FYI, I am not abandoning either of my other stories, but I decided to work a little more on this one. I hope you like it. I have been working on this story, in various forms, for a long time. The story might be slightly depressing or triggering for those who have lost family members though. Updated to fix a few things and typos.

Prologue

Autumn 1795

"I am afraid that I can only tell you it is a wasting disease," said the physician, Mr. Fenwick.

"Was it caused by the birth?" asked Mr. Darcy. "Will our daughter become ill as well?"

"Most likely it was not caused by the birth. If either of the children becomes ill, it will be because the disease is sometimes hereditary, not due to contagion."

"And you say there is no way to know if the pain will continue or even how long I will live? How is that possible? Is there no tonic or anything you can give?" asked Lady Anne.

"I can give you tonics to reduce the pain, certainly," said Mr. Fenwick. "But it will never fully go away. Unfortunately, when I have seen people in your state of wasting, there is no way to know how long you may have. I estimate somewhere between 6 months and a year."

"Six months!" Mr. Darcy cried out. He looked at his dear wife and closed his eyes to keep the tears welling up in his eyes from falling.

He did not know how he would do this alone. Already it was difficult. William never stopped questioning his mother about her illness. At twelve years old, their son was mature enough to comprehend that his mother was sick, but he did not completely grasp the implications of her sickness. When Anne was so exhausted that her head was constantly resting on a cold compress, and her face hurt to the point she could hardly speak, he thought that his mother was avoiding spending time with him. He could not comprehend that she had no strength to spare. The worst illness Will had ever had was a putrid fever left him feeling feverish and nauseous for a month. While that was terrible, most of their family was extremely healthy and thus he did not grasp that a disease could last for years.

His mother's illness had begun during her confinement, or at least that is when Anne first noticed more than occasional mild pains and that she caught illnesses more easily than other people. Will, thus, seemed to associate the disease with the arrival of little Georgiana, exacerbating his sense of abandonment. He had spoken with frustration just the day before, saying he wished his sister didn't exist and he could be an only child. Yet, he knew Will loved his sister. Mr. Darcy would often see him tenderly cradling his sister in the nursery and telling her stories while the nurse watched over them. Mr. Darcy was still worried about how his son would cope with the loss of his mother and if he would then turn his frustrations and anger onto his infant sister.

The housekeeper was instructed by Mr. Fenwick as to the preparation and dosage of the remedies for pain and the Darcys paid the fee for the visit before he departed. Mr. Darcy stood motionless, his eyes fixed on his wife in her bed, her eyes closed from the exhaustion of speaking to the doctor. She used to look like a picture of tranquillity when she slept, but now her forehead was constantly creased with stress and pain.

"Father?" came William's voice.

"Yes, William, pray, let us go into my chambers so we do not wake your mother," Mr. Darcy replied in a whisper.

His son quietly nodded and walked silently behind him. After the two had entered, he softly closed the door behind them.

"What is it, William?" asked Mr. Darcy.

"Is mother dying?" With a mix of innocence and sadness, William looked up at him, hoping that his father would say that the physician had left a cure behind and his mother would soon be well.

"Fitzwilliam," said Mr. Darcy, sighing and sitting down heavily on his bed. He motioned for his son to come to him and gave him a tender hug.

"Father, is she dying?" William repeated.

"I fear that she may be, if Mr. Fenwick is correct. She is afflicted by a wasting disease, and her body is gradually deteriorating. The physician says she may have less than a year left," said Mr. Darcy. He did not wish to hide the truth from his son. He wanted the boy to recognise that his mother would not recover, so he could appreciate the time they had left together.

"Mother is young, though," said William, confused. "Aunt Catherine told me mother is only six and thirty."

"We have been very fortunate in our family, Will," said his father. "The only family members you have lost are your grandparents. Young people do sometimes die, though, Will. People can become ill and die at any age. It is the way of the world."

"But that doesn't make sense. I know George's baby sister died when she got sick, but babies are weak. Mother is a grown lady."

"She is a grown lady, but they can die, too. If you asked your friends and acquaintances at school, I would bet that many of them have lost parents, aunts, uncles, and even friends and siblings their own age. People die when it is their time."

"That's not fair." William was fighting hard to hold back the tears, but he couldn't help but let them fall.

"I know, my dear son. I know," said Mr. Darcy. Honestly, he felt the same, but he needed to remain strong and comfort his son.

"Cat," said Lady Anne with a weak smile. "Thank you for visiting."

"Of course, sister," said Lady Catherine, sitting in the chair near Anne's bedside.

"I expect George told you about my condition," said Anne.

"He did, and I must say, you should come to Rosings and see my physicians. I am quite certain they would do better than whatever country doctor failed to cure you here. Why, I am the picture of health due to their care."

"I cannot travel," said Anne. "I am too weak."

"Well, perhaps," said Catherine with a sniff, "but I shall write to Mr. Edwin of your condition. I am quite certain he shall travel here if I request it."

"That really is unnecessary, Cat. I have seen five different doctors now and they all say the same things. I am simply dying."

"We shall see about that!" said her sister.

Anne gave a weak smile. Catherine spoke in the same tone that she did when she was commanding her maids to re-polish the silver because it wasn't up to her specifications. If anyone could command a doctor to produce a cure and have him obey, it would be Catherine.

"Catherine," said Anne, weakly. She was tiring quickly and could not keep her eyes open much longer. "Thank you for coming. I need to rest, but I must ask if your brought my niece with you. I wish to see her too, although perhaps later."

"Of course I did!" exclaimed Lady Catherine. "She must see you and, of course, she and Fitzwilliam must come to know each other well if they are to be betrothed to each other."

"Catherine," said Anne, with a sigh, but her sister paid no attention and continued to speak. She was not convinced that a betrothal between their children was a good idea. Since she first became ill, she had been reading many medical texts, and the consensus was that cousins marrying each other put their children at a higher risk of illness. Even more important, though, she wished with all her heart for Fitzwilliam to find someone who would love him. Every time she tried to raise an objection, Catherine quickly dismissed her, passionately detailing the potential of combining the two great families and estates. She didn't have the energy to put up a fight, so she just sat there and listened to Catherine's loud proclamations.

"Well, Mr. Edwin says he cannot come. His own wife is ill, and he says he cannot leave her! Can you believe he would deny my request so blatantly?" asked Lady Catherine.

"You are quite certain that Mr. Edwin would have other treatments for Anne that might help her improve?" asked Mr. Darcy.

At this point, he was desperate. The journey might tire Anne further, but for the last several days, she had seemed a little better. She had come downstairs for meals, and even walked in the garden. Perhaps they ought to go to Rosings. Even if this Mr. Edwin was the quack that Mr. Darcy assumed he was, the proximity to London would allow easier access to much finer physicians.

Lady Catherine spoke for several minutes about her physician's many merits while Mr. Darcy considered what ought to be done. Either way, Anne was going to die within the year if they did nothing. Going to Rosings might shorten her time further, but if there was, in fact, a cure, he would never forgive himself if they did not go.

"Very well, Catherine," said Mr. Darcy. "We will go to Rosings. We must travel very slowly though and rest frequently. I will not have Anne stressed by the journey."

"Finally, you see sense!" exclaimed Lady Catherine before continuing her speech as if he had not already agreed.

For once in her life, it seemed that Lady Catherine's advice had been accurate. Since arriving at Rosings and beginning treatment with Mr. Edwin, Anne had greatly improved. She was awake for most of the day, tending to her correspondence without having to dictate her thoughts to a maid, walking in the gardens, and even went shopping in Hunsford the previous day. She played with the children and played the pianoforte.

She still was far too thin and pale, and her pained expression did not leave her, but she was improving. Perhaps all was not lost. What he would not give if Anne could be cured! He would give Mr. Edwin Pemberley, if that was what it took.

Anne looked over at him and smiled, and he returned her happy expression. She was sitting on a settee with William, helping him sound out words in Italian. She always insisted that her children, no matter their sex, would have the same level of education. Thus, William learned both the modern languages and the ancient, embroidery and fencing, how to plan a menu and how to shoot.

How he would continue Will's education if she died, he did not know. Sure, he could send Will to school as they always had, but that would only teach him the skills normally taught to boys. Would a governess even be willing to teach a son to paint and embroider? He supposed they would if they were paid enough, which was not much of a trouble considering the extent of the Darcy fortune.

He continued to watch his wife and son until the nurse brought down little Georgiana and his attention was turned to her.

The improvement in Lady Anne's health did not last. Several weeks later, she was again bedridden. Despite Mr. Edwin's best efforts, along with the efforts of a half dozen other doctors brought from town, she continued to decline. This time was more painful because they had been given a glimmer of hope, only to have it taken away.

Lady Catherine and Mr. Darcy took turns sitting with her during the day, only leaving her at night in the care of maids and nurses. Anne was quite certain she did not have even the six months that Mr. Fenwick originally had said. She was content with this, though, for God had given her a few weeks of happiness. She had spent time with her children and the rest of her family, hopefully giving William a few more pleasant memories. She fervently wished those were the days he would recall, not seeing her die slowly, wasting away in her bed.

Even so, she was heartbroken that she would never find out what kind of people her children would become. She had so much yet to tell Fitzwilliam in particular, much of which he was too young to understand. She had complete faith in George and Catherine's ability to love and look after her children, but she was their mother. She could never forget the grief she felt when she lost her own mother. Yet, when her mother died, she was already thirty, not twelve. She could not imagine how she might have felt if she had been so young.

"Catherine," Anne said, her voice a whisper. "I need to write some letters to my children."

"Why? I can send a maid to fetch them," said her sister.

"Not to them now. I need to write to them to read them as they get older."

"Well, I cannot write for you. You know how my hand cramps terribly when I write."

"Send for Alice, then," Anne requested.

Lady Catherine accepted and asked for Alice, Anne's maid, to come to her. Lady Catherine departed to take tea, leaving them to work on the letters by themselves. Whenever Anne felt strong enough in the weeks after, she would have Alice brought to her so she could write to her children.

"I hope you told Fitzwilliam that he ought to marry Anne in those letters. Really, we should finalise the betrothal now, as you know, I shall have a harder time convincing George it is your wish after you are gone."

"I want my son to marry for love, and that is what I have told him," said Anne.

Lady Catherine huffed in displeasure, her face contorting in a grimace, but she held back her usual storm of rants. She transitioned the subject of discussion to the wonderful weather they were having instead. Anne supposed that her sister would not quibble with a woman near death about her final wishes. That much, at least, could be said for her sister.

"I hope you are putting the letters somewhere safe, so Fitzwilliam and Georgiana will receive them," said Lady Catherine, returning after Anne had finished a letter writing session with her maid.

"I am. They are all in the drawer of the writing desk," said Anne, referring to the desk in the corner of her room. "Please give them to my husband so he can pass them on to William and Georgie? I have had Alice write on them the occasions on which I hope for Georgie and will to receive each of the letters."

Lady Catherine went to the desk and located the stack of letters. There were a great many. On each, as Anne had said, were different occasions such as upon her passing, after her funeral, each birthday up to age five and twenty, and upon becoming engaged and getting married. Several others were labelled with "A bad day", "When you are ill", or "When you make a bad decision."

"Ensure they receive them," said Anne as she closed her eyes.

Lady Catherine slipped the stack of letters into her pocket and called for Anne's maid to sit with her. She returned with the letters to her own room and began to inspect them, daring to read the confidential letters from mother to son. She cared little what Anne had written to her infant daughter, as who that child wed was of less concern. As the wax was the same as Lady Catherine used, she would simply reseal them later. Anne had not used a seal with the Darcy crest, so it would be simple to do.

As she read, though, she became angry. Several times in the letters, Anne told her son specifically not to listen to his aunt, that he need not marry his cousin Anne — even that it would be preferable if he did not — and that he should marry for love, regardless of the station of the lady in question. Lady Catherine was appalled! The disease had obviously affected her sister's brain. She had to dispose of these letters. She could not do it yet, though, as Anne might ask to see them or change something within them. If George asked for them, she would say she simply forgot to give them to him, or a maid destroyed them on accident. After Anne passed, Lady Catherine would burn them.

Raging, Lady Catherine resealed the envelopes. She did not know how she would speak calmly to her sister the next time they were together. To tell her son to marry without regard to station! How could she! It was bad enough that she would not tell Fitzwilliam to marry Anne, but Lady Catherine would not see her nephew married to some poor country chit or tradesman's daughter. He would marry a lady of good family, preferably of noble birth, if he did not marry Anne.

It turned out that Lady Catherine did not have to worry about how she would speak to her sister, for Lady Anne Darcy never awoke. She fell into a sleep that day, and after a week of rest, she died peacefully.

In all of the commotion of the funeral, condolence visits, and the departure of the remaining Darcys, Lady Catherine forgot about the letters which she had tucked away in her wardrobe. Several months later, her maid came upon them, and asked her mistress what ought to be done with them, as several of the letters ought to have already been given to young Master Fitzwilliam.

"Burn them," said Lady Catherine.

The maid's eyes widened, but she had no idea what to do. It was quite obvious that the letters were in Lady Anne's hand and addressed to Master Fitzwilliam and Miss Darcy. She hated to think of the children not having the letters meant for them by their dear departed mother. Yet, she had no way of sending the letters without her ladyship knowing, as her ladyship did not allow them to go into town very often and she looked at all outgoing post. She resolved that she would hide the letters and give them to Mr. Darcy on his next visit. The maid hid the letters under a loose floorboard in a guest chamber, assuming that they would be safe there, at least until the Darcys next came to visit.

The maid was unable to accomplish her plan due to being expelled from Rosings less than a week later for a minor transgression. She told one of the stable boys as she departed where the letters were and their purpose, but the boy was too scared of Lady Catherine to enter the manor. Consequently, the letters were soon forgotten and stayed there in the guest chamber's floor.