A/N: There are some situations in your life when it will not be appropriate to speak. There is too much sadness in the air. After completing this chapter, I am feeling this way. So, I'll just say...read on.

The End - Part Three

On the morning of her death, Elizabeth got up and dressed as usual. She followed routine for the first part of the morning.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened until she set off for her walk. There was no need to worry, today, about being in the sun too long or returning in time for lunch, so she was very leisurely in her excursion.

As she walked, she dwelt upon the one recent memory of her husband that didn't bring her pain, but rather hope and impatience…

It was the middle of the night, but Lord and Lady Darcy were not, as was to be expected, sleeping.

They had been engaged in other activities for quite a while, and now lay quite still and content, looking at each other.

"Fitzwilliam," Elizabeth said softly.

"Yes, Goddess Divine(1)?" he playfully responded, referring to a source of amusement almost as old as their love.

Elizabeth smiled openly for a moment, but did not continue her thought. After a ridiculously long while, her husband turned to her.

"You were saying?" he prompted.

"Yes, I was saying," she muttered, but her thoughts were elsewhere. He did not disturb her reverie, rather waited patiently.

"Do you ever think about death?" she finally asked.

There was another silence.

"I do," he finally admitted. "At our age, I think it is unavoidable to dwell upon it, sometimes."

"Yes. Do you think…well. How long do you suppose…?"

"How long do I think we have left?"

"Yes."

"I don't know, Lizzy. I wouldn't be surprised if you lasted another fifty years," he said with a smile.

But then he was very serious, his face grave. "But I would be happy to live to see Clara married, Elizabeth. I cannot be sure, of course, but I give myself two years, at best."

Tears welled up in Elizabeth's eyes. "Oh, how I hope I am to die before you."

Fitzwilliam's expression changed. "Do not say that! Elizabeth, you have far more life left in you than I do. I want you to stay here, where you belong, to be happy and look after our children when I am gone!"

The tear fell down Elizabeth's cheek. Fitzwilliam rubbed it away with his thumb. "I will try, Fitzwilliam. I promise I will try. But I don't expect to be long for this world once you are gone. I simply cannot imagine…"

"Oh, Elizabeth. I am sure you would cope with my absence better than I would with yours. I would follow you with in the week, I am sure."

"You wouldn't kill—!!"

"No, surely not! But I can't truthfully say that I would not be tempted. No, I simply cannot see myself living long past you, Elizabeth."

It was silent again for a time. Elizabeth was the one to break it.

"It is a silly question," she said. "But do you really believe, in total honesty, that we shall see each other again in death?"

He looked straight into her eyes.

"I do," he said. "I do believe it, but not by choice."

Silence.

"Elizabeth, I would not be able to get out of bed each morning if I feared that today was the last day that I would ever, ever see you. I must believe that we will find each other."

Elizabeth's eyes closed for a long time, and her husband believed her to be asleep.

But it appeared she was only very deeply in thought, for after a time she whispered with finality, as if making a decision:

"I believe that, too."

Elizabeth felt a pain in her chest. She couldn't determine if it was a physical or mental pain, but it was terribly sharp. And growing...

She fell to her knees, positively shaking with sobs. She could grieve today, yes? It was not Sunday, but it was her last day.

Oh, well. There was no point in trying to stop herself now. She turned her face to the sky, letting the raindrops mix with her tears. That pain in her chest...

And Elizabeth knew that she would be seeing him again soon.

Lady Elizabeth Darcy passed away in the late afternoon on the day before November's end. She died as she was walking through the grounds of Pemberley in the pouring rain.

She had departed in the late morning and not returned. She had walked and walked, feeling her fatigue but not feeling any desire at all to stop.

But she had stayed close to her home, because she felt safest there. She didn't want to wander away from the place where she had been so happy for so many years.

The servants began the search for her at nightfall.

As they set out, Oscar Reynolds was painfully reminded of a time when the Mistress hadn't returned from one of her walks many years ago.

But then, only an hour had passed since her expected time of arrival before Lord Darcy was on his horse, his countenance drawn with worry and an army of servants behind him, all of the staff but one that was to stay and care for Edward and Lillian.

This time they waited longer for her return, and it was with far greater sadness than worry that the search party set off. They all expected the worst.

Mr. Reynolds was the one to find her, spread across the ground in the East Gardens, light from the library window illuminating one side of her body.

He was no stranger to death and had waited for the Lady to pass for quite some time, so seeing her lifeless body didn't rattle him so terribly. He simply scooped her up into his arms and carried her back to the house, calling out on his way that she had been found so that the rest of them would return.

Anne sat in a dark carriage, watching her childhood home slowly come into view.

It was odd—for the entire ride, she had been watching the sun set, and yet the darkness had taken her by surprise.

Perhaps that was her problem. She didn't see the consequences of actions; she had a very poor sense of cause and effect. The fact that the sun was setting didn't necessarily, in her mind, lead to darkness.

The fact that she was moving across a continent didn't necessarily lead to never seeing her family.

The fact that she was leaving her husband didn't necessarily lead to loneliness.

The fact that a child was leaning over the railing on a boat…

She was a stupid woman.

On the outside, she was hard, closed-off, all sensibility and sharp edges. If one ventured more deeply inside of her, though, they saw that she was actually very shaky, unsure of herself, and affected by the world. Her hardness covered her softness.

Her mother was quite the opposite.

On the outside she was soft and open, all lightness and kindness. Deeper, though, she was hard, completely sure of herself and very smart, grounded and untroubled. Her softness complimented her inner surety.

Anne was not a crier, which she found herself very grateful for in this past year. Instead, her eyes would sting and shine with tears that never fell.

They were stinging now.

Anne needed her mother. She needed her more than anything else in the entire world, needed to open up and tell her the story.

She hadn't told her brother in the carriage ride as she had promised (knowing full well that she would not follow through), on the pretense of not wanting her young son Theodore, who was not eight years old, to hear.

This was true—she wouldn't subject him to a retelling of their sad tale again.

But really, she was just trying to keep it all inside as usual. The only person who could ever make her release was her mother, and the fact that Anne was coming up her drive now was the only thing holding her together. Otherwise, she very well might explode.

It had been only six months ago that Horace's drinking and gambling had gotten to the point where he was no longer himself. Only four months ago that she had sold one of her landscape paintings to the President of the United States and two more to Massachusetts senators, earning enough for passage for three across the Atlantic and keeping this fact from her husband. Only three months ago that she had thrown the convoluted and nonsensical letter to her mother explaining her decision to leave Horace into the fire and resolved to arrange to see her in person. Only two months ago(2) that she had set off from the shores of the United States, her husband unawares. Only one month ago that she had seen Imogene, her innocent daughter of ten, leaning just a bit too far over the railing on the boat…

Stop, Anne told herself. She wouldn't – couldn't – think of it.

The carriage was slowing down, now, and Anne's heart beat quickly in her chest. She sat up straighter in her seat. Edward gave her a small smile as the carriage rolled to a stop.

Anne, despite the tendency towards propriety that she had inherited from her father, did not wait for her door to be opened for her and positively leapt from the carriage. She smiled a little as she thought that this was something her mother might do, in particular company.

Edward was helping Theodore, but Anne hardly noticed. She walked as quickly as she could up to the steps and rang the bell. A servant's tear-streaked face opened the door.

"Oh, Miss!" the servant said, her red eyes widening. It was Etta, a stern middle-aged woman who had taken care of Anne in her early adolescent years.

"Etta!" Anne said, a smile upon her face that was quickly dampened by Etta's expression. "Whatever is amiss? You look so distressed!"

Etta pursed her lips and several tears ran down her face. By this time, Edward and Theodore had accompanied Anne at the door.

"No!" Edward yelled, suddenly panicked as he saw the servant's face. "Please, tell me. Please tell me no!" he exclaimed, looking more out-of-control than Anne had ever seen him.

Etta simply let out a sob, nodded her head, and moved out of the way.

In the entryway, not twenty feet from the door, a group of servants gathered around Oscar Reynolds, who was holding the body of Anne's mother.

And that was when Anne realized.

An old woman living alone with a broken heart leads to death.

She should have known.

Anne let out a cry of despair and positively shoved servants out of the way to get closer to her mother.

Oscar laid the body on the floor at his feet. Anne kneeled down and embraced her.

Anne had needed the warmth of her mother's embrace.

All that she got was unresponsive cold.

Tears fell in streams down Anne's face. She shook with sobs, flinched when she felt Edward's cold hand on her shoulder and turned away when she heard her son's worried, questioning voice.

"Mum?" he said.

Anne grasped her mother's cold, stiff hand as if she could force life back into it.

"Mum!" she cried in despair, echoing her son with none of his questioning innocence. She wasn't innocent. She wasn't young. And she wouldn't question her mother, for her mother would not respond to her.

Never in her life had she felt more alone.

Dearest Lillian, Henry, and Clara,

I write the same letter to each of you, for I fear I have not the emotional strength to make this sad announcement in three different ways. I hope you forgive me my weakness.

I am writing to tell you of the passing of our dearest mother. On the thirtieth of November, she set off on one of her walks and did not return. Mr. Reynolds was the one to find her, which brought me some comfort.

I arrived at Pemberley just as Mr. Reynolds was carrying her body inside. I won't be returning to my former home. Rosemary will stay and help to pack up our things and will come with the children as soon as possible. She will arrive in time to attend the memorial service exactly one week from today, on the 6th.

I hope to see you all at our home as rapidly as can be desired. Myself and our sister Anne will attend to you.

Yes, dearest brother and sisters, your eyes do not deceive you. Anne, also, will be at Pemberley with little Theodore to greet you. She has, I fear, a very sad story to tell, but wishes to do this in person.

Make haste, my family. I wish so much that we may come together and help each other in our mourning as quickly as possible. Anne and I are greatly anticipating you arrival. I look forward to seeing you all.

With Love and Sadness,

Edward Darcy

P.S. Lily, Clara will be staying with me at Pemberley. If you wish to debate this, we may peacefully do so in person. However, I ask you, Clara, to journey with all of your possessions in tow.

The writing was almost incomprehensible; it was clear that the author's hand had been shaking horribly as he wrote it.

1. P&P'05, US version reference here, if you did not catch it.

2. I'm not sure about the times. I tried to do a little research, but I was short on time and had to get this chapter posted. I hope that it doesn't hinder your enjoyment of the story.