The dowager stared at me without saying a word, her eyes dark in her white colourless face. Lady Catherine was not so circumspect, and hurled epithets at me, eyes blazing in righteous fury. Her brother walked about in a hazy sort of unreality, unable to even comprehend what had happened. The children were by turns distressed, devastated, and merely bewildered.

And I? The memories slammed into me, with such force that I thought I should go mad. The misery of our last years seemed distant and remote, and I could only think of how I had loved her, how I had thought of nothing but Lady Anne Fitzwilliam for months on end, of her brilliance and beauty and singular sweetness. What had happened? She had not loved me, perhaps I had not truly loved her, but there was something, why had we not done better? I had wanted to possess her in every way possible, but she always remained unattainable, I could not comprehend why she would not understand that she was no longer a Fitzwilliam but my wife.

It came to me, then, that I had killed her, as much as if I had held a pistol to her head. I could not bear it. I sent for more wine. First a glass, then another, and finally a whole bottle; and then another after that.

"You shouldn't be here," a clear voice said dispassionately. I peered up, catching a glimpse of vibrant blue eyes and untidy black hair, the slim figure and the room spinning around.

"Anne?" I managed to croak, vaguely wondering if the past fortnight had been nothing more than a nightmarish dream.

A thin hand snatched the two empty bottles and another half-full one away, impervious to my feeble protests. "No," the voice said coldly — it was deeper, not a woman's voice at all, yet it had the same intonation and timbre as that which tortured me, echoing through my mind no matter how much I drank. "It's Fitzwilliam. Mother would be ashamed of you."

I laughed shrilly, and grabbed one of the bottles from him — an empty one, unfortunately. Fitzwilliam took several steps back.

"Give it back," I said unsteadily.

"No," said Anne's son. I could not make out his face. As far as I was concerned, it was Anne's face and Anne's voice and Anne's —

I never remembered what happened next. The first thing I recalled was waking up with the most acutely painful hangover I had ever experienced. None of the servants acted as if anything was different, yet I knew something was very wrong.

"The earl," I persisted, "where is he?"

"He left early Saturday morning with his mother," Roberts said obediently. Further questions betrayed that the Fitzwilliams had apparently up and vanished two days prior, and that I had lost the memory of an entire four days. The thought provoked a vaguely disturbing impression. Fitzwilliams, Fitzwilliams, Fitzwilliam — Fitzwilliam! I straightened and swallowed more coffee. Although Fitzwilliam had made himself scarce since Anne's death, I was well accustomed to his quiet presence by now.

I set down my cup. "Where is my son?" I demanded.

Roberts looked surprised. "Lord Matlock said the matter was arranged, sir. He took Master Fitzwilliam with him when he left."

I was somehow horrified and unsurprised at the same time. Anne had been taken from me, and she was so inextricably bound with Fitzwilliam in my thinking that it was only logical that Fitzwilliam should be gone as well. As for my erstwhile brother-in-law, he had never liked me, and was probably crowing over me from Yorkshire while my son — well, did whatever it was he did in his spare time, accompanied by the omnipresent pair of Henry and Richard. "I see," I said numbly. "Did he say anything else?"

"He left a letter, sir. He wished you to receive it as soon as possible."

"Well?"

Roberts looked pointedly at my unfinished coffee. I grimaced and gulped the rest down, and he retrieved the letter from heavens-knew-where. My brother's close, precise hand was unmistakable, yet there was an uncharacteristic slight unevenness to his script, and I felt a chill as some of his phrases leapt out at me.

. . . your vicious conduct . . . your own son . . . debt to my sister . . . I have always cared for Fitzwilliam . . . let him be . . . she deserved better . . . look at her portrait and remember —

Dear Lord, I thought in horror, what is it? Anne — Fitzwilliam — oh, my God; what have I done? I stood in front of her portrait, and once again felt the darkness of despair overwhelming my mind. The spectre of her living gaze I found in the painting and in her son's face, and I could not bear either.

I destroyed the portrait.

A/N: Goodness, this is rather . . . dark. Much darker than I had anticipated. Perhaps I shall amend this later, but at the moment, it stands. He's not exactly stable just now. Just as a pre-emptive answer, he never laid a hand on Anne. She was not murdered and she did not commit suicide. Fitzwilliam and her mother were with her when she died. What exactly occured between Mr Darcy and his son during the former's blank period is up to your imagination, but I would point out that it isn't so awful that anyone but Mr Darcy, Fitzwilliam, Lord Matlock, and the dowager know anything of it; but it is awful enough that Lord Matlock does not feel he can justify leaving Fitzwilliam at Pemberley until Mr Darcy recovers his wits and sobriety.