A/N: Hello, all! Well, here's my third P&P fanfiction! Again, thank you all so much for your support on my first two. I really appreciate your reviews. I originally intended to wait until this was completely written before putting it up, but I'm beginning to realize that I need the pressure of awaiting readers to get me to finish it. So, I encourage you to comment away and bother me about updates!
I intend to update at least twice a week, so you should not have to wait very long between chapters. Enjoy!
Please Note: Letters and flashbacks are written in italics.
Fitzwilliam Darcy awoke to an unfamiliar but entirely pleasing sensation of warmth. Opening his eyes, he was greeted by the gentle light of the morning, which filtered through the curtains of Pemberley, setting the room aglow. A slight breeze wafted through an open window, complemented by the sound of rustling leaves and the soothing song of birds. Darcy smiled, taking a deep breath of contentment, only to inhale the exquisite scent of lavender. The sweet aroma encompassed him, wrapping itself firmly around his heart. It was his favorite fragrance, and it belonged to his favorite person.
He suddenly became aware of the weight on his shoulder, as if the mere thought of her brought her into existence. Turning his head slightly, he was met with the most heartwarming sight. There, snuggling into his shoulder, was Elizabeth.
His wife.
He could feel her soft breath on his neck, hear her susurrous sighs. She looked so peaceful. So content. He smiled as she mumbled and tucked herself further into his embrace. He observed her in quiet adoration, his hand tenderly stroking her bare back. Her long, dark tresses cascaded down the side of her shoulder, spreading along the bedclothes in disarray. Her porcelain skin was soft and warm to the touch, contrasting wonderfully with the gentle zephyr from the window. Her round cheeks were tinged with pink, and her plump lips were slightly parted, begging to be kissed. As her small nose twitched, Darcy's smile widened. She was perfection itself. Every part of her was so beautifully crafted. There was, in Darcy's mind, only one thing wrong with the picture before him - he could not see her eyes. Those captivating, mesmerizing, magnificent eyes. That, however, could be remedied. He simply needed to open them.
Darcy began to pepper Elizabeth's face with kisses. He started with her brow and slowly made his way down to her nose, brushing his fingers along her silky skin as he went. A suppressed giggle alerted him to the fact that she was awake, but her eyes remained closed. She knew what he wanted and had, true to her character, decided to make him work for it. With a smirk, he continued his assault, moving from her nose to her cheek, and then to her jaw. Upon hearing another giggle, Darcy changed his course. He kissed his way back up her face, delighting in the quick breaths of her ill-concealed laughter.
"Are you awake, Mrs. Darcy?" He whispered, pressing his lips against the shell of her ear.
"Hmm," Elizabeth sighed, biting her lip. "I have yet to receive the proper encouragement."
Darcy grinned and teasingly placed a kiss at the edge of her mouth, chuckling at her huff of indignation. Still, she refused to open her eyes.
"That," she remarked, "is not the correct way to awaken Sleeping Beauty."
"Ah, forgive me, my dear. I have not read the tale in some time."
"Well, I can not have my husband forgetting such important details. Perhaps I should remind you."
Before he could even form a response, Elizabeth pressed their lips together. Her hands wove through his hair as his hands made their way to the back of her neck. Darcy held his wife as close as possible, relishing in the contact. Her lips were soft, sweet, and so very warm, much like the rest of her. He groaned when their tongues met, engaging in their much-practiced dance. He could feel her melt into him, soft skin moulding pleasantly into soft skin. They were one - whole. When the need for air finally separated them, Elizabeth rolled on top and began to place soft kisses upon his neck. One of her hands remained in his hair, running through it in a soothing manner, while the other tantalizingly trailed after her mouth. Flooded with warmth and overcome by affection, Darcy exhaled and ran his hands along her thighs. As she pressed adoring kisses across the expanse of his bare chest, he couldn't help but think that the feeling of contentment he had experienced upon waking up paled in comparison to this - here was a woman who truly loved him, and there was no sweeter feeling.
Finally, Darcy was able to meet her eyes. Those enchanting emerald eyes held him captive, and he was a willing prisoner. She sent him a radiant smile, and he could do naught but return it.
"Goodmorning, my love," Elizabeth whispered, eyes dancing with mirth.
"A good morning, indeed," he grinned.
She laughed as she nestled against him once again, and he held her tightly. Were it possible to die of happiness, Darcy was certain his heart would stop beating at that very moment. But it did not. His heart belonged to her. As long as she was beside him, he would live on.
"I love you," he whispered.
"And I love you, Fitzwilliam."
Fitzwilliam Darcy awoke with a start, shooting up in his bed as the cold air enveloped him. The sky outside was sunless, dominated by gray clouds, painting the room in darkness. The only thing that could be heard through the open window was the soulless howl of the wind, and the only thing that could be felt was the bitter chill that accompanied it. Darcy impetuously reached beside him, seeking comfort, but he was met only with emptiness. He let out a shaky breath. There was no comfort. There was no warmth. There was no wife. There was no Elizabeth.
He was alone.
Darcy buried his head in his hands. It had been another dream - another cruel, tortuous reminder of his gravest mistake. He dreamt of Elizabeth Bennet every night. Sometimes, he dreamt of the Assembly at which he'd first laid eyes on her. What would have happened had he actually shown due respect to those in attendance? What would have happened had he not uttered the single most egregious falsehood of his life? Sometimes, he dreamt of the gathering at Lucas Lodge. What would have happened had she actually accepted his hand for the dance? What would have happened had he attempted to look anything but displeased? Sometimes, he dreamt of Elizabeth's stay at Netherfield. What would have happened had he actually made an effort to talk with her? What would have happened had he actually let her see his true, unguarded self? Sometimes, he dreamt of the Netherfield Ball. What would have happened had he actually explained Wickham's foul character then? What would have happened had he actually watched Miss Bennet and Bingley with an unbiased eye? Oftentimes, he dreamt of her rejection at Hunsford almost two months ago - good God, had it only been two months? What would have happened had he actually explained how much she meant to him - how much he loved her? What would have happened had he actually behaved like a gentleman? Oh, how those words haunted him!
As agonizing as such dreams were, however, they were nothing to the kind he had just awoken from - those dreams cut him to his very core. He could bear her anger. He could bear her disdain. He could bear her disgust. What he could not bear was a brief glimpse into the happiness which could have been his...those dreams in which his Elizabeth tells him that she loves him; those dreams in which he can kiss and hold her; those dreams in which she is happy to receive his affection and return it…to have a taste of that, only to have it cruelly ripped away come morning, was torture. Every time he woke, he hoped, prayed even, that it was true - that somehow, someway, she was right beside him. But it was never true, and it never would be. Whenever consciousness returned, she disappeared.
Darcy could feel the tears running down his cheeks, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He had foolishly thrown away his only chance at future felicity. Did he not have the right to cry over that? He had cried when he lost his mother. He had cried when he lost his father. And now, he had lost his wife, albeit in a different manner. Though, to him, it may as well be the same. He would never see her again. Was there really any great difference? She was lost to him.
Darcy had returned to Pemberley in the hopes that its familiar walls would ease his aching heart, but, if anything, they had only brought him more pain. For the first time in his life, Darcy was struck by the emptiness of his home. Halls that once seemed grand now seemed barren. Rooms that once provided comfort now only mocked him with their silence. Even Pemberley's vast grounds brought him little pleasure. How could they when he knew Elizabeth would never see them...that she would never enjoy them by his side?
The memories within the great house, which had once made him smile, now only served to tighten the band around his heart. Darcy remembered his parents' marriage. He remembered their happiness. George and Anne Darcy had a passionate, unequivocal, all-consuming love for one another. When asked about their felicity in marriage, George Darcy would joke that he had simply married his closest friend. It was always said in a teasing manner, as was his wont, but everyone knew it to be true. Fitzwilliam's parents had been partners in every sense of the word. Partners in love. Partners in life. Partners in business. Partners in crime, as his father often jested, which was always followed by a gentle slap to the shoulder from his mother.
Although it was a good match by the standards of the Ton - with George Darcy being from an ancient, wealthy family and Lady Anne Darcy being the daughter of an Earl - his parents had married for love. They held each other in the deepest respect. As a result, Fitzwilliam grew up in a rather unconventional environment.
His father was more than just a wealthy gentleman who sat back and watched his steward manage his estates. George Darcy was an attentive, heavily-involved Master and landlord. If there was a problem with a tenant, he, usually accompanied by his wife, would set out himself to check on them. If there was an issue on the farm, he would accompany his men to see it fixed, even when the job promised to be onerous and dirty. George Darcy's wealth and station would have allowed for indolence, yet he refused to delegate every task as many others in the first circles did. Despite his involvement, he never played the role of overbearing Master, and he treated everyone who worked for him with kindness and respect.
George Darcy, caked in mud up to his knees, led a nine-year-old Fitzwilliam away from the newly-born lamb. It had rained heavily the previous night, and one of Pemberley's sheep had kindly decided to give birth at the crack of dawn while stuck in a large pool of mud. The decision was not appreciated by the farmhands, who, upon realizing they didn't have the numbers to deal with the situation so early in the morning, called for the Master of Pemberley.
As always, George Darcy was quick to respond and chose to bring his beloved son along to assist - it was never too early to learn how to lend a helping hand to one's staff. They discussed their plan of action and ultimately decided that the lamb would have to be delivered before the sheep could be freed.
Fitzwilliam Darcy watched with rapt attention as his father and the two other men removed the young animal from its mother - his father instructed him throughout the process on which parts were supposed to come out first to ensure the safety of the baby. Fitzwilliam was then handed the little creature and guided back to the barn by one of the farmhands, while the remaining farmhand and his father dug the sheep out of its precarious position in the mud.
As they approached the house, Fitzwilliam was surprised to see his father head towards the servants' entrance.
"Why are we going this way, Papa?"
George Darcy smiled at his son. "We will make less of a mess if we go through here. We do not want to create unnecessary work for the servants, now do we?"
"Aunt Catherine says that's their job."
"Of course she would say that," his father muttered under his breath. "It is our job to help them where we can, Fitzwilliam. They are people, the same as us. Every person - every living thing - deserves respect. Besides, no good can come from having staff who despise you."
Once inside, the Darcy boys were met by Lady Anne, who was smiling in amusement.
"And what, my dear," George Darcy asked, affectionately kissing his wife's cheek, "do you find so diverting?"
"Oh, nothing at all, my love," she responded, giving them both a once-over. "Only that you saw it fit to take our son out so early in the morning and return him to me in such a state."
"Oh, it was exciting, was it not my boy?" His father exclaimed, ruffling Fitzwilliam's hair.
The young boy grinned up at his parents. "It was fun! The lamb was so small, and it was all muddy!"
"Yes," his mother laughed, "I can see that. I am glad all went well. A bath has been drawn for the both of you. Now, go get cleaned up. I have asked Mr. Crider to make some chocolate* as a reward for your hard work this morning."
With that, Fitzwilliam raced up the stairs, leaving behind his chuckling parents.
His mother, Lady Anne Darcy, had done more than make menus, host parties, and refurnish rooms. George Darcy involved his wife in every facet of managing the estates and business. He was rarely alone in the study, his wife being his most reliable business partner and confidant. If there was a decision to be made, they made it together. Fitzwilliam was certain that his mother had been able to run an estate more efficiently than half of the landowners of his acquaintance, a sentiment his father shared and often joked about. In fact, Lady Anne had been just as involved with teaching Fitzwilliam about his duties as Master of Pemberley as his father had been. He owed much of what he now knows to her.
A six-year-old Fitzwilliam Darcy ran excitedly into his parents' study. Robert Millings, his father's valet, had shown the young Master how to tie a cravat, and the boy was eager to show his handiwork to his parents. Upon entering the study, however, he found only his mother, pen in hand.
Lady Anne looked up at the abrupt entrance and burst out laughing at the sight. There stood her son, beaming, wearing a sloppily-tied cravat round his neck that was entirely too big for him. It looked rather more like a bib than a common clothing item.
"My, don't you look handsome, Fitzwilliam!" She exclaimed in amusement, lifting her son onto the desk.
"I tied it myself," the boy stated proudly.
"No, surely you're joking, my dear!" She feigned surprise.
"I did! Mr. Millings taught me how."
"My goodness! You're growing up much too fast."
Fitzwilliam squared his shoulders at the compliment, smiling widely at his mother. "Where is Papa?"
"One of the horses has been limping as of late, and he went to check on it."
"It's not one of the Thoroughbreds, is it?" He asked worriedly. His father talked often of his prized Thoroughbreds, though Fitzwilliam was still unsure as to the difference between them and the other horses. All he knew was that those particular horses were important to his father and, therefore, were important to him.
Lady Anne smiled at her son's question. "No, thankfully. It is one of the Cleveland Bays. We fear too much time in the mud has resulted in tendinitis."
Fitzwilliam nodded slowly, attempting to retain the information for future use. "Are you going over the books?" He asked, looking down at the long list of names and numbers. His parents often did it together, though the boy did not yet understand the process.
"I am. I do not know how long your father is going to be, so I figured I would get some work done."
"Aunt Catherine says it is not the Mistress' job to do that."
"Of course she would say that," his mother muttered under her breath. Even when Sir Lewis de Bourgh was alive, her sister had done little personally to help with Rosings. Catherine preferred to bark out orders and control the lives of those around her to an unconscionable degree. Lady Anne's eager participation in the day-to-day running of Pemberley had long been a point of contention between the two women. However, Lady Catherine found herself outnumbered. Their brother, Andrew, agreed with Anne, also having a wife who yearned to be involved in the running of Craigspeak Hall, home of the Fitzwilliams.
"Do not listen to Aunt Catherine on such things," Fitzwilliam's mother warned. "I enjoy working with your father, just as Aunt Penny enjoys working with Uncle Andrew. Any woman of sense and intelligence would go positively mad if she were forced to do nothing but act as hostess and decorate rooms."
Fitzwilliam nodded once again. His parents seemed to disagree with much of what Aunt Catherine said. Lady Anne chuckled at her son's intent look - the look he donned when trying to catalogue something in his memory.
"Would you like to go over the names of our tenants while we wait for your father? I am sure he will want to see your cravat."
The young boy grinned at the reminder of his latest accomplishment and readily agreed. He was always happy to learn from his mother, and she was always happy to teach him.
George and Anne Darcy had taken a similar approach to parenting. The love they had for each other, as well as their dedication to personally managing their estates, all translated into how they raised their children. They were attentive, doting parents who had decided even before they were married that any children they were blessed with would be cared for and loved by them and not by a servant or nursemaid. When, two years into their marriage, Anne discovered that she was with child, the Darcys had the Mistress' chambers turned into a nursery. They wanted their children to be close, and Anne had not used her chambers even once in the course of their marriage. They had separate dressing rooms, of course, but they both slept in the Master's chambers, which came to be known by the staff as the 'couple's chambers' to avoid confusion.
When Fitzwilliam was born, George and Anne did everything themselves. If he was hungry, Anne nursed him herself. If he cried in the middle of the night, George and Anne took turns tending to him. They showered little Fitzwilliam with all their love and attention, and he very quickly became the light of their life. It may be considered unfashionable to form such a close bond with one's child, especially in their circles, but George and Anne could not have cared less.
In truth, the Ton's view of children revulsed them both. Children amongst the first circles were often treated as trophies. They would be paraded about the drawing-room for a short time before being sent back to their chambers, barely seeing their parents unless they were needed to impress guests. There was such coldness and distance amidst the families of the Ton, and the Darcys were certain that it made the children more prone to vice. How else would they behave when they grew up with so little love? They were raised to believe that they had no one to please but themselves.
There was also, of course, the Ton's view on heirs. Amongst the first circles, the more children you had, the better. The phrase 'an heir and a spare' was often thrown around, and the sentiment left both George and Anne almost sick to their stomachs. How could someone disregard their own child simply because they were not born first? Or because they were not born a boy? This was, again, another topic on which Lady Catherine had much to say.
A disconcerted ten-year-old Fitzwilliam watched as his Aunt Catherine's carriage pulled out of Pemberley. He had overheard her arguing with his mother about the misfortune of having only one child, and, although his mother had fiercely defended him, he could not help but feel a bit insecure.
George Darcy eyed his son, sensing his discomfiture. "You look as though you need to speak about something."
Fitzwilliam simply nodded, not making eye-contact.
"Let us go up to the study."
George Darcy guided his inexplicably quiet son to the chairs by the fireplace and jokingly asked, "Can I get you a glass of port for your troubles?"
The older man chuckled as Fitzwilliam wrinkled his nose in disgust. He had allowed the curious boy to take a small sip a while back, and it had certainly left an impression.
"What is bothering you, my boy?"
Fitzwilliam gazed at the fire, unsure how to ask such a question. "Are you disappointed that you have only me?"
"Good God!" His father exclaimed. "Of course not! Why would you ask such a thing?"
"I…," he trailed off, looking sheepishly at his father. "I overheard Aunt Catherine speaking to Mama. She said that you would grow cross with her if she did not give you another boy…"
George Darcy went red with anger, a sight rarely seen by his son. He clenched his fist and swallowed harshly, reminding himself that such a display of fury would do nothing to ease the boy's concerns.
"I would never - never - be cross with your mother for something such as that. I would love her the same had we twenty children or none at all. I would love her had we no boys and all girls. Your mother and I love you dearly, Fitzwilliam. Although we would be thrilled to have more children, we want for nothing. I beg you, never let Aunt Catherine make you think we are displeased with you in any way. Truly, we could not be happier."
"But what about Pemberley?"
"While I would always love for Pemberley to stay within the Darcy name, there is no use worrying about that which we have so little control over. If God intends for this great house to move on, so be it."
George Darcy embraced his dear son. It hurt to see him so unsure of himself. "I don't want you to worry about such things. All you need to know is that I love your mother, and we both love you, no matter what."
"I love you, too," Fitzwilliam whispered, urging himself to think no more of Aunt Catherine's words. His parents loved him, and he loved them. That was all that mattered.
George and Anne Darcy did eventually get their second child, but it came at a great cost. Lady Anne's pregnancy was difficult, and she was confined to bed for the majority of it. Her husband and son were at her side almost constantly. Both George and Anne tried, for Fitzwilliam's sake, to remain calm, but they knew something was wrong. At first, Anne was convinced she would lose the baby. However, as time ticked on, the baby grew stronger while she grew weaker. On the eve of Georgiana's birth, they were faced with the reality of their situation. Anne would not survive.
And she did not.
Not four and twenty hours after giving birth to a small but healthy baby girl, Lady Anne Darcy passed away, surrounded by the Fitzwilliams, as well as her husband, son, and new daughter, who George Darcy held tightly to his chest. Lady Catherine was the only one who could not be bothered to make the trip - a fact which left an indelible mark on her relationship with the rest of the family. There were many tears, though everyone present thanked God that they got the chance to say goodbye.
George Darcy was not the same after his beloved wife's death. While he was still an affectionate, doting father and an attentive Master and landlord, there was a sadness about him that had not been there before. The entire house could feel it acutely. In truth, George Darcy was in the depths of despair, and the only thing keeping him afloat was the love of his children. He had promised Anne that he would care for Georgiana just as they had cared for Fitzwilliam. And, although he no longer had her assistance, he kept his promise.
A twelve-year-old Fitzwilliam Darcy awoke his sister's cries in the nursery. He hated hearing her cry. He hated that she didn't have a mother. He hated that he no longer had a mother. Fighting back tears, he got out of bed and crept to her room. His father was already there, of course, attempting to rock the poor child back to sleep.
"Is she well?" Fitzwilliam whispered, walking to the sad pair.
George sent his son a small smile. "Yes, my boy. She just needed changing."
The younger Darcy watched as his sister's eyes began to close, then shifted his gaze to his father. He looked so tired. Almost...broken.
"I miss her," Fitzwilliam muttered, the comment almost inaudible.
"As do I," George responded, countenance full of melancholy.
"I...Can I ask you something?"
"Of course. Always."
Fitzwilliam hesitated, unsure if his question, which had been eating at him for months, would cause his father more pain. Steeling himself, he asked, "Would you have married Mama had you known this was going to happen?"
His father's answer was instantaneous. "Yes." Seeing the boy's questioning gaze, George Darcy swallowed the lump in his throat. "I would have married your mother had I known I would only get one day with her. You will see, someday, what I mean...there is pain, but the love makes it worth it, makes it...bearable."
That was the most painful memory for the now twenty-eight-year-old Fitzwilliam Darcy to ruminate on. While they all felt like a punch to the gut, as he knew he would never experience the happiness his parents had, that memory, in particular, was a knife to the chest. His father had been able to temper his sorrow with the reminder of his wife's love. Fitzwilliam didn't have that luxury. The woman he had lost his heart to had never even loved him.
A soft cry from the foot of the bed brought Darcy back to the present. His dog, Aldebaran (Baran, for short), was watching him intently. The canine could sense his Master's grief and could do naught but mourn with him, though he knew not for what. Darcy reached out to his dear dog, scratching him behind the ear. He wished he could explain his despondency to Baran - tell him that there was nothing he could do.
He watched as Baran stretched out on the bed - a bed which was far too large for just one man and his dog. How many times had he dreamt of Elizabeth laying there with him? He seemed to imagine her everywhere in Pemberley - its halls were haunted by the memory of a woman who had never even stepped foot in them. The library, he knew, would be her favorite room. There were more books in there than any person could read in one lifetime, though he was certain that wouldn't stop her from trying. She would have every curtain in the room open, and they would sit together on the sofa by the fireplace, either reading separately in companionable silence, simply happy to be in each other's company, or taking turns reading to one another.
Musings such as these were becoming quite the recurrence - every time Darcy entered a room, he imagined what Elizabeth would do and where she would go. What would she like best about the room? Where would she like to sit? Would she tease him about any of the decor? These thoughts would plague him until he was once again struck by the reality that Elizabeth would never actually set foot in the room - she had no desire to be his wife...she did not want to live with him. With that reminder, he would close the door and pray that he would awaken the next day with a less active imagination.
As Darcy touched the cold floor beside his bed, his mind drifted to what he knew his favorite room would be - and his feet carried him there. Darcy, tailed by his companion, slowly made his way into the nursery, every movement bordering on painful - he had never before fully appreciated the extent to which emotional pain could manifest itself physically.
His father had never reverted the nursery back into the Mistress' chambers, stating that there was no Mistress and, therefore, no reason to do so. Fitzwilliam had considered having it turned back when he learned of Elizabeth's presence at Rosings, but he stopped himself, hoping that she would be happy to share his chambers, just as his mother and father had. What a fool he was!
Darcy was ashamed to think of how far he had planned their lives - he had thought of everything, down to the smallest detail. And all before even asking for her hand! Even just looking at the nursery now served to torment him, for it had been so frequent a topic of his reveries.
In truth, he wanted children.
Darcy had always loved children. He found them easier to converse with than adults, as he did not have to methodically choose every word he spoke - children did not read into everything, and they always spoke their minds, even at the worst of times. If only adults were half so honest as children! Darcy had, for the past few years, contented himself with being the much-beloved 'Uncle Fitz' to his young cousins.
Lawrence and Elinor Fitzwilliam, the Viscount and Viscountess of Ashbourne, had been blessed with two children - five-year-old Vincent and four-year-old Juliana. Both children absolutely adored Darcy, and he loved them dearly. Although he knew he would eventually want children of his own, Darcy had been perfectly satisfied with his role of doting 'Uncle.'
That is until he met Elizabeth.
The thought of their children had haunted his dreams long before he even proposed to her. Much like his father, he didn't care how many children they had - he just wanted a physical manifestation of their love - a boy or a girl. He wanted a mischievous, loving little child who would brighten his life, just as his parents had always described. Darcy imagined that Elizabeth would be an excellent mother. They would make the perfect team. Partners in everything, just like his parents.
He often pictured himself returning to Pemberley after a business trip. His family would meet him at the gate, unwilling to wait until he entered the house. His child would dart into his awaiting arms, and he would toss them into the air, just as his father had done to him and Georgiana when they were young. His wife - his beautiful Elizabeth - would laugh joyfully at the sight and throw herself into his embrace, kissing him in greeting. She would tell him that she missed him and scold him for being gone too long. He would swear to take her and their child with him next time, as it pained him to be away. She would, in return, reward him with another kiss and the promise of even more come nightfall. Oh, how sweet such a vision was!
But it would never be. His abominable pride had ruined his every chance of experiencing such happiness.
Darcy's mind travelled to his memories once again. How disappointed his parents would be with him! They had treated everyone they met with kindness and respect, while Darcy had disdained everyone in Hertfordshire before he even met them. His father had recognized his mother as an equal, while Darcy had called Elizabeth inferior in his proposal. Elizabeth was just as intelligent as his mother, and yet Darcy had the audacity to believe that she would not make a wonderful Mistress of Pemberley. George Darcy had loved his wife and children unreservedly. Meanwhile, not only was Elizabeth unaware of Darcy's deep regard for her, but she had thought he disliked her! What did that say about him? His parents, while proud of the Darcy name, actively fought against every sentiment Darcy had expressed in his ill-fated proposal. How had he strayed so far from the path they put him on? When had he become his Aunt Catherine?
That thought alone tore what little remained of Darcy's heart to pieces. His parents would have loved Elizabeth. They would have loved to see him happy. His mind was made up - if he could not marry Elizabeth, he would not marry at all. The thought of never having what his parents had...it crushed him. But he knew that Elizabeth was the only one who could give it to him. Perhaps one of Georgiana's future children could be convinced to take up the Darcy name. If not, he would simply have to follow his father's advice. If God intended for the Darcy name to end with him, so be it.
A small whine broke from Baran as his ears perked up, and Darcy took it as a sign that the house was beginning to stir. He had to make himself presentable. Georgiana, being concerned for her brother's deteriorating health, had invited the entire Fitzwilliam clan to stay at Pemberley indefinitely. While Darcy loved them dearly and knew they were only trying to help, their presence did nothing but remind him of what he had lost. His Uncle Andrew and Aunt Penny were almost as happily married as his parents had been. His cousin Lawerance and Elinor shared a similar union, and they were blessed with their two young children. The only person not happily married amongst the group was Richard.
Nevertheless, Darcy knew he could not avoid them. They were there to help. They were family.
The only family he would ever have.
*Hot Chocolate - Hot chocolate was simply referred to as "chocolate" in the Regency Era, as candy chocolate was not yet a thing. So, every time a character says "chocolate," they mean hot chocolate. I will include a little note every time it's mentioned to help people remember.
