Hello my dears! I am sorry that it took me so long to get this chapter to you - it's definitely a few days later than planned. I'm also sorry for the mix-up with the original story thread, which I had tried to keep but which prevented many of you from commenting on chapter one because of earlier chapters being deleted. So, here it is again, as a new story.

At last we begin the healing of heartbreak for our dear heroine.

Chapter One

Stashwick Castle

6 March 1822

Dear Elizabeth,

I once heard it said that the first year of marriage is the hardest. I think whoever it was that coined the phrase was wrong. Or they had not the heartbreaking misfortune to lose a beloved spouse.

No, the first year after losing someone you have loved with your whole heart, who not only raised you in consequence far beyond your dreams but gave you four beautiful children… That is the hardest year. And you have completed it, my dear Elizabeth—no, you have survived it. Many times did you despair of ever overcoming the crushing weight of your grief, but you have. For Isabella. For Harry. For Thomas. For Meg.

For yourself. For Henry.

Yes, even for Henry. He lost a spouse before he met you—he knew the pain you felt at his loss. He knew the pain you are feeling still. He overcame his grief, and so can you. Henry would not have wished you to wallow in misery. Your children need you as his elder children needed him. You recognized this early on and rallied your spirit. I know it was painful and difficult, but I am proud of you for bearing up and being strong for your babies. I am certain Henry is also very, very proud of his "pretty nurse."

Tomorrow will be the dreaded—and inevitable— 'year and a day'. It means you will no longer be officially in mourning. Unfortunately, it also means that you are an extraordinarily wealthy widow that the rest of the ton will be speculating about. Will you re-enter society? Will you consider a second marriage? The men—especially the scoundrels and those needing to settle debts—will be in pursuit of you the moment you show your face in London, I do not doubt of it.

My dear girl, do not allow them to distress you. Do not give way to any expectations that society may have—remember how silly you have always thought it that a widowed spouse is only allowed a year to grieve. You know that you are not ready to move on from Henry and have no ideas of matrimony at present. Make that clear, and with any luck, you will be left alone.

All my love to you.

E.B.F.

Looking up from the most recent entry in her journal, Elizabeth Bennet Faulkner, the Marchioness of Stashwick, gazed out of the window in front of her writing desk. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she whispered, "I miss you, Henry."

After wiping the tear away, Elizabeth's eyes fell on the leather-bound journal before her, and suddenly she found herself reflecting on her history with keeping one. Her father had given her the very first after a row with her mother in which Mrs. Bennet was greatly offended by an insult that 8-year-old Elizabeth had hurled in anger. The thick book of blank pages was not a reward for her bad behavior, said Mr. Bennet, but rather a tool for Elizabeth to utilize in expressing those thoughts and feelings which it was ill-advised for one to utter aloud. It had thereafter become her practice to escape to her room or take her journal out into the garden and fill several pages whenever she was vexed or upset.

This last year, she'd approached the practice differently. After a discussion with her stepdaughter, Adelaide, following Henry's death—when Elizabeth had mentioned she felt like there was still so much left unsaid between them—the younger woman had suggested she write to him. "Write him a letter or write to him in your journal. Put down all those things you never got a chance to say. That's what I did after I lost my mother, and it taught me that grief is really love—it is all the love we had yet to give to someone that has no place to go.* Since then, I've come to believe that even though Mamma left us, she is still with me. She still hears and feels the love in my heart. And given how very much Papa loved you, I know that he will always be with you. He will always hear your heart."

Such profound wisdom at such a young age had led to the first smile—though a weak one—that she would show at a time when Elizabeth felt she might never have cause to smile again. And so she had begun to do as Adelaide suggested, addressing her journal entries as though they were letters. The practice of writing to Henry proved cathartic, enabling her to express all the grief, frustration, and even anger she was not allowed to display publicly—heaven forfend that a marchioness have feelings!

Elizabeth also tried to keep her feelings in check for her children; for them, she did not mind bearing up, because they were so very young—Margaret, the youngest, was but three years old when her father passed away. The children needed their mother to be strong. But little Henry, whom they had started calling Harry to differentiate him from his father, had once found her sobbing her heart out in a moment of weakness, and in a gesture that proved him to be entirely his father's son, he sat beside her where she had crumpled to the floor and took his mother in his arms—and though tears also slid down his cheeks, he tried to be the strong one. Harry had patted her back and assured her that she was allowed to cry, because he, too "…sometimes miss Papa so much it hurts to breathe."

Most of her journal entries Elizabeth addressed to Henry. When she wasn't pouring out her broken heart or venting her frustrations over some trifling matter, she was telling him about the trials of her day. She would write about the elder children and their studies, and little Meg's attempts to appear as smart as her siblings. On a few rare occasions, she addressed an entry to one of her sons or daughters.

Today's entry was the first she had addressed to herself. It had seemed right to remind herself that she had, indeed, survived the worst year of her life. On this day a twelvemonth past, only four days after their ninth wedding anniversary, she had lost her beloved husband. In some part of her mind, she had always known that Henry would pass first—he was, after all, five-and-twenty years her senior. She simply hadn't expected it to be quite so soon. She had hoped that the twins, at least, would be grown. She'd imagined Henry walking Isabella down the aisle at her wedding. She'd imagined him preparing Harry to one day take his place as Marquess of Stashwick.

Now, both duties would fall to her.

The more Elizabeth thought about Henry, the more difficult it became to hold back the tide of memories. Not just of the incredible nine years they had shared, but of his last day. She'd replayed it in her mind perhaps a million times, wondering if she ought to have done more. Could she have saved him had she sent for the doctor when he had first spoken of feeling unwell?

Henry had complained of a tightness in his chest more than once that day but when she'd suggested sending for a doctor, he had brushed it off as stress from the difficulties of dealing with his fellow peers in the House of Lords. "You know how politicking always makes me ill, my love," he had grumbled as he rubbed the center of his chest.

After dinner that evening, Henry declared his intention of going to bed early. His chest still ached, and he was hopeful of a good night's rest setting him to rights as it usually did. Elizabeth, concerned that the tightness had not abated, asked a second time if she ought to send for the family physician. Henry again thanked her for her concern but told her he did not feel it was necessary for her to go to such trouble. He bent and kissed her cheek, told her he loved her and would see her in the morning, then left her to read a book in the drawing room.

Elizabeth normally appreciated being left alone to read when a novel was good, but her concern for her husband prompted her to follow him after half an hour of reading the same two paragraphs again and again. When she entered his bedchamber, Henry lay on his side with his eyes closed, one arm under his head and the other resting on his side. From the doorway he merely appeared to be sleeping, but fear for his health—or perhaps some primal instinct—told her something was very, very wrong. She approached the bed slowly, her every nerve ending screaming at her to run because she wouldn't like what she found—if she ran, she could avoid facing the truth, even if for only a moment.

His hand, which she reached for to hold, was still warm—but Henry did not acknowledge her touch. He always acknowledged her touch, even if he were asleep. A panicked feeling began to trickle along her limbs, and she bent to place one hand on his chest.

He wasn't breathing. She felt no heartbeat.

Elizabeth's breathing became shallow, and she vaguely recalled having rolled him onto his back to lay her ear to his chest. No breath. No heartbeat.

Her eyes suddenly burned and her knees felt like jelly. Breathing was almost impossible. But somehow, she managed to make her way to the bellpull. After she tugged it—jerked it, really—she returned to the bed and carefully sat down. She reached for the arm that had been under his head and held his hand between hers, staring blankly ahead until a servant appeared.

Owens. Henry's long-serving valet stood in the doorway and stared. He knew before her voice, which sounded as though it came from very far away, uttered the words,

"Mr. Owens, please send for a physician. The Marquess of Stashwick is dead."

-...-

"Mamma?"

Elizabeth started at the sound of Harry's voice from behind her. Praying he did not notice he'd startled her from her woolgathering, she forced a smile to her lips and turned around to greet him. "Harry! To what do I owe this visit to my bedchamber?"

"It's time for breakfast, Mamma. Aren't you coming?"

"Of course!" said Elizabeth as she stood. "Forgive me if I am tardy."

Harry looked up at her—not that he had far to lift his eyes, as he was already five feet tall. Elizabeth mused—not for the first time—that he was sure to be as tall, if not taller, than his father.

"Were you thinking about Papa? I know it … it was a year ago today he died," Harry said softly.

Elizabeth nodded. "I was," she confessed. "I miss him very much."

Harry sighed and looked down. "I miss him, too."

Reaching to caress her son's cheek, Elizabeth said, "I know it has been a very difficult year for our family, Harry, but I want to tell you how very proud of you I am. You've had to bear so much at such a young age, but you have done so with a remarkable strength of character. Your father would be proud of you as well, for being so strong for your brother and sisters."

"And for you, Mamma," Harry added. "I'm the head of the family now—I have to be strong."

A pang of sorrow and pride bloomed in her chest, and Elizabeth could not but take a step forward to embrace him. Harry's arms slowly rose to encircle her waist as she said, "You also have to be a boy, Harry. You have many years ahead of you before you have to take on the responsibilities of being head of the family. Let me handle those concerns, and you just worry about doing well in your lessons or riding your horse—or losing again at spillikins."

Harry stepped back instantly—he hated to lose at games. "I'll win next time, Mamma," said he. "I've been practicing with Tom and Bella."

Elizabeth grinned and slipped her arm about his shoulders, and guided her son toward the door as she said, "Then shall we have a game after breakfast?"

"I should like that, Mamma."

Following a somewhat subdued breakfast with all four of her children—Isabella and Tom also acknowledged it had been a year since the loss of their father and spoke little, though an excitable Meg was attended by her nurse—the family of five moved into the morning room. A servant was sent to fetch the spillikins game and Isabella also asked the girl to fetch her sketchbook and pencils, a request that had Elizabeth turning her head.

Isabella, who was the fraternal twin of Harry, had shown remarkable skill at artistry from the time she could hold a pencil or paintbrush. Sadly, her creative zest had been dimmed by sorrow when her father had died, and it had been an entire year since she had drawn or painted anything. That she had asked for her sketching things warmed Elizabeth's heart and gave her hope that her daughter's own heartbreak was healing.

After deciding to give Isabella the table, she and Harry sat on the rug before the hearth for their game. Elizabeth had just dropped the sticks into their mixed-up pile when the pocket doors to the hall opened to reveal Quincy, the butler, who announced,

"The Reverend Sir Robert and Lady Winstead, Mr. Winstead, Miss Winstead, and Miss Winstead to see you, Your Ladyship."

"Auntie Mary!" cried Meg, who could just see her aunt behind Quincy, as she clapped her hands together in excitement.

"Do show them in, Quincy," said Elizabeth as she stood.

The butler bowed and opened the doors wider, then stepped aside to allow her sister's family to enter the room. Greetings were exchanged between the adults and the children with smiles and hugs before Elizabeth asked, "What brings you to the castle today?"

Robert smiled again. "We took the children for a ride in the carriage and as we were passing by, thought we should drop in and pay our respects," said he.

Elizabeth lifted an eyebrow and crossed her arms. "My dear brother, your house is three miles away. A short drive to entertain your children would not bring you this far, I am sure."

Mary sent her husband a sideways look that clearly said, I told you so, then replied in a soft, caring voice, "We came to keep you company for a while, as I know it will be a difficult day for you."

Unexpected tears pooled behind her eyes and Elizabeth felt her chest constrict. Tipping her head back, she blinked rapidly to dispel the moisture before it fell and drew a shaking breath. She ought to have known Mary would come.

Looking back at her sister and brother-by-marriage, she forced a weak smile. "Our anniversary the other day was a great deal harder on me. I had some difficulty even getting out of bed."

Mary stepped forward and embraced her a second time. "I am sorry I could not come on the 2nd, Lizzy," she said. "Robert and I were with the Bensons—as you may know, old Mr. Benson is very ill—"

"It's quite all right, dearest," Elizabeth assured her. "You were doing your duty as a parson and his wife."

Mary glanced at Robert, then they both nodded. "True enough. Now let me do my duty as a sister. Let us go into your study and have a talk, shall we?"

Mary was speaking as a sister but using her "kind parson's wife" voice, and Elizabeth realized she did not mind overmuch. She knew it would do her good to talk to someone, which she had done so little of this last year. After Henry's death, she and the children had followed his body home to Berkshire, where it was interred in the Faulkner family's private cemetery between his parents and his first wife. They had remained in the country ever since—the longest length of time any of them had lived at Stashwick Castle as they usually spent half the year in London.

With a nod of her head, Mary then moved to her side and linked their arms together. Elizabeth looked to Robert and asked, "You won't mind sitting with all the children while we talk for a moment, will you?"

He shook his head. "Of course not, sister," said he. "There might be a legion of little ones here, but I think myself and nurse Agatha can handle it."

"Mamma, we were supposed to play a game," protested Harry as Elizabeth and Mary moved toward the door that led into her private study.

"And we will, dearest," she assured him. "Play with Tom, your uncle, or one of your cousins for a round or two while your aunt and I talk. We won't be long."

Harry sighed. "Yes, Mamma. Just don't forget, please."

She moved over to him and dipped her head to kiss his brow, her heart squeezing just a little at the hint of vulnerability in his voice. Though she had reminded him earlier that he was just a boy, he had been such a strong and brave lad that she sometimes forgot he was still so very young and in need of reassurance.

"I will not forget my promise," said she, before moving away to lead Mary into her study.

When the door had closed behind them and the sisters had sat on the sofa along one wall, Mary took Elizabeth's hand in hers. "Now tell me, how are you really doing?"

Elizabeth heaved a sigh but stifled the groan that attempted to follow. "I am as well as can be expected. It hurts only a little less than it did a year ago to know that my husband is gone. Sometimes I still expect to see him walk out of a room or around a corner—it's as though my mind has not yet fully accepted what my heart wishes it could forget."

The tears that she had held back only moments before filled her eyes. After pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve, she dabbed them away and sniffled. "Harry has been such a wonderful young man this last year. He and Isabella both have been marvelous—on days where my grief has consumed me, my children have managed things. My children, Mary! They aren't supposed to be running the bloody house, that is my duty! They should not be taking care of me; I am supposed to be taking care of them—they must be allowed to mourn their father."

Mary offered a sad smile, her fuller expression showing that she knew Elizabeth exaggerated—the butler and housekeeper would have managed the castle during any indisposition of their mistress.

"And I am sure they have, Lizzy," said she. "Just as much as you have, and in their own way. But do not berate yourself for falling down on occasion—grief is a crushing weight that is a difficult burden for anyone to bear, let alone a mother of four. So long as you remember that God is your rock and your fortress, and He is your salvation. Not only from sin, I daresay, but from every earthly sorrow. And remember what a good, compassionate man my brother was; I am certain he will be waiting for you when God calls you to join them both in heaven."

Elizabeth snorted softly. "And won't that be an awkward moment, to be greeted by my husband and his first wife."

Her sister grinned. "I do not doubt such a meeting would be disconcerting, though I should like to imagine it will be full of nothing but love. The first Lady Stashwick was surely happy for Henry that he was able to love again, and grateful to you for helping him complete his healing. She will welcome you as a sister in Christ."

Elizabeth nodded in silence and wiped away a few more tears that had slipped down her cheeks. Mary cleared her throat delicately.

"Lizzy, I pray that my next question does not offend or upset you, but as we have just spoken of your husband's first wife… Do you think you will ever consider marrying again, as Henry did?"

With a heavy sigh, Elizabeth replied, "I don't know, Mary. At this moment, I cannot even begin to imagine meeting another man capable of making me feel a love as deep as I felt for Henry."