister marry a man she loved deeply, and who loved her in return, was both joyous and gratifying for Elizabeth. She had known the greatest happiness in her own union, and she felt this privilege keenly, surrounded as she was by unhappy couples. Jane and Bingley were so well suited in character and disposition that their contentment was surely a foregone conclusion.

Mr and Mrs Bingley were sent off to Netherfield with less than the usual enthusiasm, for the rain had grown heavier and the sky darker, and few were inclined to brave the mud to wave farewell. The newlyweds would remain but a week at Netherfield before they departed for Bath, where they would spend several months enjoying the various amusements the town had to offer.

On the evening of the wedding, Elizabeth was sat in the nursery, mesmerised at the gentle rise and fall of John's chest as he slept, when Mr Bennet quietly entered the room.

"He takes after his father, in his colouring especially, but when he is sleeping and his eyes are closed," Mr Bennet sighed heavily, "then, I see you. You nose, your jaw, your peaceful expression. You were always an animated child, but the moment you fell asleep you became so still. I used to sit in here, where you are now, and watch you, did you know?"

Elizabeth did not.

"Oh yes. I knew little what to do with Jane, for by that time she was walking and speaking and already the apple of your mother's eye. But you," he sighed again, "you were always my little girl."

"I could not fathom how hard it must have been to see me grow up and leave," Elizabeth said. "And now I cannot imagine watching my little boy become a young man and leave me for some fantastic adventure."

"Ah, but that is beauty of it, my dear. It is difficult, I shall not argue against that, but to see the child you so love grow into a person with thoughts and ideas and likes and dislikes and talents that are all their own… there is no greater joy as a parent than realising your child shall go out into the world and make a success of themselves."

Mr Bennet placed a loving hand on Elizabeth's shoulder and pressed a kiss to her brow.

"Do you think I have made a success of myself, papa?"

"Without a doubt, my dear, without a doubt. You married a wonderful man, you bore him a wonderful child, and you have enduring the unimaginable while remaining wholly yourself. I can think of no greater achievement."

"I do not know that I have remained myself, though. There are times when I feel so lost; I feel like a ship unmoored in a storm, tossed about and unsteady. At some point I lost sight of the lighthouse and I still haven't found it again."

"You have been knocked off course, that is all, Elizabeth. The skies will clear, and the day will come, and you will know where you are again. But even when you are lost, you are still seaworthy.

"It is something I have learned during my considerable years on this Earth – that navigating this life has both rough seas and smooth sailing on its course. Sometimes it is day, and the sun shines so you can see as far as the eye will allow. Other times, the sky is so dark and the swell so high that you doubt the sun can be hidden behind the clouds, for surely it has disappeared altogether. Sometimes, it is night, but the stars are clear and bright enough that you could chart any course by the patterns you read in the heavens. Other times the sky will be a blanket of blue and black, and you couldn't begin to guess your direction."

"I have never taken you for a seaman, papa."

"And you never shall, but I can spin as neat a metaphor as any Cambridge gentleman. And you, my dear, are doing just fine."

He kissed her brow again, then bent to cup a palm around John's head.

"Your boy is doing just fine, too."

oOoOoOo

Thursday 12th January 1797

The rain continued. Elizabeth used to brave the mizzle to take her walks, but since her spirits had been low, she'd already caught one cold, and did not want to tempt another. She thus remained indoors on the day after Jane's wedding and was caught alone when Mr Darcy called. Mrs Bennet had taken the carriage into Meryton with Lydia and Bennet, to boast of her eldest's matrimonial triumph from the court she held in her sister's living room.

When he was announced, Mr Darcy appeared at the door in a state of unusual dishevelment. He had clearly ridden from Netherfield, because his breeches were spotted with mud and damp from the rain, and there was a distinct line on his collar where his greatcoat had been open to the weather. His hair was also unruly, with wet curls at the edges beyond the protection of his hat. His eyes were dark and tense.

Darcy greeted Elizabeth tersely, and enquired after her health with some agitation. He sat down, first across the room from her before moving to sit on the sofa next to her. When Elizabeth replied that she was well, with some detail or other about her joy for Mr and Mrs Bingley but fatigue after the busy day, he spang to his feet and walked about the room with hurried paces. He did not say anything for several minutes, and Elizabeth's concern for him was rising when he finally spoke.

"For weeks now I have fought with a strength of emotion I did not know I could possess. I have been tormented by all I feel, but I could not face the thought of your departure without your understanding. I do not know when I might be in your company again, as we have gone all of this time without meeting, and even if I should contrive to be in London when you are at Grosvenor Square, it would be too long parted from you."

Taken aback did not begin to describe Elizabeth's reception of this speech. Her complexion grew hot. Darcy was speaking with a fervency quite unlike his usual manner, and his gaze was intense on her face.

"Since the ceremony yesterday, when I fixed upon the resolve to speak to you, I have been apprehensive, and was kept awake for most of the night with anxiety. Almost since I met you I have attempted to overcome my affections, because they have not taken the form of a relation but that of a man. With every word you spoke, and every smile you bestowed upon me, I have only become more enamoured. You have the keenest wit of any woman I have ever met, surpassing most men of my acquaintance, too, and I feel we have kindled here a great friendship. From this, my love has only grown. But I have acutely felt, also, the knowledge that you were Richard's wife, and I have resisted professing my tender regard for you because the consequences of a favourable answer could not be insignificant."

The awkwardness of the encounter was mounting, but Elizabeth had little idea how to interrupt a man in his profession of affection. She had no notion that Darcy had begun to form an attachment to her, and here he was expounding upon not only his feelings but the reservations he had long entertained.

"There are expectations placed upon me by our mutual relations and by society, and as you are a widow with a child, there would no doubt be some disadvantages to the match. Fitzwilliam was able to marry as he pleased because his only responsibilities were to His Majesty and the men with whom he was charged. I am Master of Pemberley, and with that title I carry a weight of responsibility which your upbringing in Meryton-" here he cast a look about the room "-cannot have full equipped you to fathom. Nevertheless, I can no longer repress my feelings."

"Mr Darcy, please-"

"I most ardently admire and love you, Elizabeth."

She was not insensible to the compliment of such a man's affection, but he had laced enough insult into his speech that she felt only a little callous for her answer.

"I thank you, Mr Darcy, but I must beg you not to go any further. Whatever proposals you wish to make to me, I cannot accept them. I do not love you in return."

The colour drained from Mr Darcy's face, and then flushed a violent pink. He struggled to compose himself and did not speak for several moments. Elizabeth could hardly bear the silence. At length, in a painfully even tone, Darcy said,

"I beg your pardon, Madam, if I have caused any offense with my sentiments."

"You have not offended me, Mr Darcy."

"And yet you will not allow me to make my addresses to you?"

Elizabeth could almost see the hairs on his neck raise like a rankled cat.

"I do not love you Mr Darcy. I am sorry."

Hand clenched into fists until his knuckles were write under his skin, Mr Darcy's affront melted into a kind of desperate devastation. With halting breaths, he cried,

"But do you not see what you could gain; can you not think of John? He will grow up fatherless!"

This was too much for Elizabeth. She stood abruptly.

"Do you know, Mr Darcy, that my husband died two years and five days ago? I do not know if anyone ever told you the exact date. Of course, I did not find out until nearly four weeks later, the rest of the family after that, but the anniversary of his death was five days ago. Of course I am not oblivious to the fact that my son will grow up without his father." She dropped into her seat again, curled over with her head in her hands, fingers tangling into hair as she clutched at her scalp. "Why would you do this now?"

Mr Darcy, who had resumed pacing by the fireplace, seemed to catch her words with surprise, as though he had spoken without registering the meaning of his own exclamation and was now called back to himself. He started, and looked at Elizabeth with an expression of mortification.

"For God's sake, Darcy," she said with an unearthly whine drawn from the back of her throat, "why would you choose to do this now."

Later, Elizabeth would be unable to recall the exact contents of any conversation which followed. She had once tried to find her reflection in the shadows of an old, burnished silver mirror. That was how the encounter would settle in her memories – shrouded in a heavy, dark mist, obscured and hazy.

She might have explained to Mr Darcy that his words hurt her deeply because he was pressing a fresh bruise, the sort that is purple and blue-black and sore to the bone. He was tearing at a wound which had already been reopened, had been bleeding steadily for weeks. His words were an echo of thoughts which clutched at her neck at night until she could barely gasp for breath. Her husband would never see the beauty of their blended features in the small life they made together, her little boy would never feel the solid, comforting embrace of the man who would have loved him with every fibre of his being, and it was a constant source of pain.

She might have confessed to him that she wished, more than almost anything, that she could receive his declaration with gratitude. She was lonely. It was the sort of loneliness that manifested in a room crowded with the loudest personalities, because the vibrancy of the living was drowned out by the silence of the dead. She had given her husband a part of herself and he took it with him when he died, and left behind was a void she didn't know how to fill. She was alone in her heart, and in her body, and she longed to wrap herself in the love of another if only to feel warm again.

She might have simply screamed at him, with a single, unholy shriek of grief.

The next thing she would remember was the sight of Mr Darcy stood frozen, pale-face and utterly still. Then be bowed with pained politeness and said,

"Forgive me for having interrupted your afternoon. Please accept my best wishes for your health and happiness."

He paused in the doorway.

"God bless you and your son, Mrs Fitzwilliam."

Hangs wringing, Elizabeth did not know what to do with herself. She stood, she sat, then she rose again to pace about the room before she flung herself to lie across the long sofa. An incredulous laugh bubbled out of her, an edge of mania to the frantic sound. She could never have imagined such a scenario, nor would she have imagined how it could descent into [terribleness]. That Darcy loved her was shock enough – thought they had built a comfortable relationship since the difficulties of their meeting had been overcome, she had not seen anything deeper than friendship in their conversations – but his mode and timing of address were unfathomable to her.

Her mind raced with flashes of incomplete thoughts, and she could feel her heart thumping as though it would beat its way out of her chest. Her head pulsed with a steady thrum, thrum, thrum, each beat accompanied by a darkness at the peripheries of her vision. Her hands shook violently. Each shuddering breath was painfully drawn through a clenched jaw and tight throat. Her eyes pricked with tears that would not fall.

Then Elizabeth stood, smoothed her skirts and fixed her mobcap, and she carried on.

oOoOoOo

[1] Money things! Mr Bingley is reported to be worth four thousand pounds a year by Mrs Bennet – is Meryton gossip reliable? That's up to you to decide. What we do know is that Bingley inherited almost one hundred thousand pounds upon the death of his father, which in today's money is somewhere upwards of five million pounds (this depends on how it's calculated – I found a range of 4-8 million). Fun fact, according to the National Archives, this could have bought Bingley approximately 9523 horses. Longbourn had a value of about £2000 per year – something like £90,000 in today's money.