Hello again, my dears - I'm back with another chapter already! Thank you all so very much for following me over here. I had originally wanted to keep the same story thread for volume two that I had used for volume one, and had deleted the author's note and interlude after posting chapter one of part two. I'd also edited the title to include the words "Volume Two." But I received more than one message from a loyal reader telling me they couldn't comment or find the story, so I tried creating a new story with the same title. That still didn't work. So, I had to delete that (losing all your wonderful comments, except for those I included in the published version) and create a whole new story thread with a slightly different title. Hopefully everyone who enjoyed volume one also clicked on Follow Author and will easily find us here to follow along again as Darcy and I help Elizabeth to heal her broken heart.

I know, of course, that two eight-year-old children would not be running a house the size I imagine Stashwick Castle to be on their own - Elizabeth was exaggerating under the duress of her emotions. But as that was apparently not clear, I have made a little edit of the chapter showing that Mary recognized she was exaggerating. Thank you to those that commented on that part for bringing that to my attention!

Oh, and one more thing... Adelaide's words to Elizabeth were paraphrased from a beautiful quote I saw in a Facebook group not long ago. I put an asterisk at the end of the quote and meant to put it in a note at the bottom of the chapter but forgot to. So, here it is for you:

"Grief, I've learned, is really just love. It's all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go." Jamie Anderson

Possible trigger warning concerning a pregnant woman falling, causing her to go into labor early.

Chapter Two

Pemberley

6 March 1822

"Papa! You just in time!"

Fitzwilliam Darcy grinned as he stepped into his daughter's bedchamber. Clara, who was two months shy of turning six, turned and faced the mirror over her small dressing table, sitting primly with her hands in her lap—but with a wide smile on her cherubic face.

"You are just in time," Darcy corrected her gently as Mrs. Annesley slipped off the stool behind Clara's chair. He took her place in silence, then took from her the brush she handed him. It had become a ritual of theirs since Clara was old enough to be "dressed up," as the little girl had once put it, for him to come into her room and brush and braid her hair for the day.

Most fathers of the ton would turn up their noses and laugh if they knew how much he doted on his daughter. Those were the men who left the raising of their children to nursemaids, as they were of the mind that children should be seen and not heard. Darcy, like his honored parents before him, was of a much different opinion—that children should be loved and nurtured by those who had created them. Besides, he was the only parent Clara had. Her poor mother had died in the process of bringing her into the world.

As he sat there tending his daughter's waist-length hair, his thoughts turned—as they sometimes did when he was at the task—to the late Mrs. Darcy and their too-short marriage. At the age of thirty, he had finally caved to the pressure of his aunt and uncle—the Earl and Countess of Disley—to find himself a wife and provide Pemberley with an heir. His sister, who was a dozen years his junior, was now very well settled; therefore, he had no excuse for putting off his duty any longer.

He could hardly reveal the reason why he had held off so long—Georgiana was only half the cause of the delay in doing what he must—so he had relented and conceded to spending the remainder of the 1815 Season searching for a wife. Not that he would advertise his intention to settle down—heavens above, how inundated with attention he would have been! No, Darcy sifted through the requests to attend dinner parties, card parties, and balls with the intention of only accepting those at which a potential mate could be found.

Any young woman for whom he could feel at least some level of genuine affection would do, though he privately felt guilty for not being able to give all of himself to the woman he would give his name to. He wished he could, but try as he might, he had been unable to cast the first—and only—woman he had ever loved from his mind … or his heart. So, a union of mutual admiration and respect would have to do when a love match was impossible—because the woman he loved was married to someone else. Darcy believed that if the lady he chose was reasonably intelligent, educated in the management of a large household, and attractive enough to make the act necessary for siring an heir pleasant, he should do very well.

After all, happiness in marriage was entirely a matter of chance. Many a successful union had been built on less than he was able to give.

It was at the engagement ball of his sister, Georgiana, and her now-husband Arthur that Darcy became reacquainted with an old schoolfellow whose family had relocated to their sugar plantation in Jamaica shortly after his graduation from Cambridge. Albert Hanning, his sister Marian, and their mother had returned to England after the death of Mr. Hanning as the lady had "never cared for the heat in Jamaica."

Mrs. Hanning proved to be an old friend of Arthur Beckwith's mother, who had insisted that both of her children attend the party with her. Darcy was glad for it—Marian Hanning was a very pretty young woman of two-and-twenty years with a statuesque figure, auburn hair, and green eyes. She was also rather tan, like her mother and brother, but that was not unusual for a person of fair skin who lived in such a climate as Jamaica endured. As she was appealing to the eye, Darcy naturally asked her for a dance, and though thankfully not a chatterbox, they had pleasant enough conversation during their set. She was glad her brother had acceded to her mother's demand to return to England, as it had long bothered her that her family's wealth had been earned through the labor of enslaved human beings.

"A friend to abolition, are you, Miss Hanning?" he'd asked her, as he was no supporter of the slave trade himself.

"Indeed, I am, Mr. Darcy," she'd replied. "Truly, I look forward to the day when the whole practice is done away with. It's my secret hope that I can convince Albert to sell the plantation."

"That won't solve the problem of slavery," said Darcy.

"Perhaps not, but at least my family won't have anything more to do with it."

"Why not take an even bolder step—suggest to your brother that he free his slaves," said Darcy. "He could then keep the plantation and take them on as hired labor, or he could hire others willing to work his cane fields."

Miss Hanning had smiled and agreed that his idea was worth pursuing.

Thus began a two-month courtship. The gossip columns had commented on their relationship almost as much as they had that of the Marquess and Marchioness of Stashwick three years prior, saying that "It would seem only an exotic beauty from the Caribbean could ensnare the heart of the most sought-after bachelor in England these last ten years."

After their wedding at St. James Cathedral, Darcy and his bride had taken themselves away from the hustle and bustle of the city and began their lives together in Derbyshire. Marian was a model wife, mistress of his estate, and patroness to the villages within his purview—and following five months of pleasant and friendly cohabitation, they learned that she was with child. News of the impending arrival of a son or daughter had brought them closer together, and Darcy began to consider that there might just be a chance of his coming to love her after all.

A slip on the stairs brought the possibility to a sudden and traumatic halt one month before the baby was due. It took only a moment's inattention for Mrs. Darcy to lose her footing with a misstep only a few feet from the ground floor, which sent her tumbling those few feet to land on her stomach. She was in active labor by the time Darcy arrived after a frantic footman had fetched him from what was meant to be a day trip to Matlock on business. A squalling baby girl arrived several hours later and was rushed out of the birthing room into her father's arms by a maid as the midwife and apothecary attempted to stop the unending flow of blood that had accompanied the child.

A quarter of an hour later, the tearful midwife pronounced Marian Hanning Darcy dead.

Shaking himself mentally, Darcy returned his attention to his present occupation. Though it should have been her mother in his place, he could not deny the very great pleasure that the pair of fine eyes in the face of his precious daughter could bestow—she was almost the exact image of her mother, though her hair was darker than Marian's had been. Clara enjoyed this time with him every day, and he enjoyed spending it with her. Mrs. Annesley had thought it "incredibly charming" of him when he'd asked her to teach him to braid hair. He'd been looking for ways he could be a more active participant in Clara's upbringing, and she had been only too happy to guide him. The widowed matron, who had started her service to his family as a companion to his sister, had at the time of Clara's birth also been only too happy to take on the task of being caretaker to his motherless child.

"There now," said he with a smile at her in their reflection when he had tied a ribbon at the end of the braid. "All done. Shall I walk with you to the school room?"

"Oh yes, Papa," Clara replied before hopping down from her chair. Darcy stood and held out his hand to her, which—after grabbing her favorite doll from the bed—she took with a grin and a giggle.

Mrs. Annesley followed the pair to the school room, which was connected by a door to the vast Pemberley library. During the short walk, Darcy marveled privately over Clara's progress in her lessons. He was very proud of his daughter's few accomplishments, for she could already write, could do very basic addition and subtraction, and her reading was progressing remarkably well. She liked to color pictures and Mrs. Annesley was considering adding a musical instrument to her lesson plan. When they arrived, he gave his little girl a quick kiss to her crown and wished her a "good day of learning," before reminding her he would see her at luncheon and quitting the room.

After a scheduled meeting with his steward about fencing around the estate farm, Darcy headed out with a basket of provisions provided by his kitchen staff to see a family that had recently suffered a loss like his own—only in the Wiltons' case, both mother and child had died. It was tragic enough to lose a mother or a child in the birthing process, but to lose both was a notion he had no wish to contemplate. He might not have been in love with his own wife, but he had grown very fond of her, and losing Marian had affected him more deeply than he'd expected. He could not bear to even imagine his life now had Clara died with her.

Mr. Wilton's eldest child, a boy of sixteen years, greeted him at the door. His father was still abed, said he with an embarrassed flush, as he had often been since the loss, or surely he would have come to greet their landlord.

"Shall I go and tell him you are here, Mr. Darcy?" the boy asked as he passed the basket of baked goods, fruits, cheeses, and cold meats to his 12-year-old sister.

"No, Martin, do not disturb your father unnecessarily," Darcy replied. "But do tell him I called and give him my sincerest regards."

Martin nodded and thanked him again for the gift basket. Darcy told him not to hesitate to come to the manor house and let him know if the family needed anything before taking his leave.

He arrived home again just as his valet was returning from fetching the morning post. Darcy exchanged his outerwear for the small packet of letters, most of which he knew were business in nature just by the hand of the address. One was personal, and he sighed with resignation that he was sure to be vexed with her by the end of it as he sat behind the ornate desk in his study, leaning back in his chair as he broke the seal on Lady Catherine's letter.

Bolton Street, London

3 March 1822

Darcy,

I hope this letter finds you and my dear great-niece well. No doubt Miss Darcy continues to excel in her lessons, as I had from your last. But of course she will be highly accomplished—she is of Fitzwilliam blood. I look forward to hearing that she is soon to begin playing an instrument, for she will no doubt master the pianoforte or the harp as quickly as did Lady Winterbourne. Oh, if I had ever learnt, I would have been a great proficient and could have taught her myself.

Now, I have something far more serious to discuss with you, Darcy. It has been near six years since the death of your wife, and however much we all delight in your dear daughter, she needs a mother. A man cannot raise a girl child on his own—it is highly irregular! That Mrs. Annesley person has done well enough to look after her, but she's not a mother. Besides needing a mother for Miss Darcy, you need an heir, which means you need a wife. You are but seven-and-thirty years old, nephew, you've plenty of years left to sire as many sons as you could wish.

To that end, I have some advice for you. Come to town at once. The Marchioness of Stashwick will be out of mourning for Lord Stashwick in a few days—

Anger surged through Darcy in an instant, and he crumpled the letter without bothering to read the rest. The audacity of the woman! To suggest that he should take advantage of the fact that her husband was now dead a year…

No. He would not put himself in Elizabeth's way—she deserved to take as much time as she needed to overcome the loss of Lord Stashwick, and for one who loved as deeply as she did, he knew a year just wouldn't be enough. Besides, while he could wish Clara had a mother, and perhaps a sibling or two, he had no real need to marry again. Pemberley was not entailed, so already had an heir.

Disgusted by his aunt's suggestion, Darcy stood and walked over to the fireplace, where he promptly deposited the letter into the flames.

Unfortunately for Darcy, Lady Catherine was not the only person in his family with marriage on their mind. He received a letter from Lady Disley, his other living aunt, the following Friday with a similar declaration of his alleged "need" to find a mother for Clara and his future sons. Thankfully, the countess was not as thoughtless as her husband's sister—she did not suggest Lady Stashwick as a prospective bride.

Of course not, he mused as he folded her letter. After all, Lord Stashwick was her brother.

Aside from the marriage mart—in which he had no intention of participating—Darcy had to admit that it would be a good thing if he did go to London. For a few months, at least. After all, the Season had once or twice been the only time he got to see his sister these last eight years. Georgiana had become an active member of the fashionable set among the ton with the help and encouragement of her husband. Arthur Beckwith, the Earl of Winterbourne, was the divorced son-in-law of the now late Lord Stashwick, whose first wife had tried to poison the former Miss Bennet to keep her from marrying the marquess. His connection to Elizabeth, though tangential at best, was one reason Darcy had been hesitant to allow the young earl to pay his addresses to Georgiana. A marriage between them would mean his being forced to endure the presence of the happily married Lord and Lady Stashwick at family gatherings.

The other reason was the divorce. Though in complete agreement with the reasons for which Lord Winterbourne had sought to dissolve his marriage to Lord Stashwick's eldest daughter, the stigma of a divorce was something Darcy was for a time not certain he wished his sister to have to endure. However, as much as he might have wished it were not so, Georgiana was very much taken with Arthur Beckwith, and she had begged him to give their relationship his blessing. Eventually he had, with the caveat that Winterbourne wait until the next Season to marry her—if the younger man's feelings were as genuine as Georgiana's, a year should not be too difficult for either to endure.

Lord Winterbourne had met his challenge head-on and proved not only to have genuinely fallen in love with Georgiana, but instrumental in helping her to overcome the shyness that had plagued her since her youth. Although, like himself, she still did not care for being the center of attention, she no longer had difficulty socializing with family, friends, or mere acquaintances at balls and parties, and her drawing room at Beckwith House in Stretton Street was a popular place to be seen among the ladies of high society.

It would also be good for Clara to socialize more with her cousins. The Winterbournes had four children among them, the eldest girl the product of Arthur's first marriage; Georgiana had given him two sons and another daughter in the eight years since they had wed. Clara, as she had met them only a few times, delighted in playing with her cousins whenever they did manage to get together.

His sister had only once broached the subject of his marrying again, and Darcy made it clear in no uncertain terms that he had no interest in doing so.

"Pemberley has an heir," he'd told her. "I've done my duty."

"But what about the family name?" Georgiana had pressed. "You are the last son of the senior line of Darcys, brother. Our legacy will die with you if you do not marry again to try for a son or two."

It had hurt to hear that truth from her, but Darcy was determined to remain a widower. He had married and produced an heiress for his family's ancient estate, and following the death of his wife, he had decided that as he could not have a certain pertinent country miss from Hertfordshire, he would have no one. Perhaps it was foolish of him to continue to pine for a woman who could never be his, but he knew his life would not be entirely miserable, as he had the most charming daughter in all the world to focus his energies on. He did not often allow himself to think of Lady Stashwick, as to do so only served to remind him of the absurdity of longing for her.

That Elizabeth had a year ago joined him in widowhood made no difference. Darcy refused to count himself among the callous rakes and ne'er-do-wells who would no doubt pursue her relentlessly should she choose to re-enter society now that her year of mourning was done. They would none of them become the next Marquess of Stashwick—that title already belonged to Elizabeth's eldest son, a boy who was now nine years. But the Stashwick income of forty thousand per annum, the house in London, and that magnificent castle in Berkshire he had not visited since before his father's death would be the object of many, though he had little doubt that Elizabeth would turn them all out on their bums with a sound tongue-lashing for their efforts.

The thought of her castigating some fool who tried to woo her made Darcy smile. He could not help but think that it would be good to see her again, just to assure himself that she was coping well. He had always thought Elizabeth a strong-willed woman—too strong-willed, he had thought when first he knew her—and her spirit was one he had thought unbreakable. However, he knew that even the strongest had their breaking point. Having lost a spouse himself and having witnessed the pain endured by his father after the death of his mother, he could just imagine how deeply losing someone she had truly loved would wound her.

If he did go to London—if—it would not be in the hope of courting the Marchioness of Stashwick. He would go for the purpose of visiting with family and friends, and no other. Besides, there was no guarantee that Elizabeth would even be in London this Season. In her letter, Lady Disley had remarked that the marchioness had spent the entirety of the last year in Berkshire, though she'd also written, I'm going to encourage dear Lady Stashwick to join us here with her little ones, so that the family may bring her and her children some cheer.

Again, Darcy smiled. Elizabeth was perhaps the most stubborn woman he'd ever met. If she had no desire to travel, she wouldn't travel—and no amount of cajoling and pleading on the part of his aunt would sway her.

Still, said his mutinous heart, it would be nice to see her again…