The shock of having lost command of his own body to such a degree -- fainting indeed! -- was not one easily forgotten. Darcy, although more for his family's sake than his own, was careful never to drive himself to such a state again, regardless of the temptation. As soon as he could, he and Anne both returned to Pemberley. Anne, while never gregarious away from those she knew and liked, had grown positively shy. She flinched from sudden sounds, and often it seemed that it was only pride that kept her from bolting when a stranger entered the room. Darcy worried for her, but little enough could be done. Mrs Reynolds assured him that it would pass in time.

"After all, sir," she said consolingly, "she is no worse than you were after your dear mamma died."

Considering that his state of mind had been so disturbed upon that event that he'd been shipped off to Lady Catherine for four years, it was not a great comfort. Darcy nevertheless understood the spirit of the offering and thanked his housekeeper.

In time, Anne did indeed recover. She regained her old vitality, and if she was a little more firmly attached to her father, it was no cause for complaint. Stephen, however, was quite a different story, and Darcy easily read between the lines of his sister's letters. Stephen had never learnt to regard Aincourt as home, and the recent tragedy hardly helped matters. It was no surprise that he did not feel safe there -- regrettable, but inevitable. Darcy offered to have him at Pemberley until he was somewhat recovered. Stephen's precarious health, in his opinion, took higher priority over the question of loyalty to Aincourt, and he said as much to his sister, who fervently agreed. He was astonished that she, herself, stayed only a few days.

"I do not wish to live my husband alone," she explained simply. Darcy nodded. He had known from almost the first that their attachment was a passionate one, particularly given Georgiana's intense temperament, and he was glad of their happiness; but he pitied his nephew. Stephen's nervous, inexpressive disposition rather precluded inclusion within the self-contained family. He could not help that he was so alien to both parents -- nor could Georgiana and Westhampton, although Darcy did not approve. It was no surprise that Stephen preferred Pemberley, then.

Nevertheless, even there he was in far worse state than Anne had ever been. He had not her pride;--at anything unexpected, he fled to his uncle. Darcy supposed -- although he elected not to speak of it, and so could not know for certain -- that he had not been quick enough to shield Stephen from the macabre sight of his grandmother's corpse. He suffered more nightmares than Anne ever had, but less insistent and wilful than his cousin, simply suffered endured for days before Darcy found out.

Slowly, however, the little boy regained something of his old equanimity. Not so resilient as Anne, nevertheless he was very young, and his demeanour within weeks altered from frightened to generally contented, and on occasion even petulant. Darcy was pleased to see Stephen behaving like a four-year-old -- although he brooked no disobedience from daughter or nephew -- and enjoyed his company, as ever dreading the day when he would be returned to his parents.

For Stephen's sake primarily Darcy exerted himself to be somewhat sociable, at least within his circle of acquaintance. He frequently called on his cousin Mrs Hammond, who had changed not at all in consequence of her marriage, except to acquire a certain serenity. She, like Darcy himself, was fond of children, and particularly knew the ways of little boys; Stephen was soon as attached to her as his uncle and cousin had ever been, and often seemed content to simply watch her, his dark grey eyes wide and fascinated.

Closer to home was Kympton, which parish Pemberley House belonged to. Darcy saw the Hancocks at least weekly on Sundays, and usually more as he and Hancock were long-time friends. His wife, although much more sensible than Darcy would ever have expected, was more of a trial; Stephen seemed to find her something of an oddity, and her resemblance to her sister kept Elizabeth at the front of Darcy's mind. He tried to forget her, and failed as he had always done. He knew perfectly well that she had believed his attachment mere infatuation, perhaps even imaginary. He himself wished it were so. And yet not -- he was a better person, for having loved her. The manner in which he had loved her, still did, was quite different from how he loved Georgiana and Anne and Stephen. If, somehow, time or distance could have eroded his feelings, he might very well have been able to pursue another woman, to seek beyond mere contentment; but it seemed that he could not be inconstant even when he wished it.

Darcy sighed. At once, he wished to be left alone -- to never hear of her, to even think of her, again. For better or worse, that part of his life was ever. And yet -- always there was an and yet. He was thirsty for every detail of her he could discover. Mrs Hancock mentioned, in passing, that her father was "worse."

"It will be a blessing when it ends," she said philosophically. "Not that I wish to see Longbourn in the hands of the Collinses, but papa has suffered for so long, and Lizzy with him. She deserves better."

Darcy heartily agreed.

---

In May, he was forced to go to town. It was a brief enough errand that he brought the children with him. Stephen, who had never seen it before, was astounded, constantly turning his head this way and that. Although Darcy corresponded regularly with the Gardiners, it had been many months since he had seen them, and he looked forward to it.

They were so perfectly themselves that he laughed, really laughed, for the first time in what seemed a year at least. He was rather saddened, however, by how much older the children were. Twelve-year-old Amelia no longer ran into his arms as she always had before, while Margaret flushed when he smiled at her. Sarah, but five years old, had no such compunctions; but he started when he realised that she had only just been conceived when he met her cousin at Pemberley. Had it been so long? Of course -- yes, it had -- Anne was four and Sarah six months her senior. April. She had been born a full year after that dreadful day at the Hunsford parsonage. Rather odd, that. Six years, thought Darcy, and sighed.

The little boys -- still young enough to deserve the title -- were delighted to see him, and quite interested in Stephen, who was in awe of their superior years and expertise. At first, he nearly leapt into Darcy's arms when they rushed into the room, but Mr Gardiner's easy ways and Mrs Gardiner's kindness soon set him at his ease.

"That poor lad, what has ever happened?" Mrs Gardiner exclaimed as soon as the children were out of the room. Darcy gladly accepted the offered cup of tea, and explained. They stared.

"Everything does happen to you, doesn't it?" Mr Gardiner said. "Are you quite certain he saw . . ."

"Not certain, of course," Darcy said, shrugging. "But I think so, yes. He is still young. I hope he does not remember."

"That is quite possible. But still . . ." Mr Gardiner shook his head. "I pity him."

"He has never been very happy," said Darcy, sighing. "Oh, my brother and sister are perfectly dutiful parents, but a child wants something more. And he is so unlike them, they don't know what do with him. Georgiana particularly worries over him. He cares nothing for Aincourt."

"At four?" Mrs Gardiner laughed. "That is no surprise, my dear."

"He does care about Pemberley. He never wants to leave, when he is there; and only wants to return, when he is not. I wish --" Darcy laughed sharply. "I wish he were mine. I can do little more than advise as it is."

"You seem to be doing more," said Mrs Gardiner softly.

"I ought not. Westhampton would be well within his rights to be infuriated at my interference. When he -- Stephen -- was very small, he wanted to call me 'papa.' I very nearly allowed it. I should have liked -- but he is Georgiana's son, not mine."

"Fitzwilliam -- " Mrs Gardiner reached out, and laid one hand over his. "No doubt you have heard it before; or perhaps, not enough. But you are a fine man." She smiled suddenly. "I wish you were my brother; although no doubt I would poke my nose into every corner of your life if you were."

"You do that already, dear," Mr Gardiner remarked, and Darcy laughed.

"Thank you, Margaret. I am -- honoured." His lashes dropped against his cheeks, briefly, as he struggled to regain his composure. "Your family's friendship has meant a great deal."

"It has been a pleasure," said Mrs Gardiner, with a sweet smile.

---

He was at the parsonage, talking over certain finer points of doctrine with Hancock, when Anne dashed into the room. "Papa, Mrs Hancock is -- she is not -- I think she's sick," she said. Hancock turned white and he instantly went to find his wife. Darcy hesitated a moment, then, both children at his heels, followed him. Mrs Hancock sat in a chair by the fire, a letter flung on the table, sobbing into her hands. Hancock was kneeling before her.

"Catherine," he said pleadingly, "Catherine, please -- what is it?"

She only sobbed harder, and Hancock glanced at Darcy, then gestured at the letter before attempting to comfort his wife. Distinctly uncomfortable, Darcy picked up the letter, which was composed of a single sheet of paper, covered by a fine, feminine hand -- albeit a rather careless one. He glanced at the bottom, and dropped it as if burnt. Your loving sister, Elizabeth Bennet it said, and with a painful clarity Darcy guessed at what the letter might contain. He could not read it, but Mrs Hancock gasped out,

"It's papa -- Lizzy writes -- she says that -- he's dead." She recommenced sobbing, and Darcy quietly took his leave of them both.

---