Posted on 2009-10-31

Dying was very easy. Fitzwilliam Darcy had discovered this universally acknowledged truth when he had found out that the pond at Pemberley was rather deep and he couldn't swim. A few mouthfuls of water and he had drowned. Just like that and without really meaning to, he had died. Easy-peasy. It was the staying dead part he couldn't quite get the hang of.

Mrs Reynolds came into the morning room where Elizabeth Darcy was taking care of her correspondence. The trusty housekeeper looked slightly put out and long-suffering.

"He's come from the pond again," she said to her mistress without preamble but with fatalistic equilibrium.

Lizzy wiped her hand across her face in a futile, tired gesture. She didn't notice that she smeared her features with ink in the process. "Not again," she said and it sounded like a groan. She sighed once, deeply, and looked at her housekeeper. "In a second, Mrs Reynolds. I'll deal with it in a second."

"Oh, I reckon you have at least a minute," answered the worthy woman compassionately. "He's but at the front lawn."

"No, no. I'd better talk to him immediately." Lizzy stood up and smoothed the creases out of her dress. "I'm ready," she said and quickly left the room.

As Mrs Reynolds had said, the former master of Pemberley was but at the front lawn. Lizzy watched his ambling, sluggish approach on the house for a moment. In life, the master had cut a fine figure. Tall. Dark. Handsome. Death though had been unkind. His healthy complexion had turned to a greyish hue. His clothes were in disarray where they still clung to his form and otherwise rotten away. The imposing stride that had once instilled awe in the hearts of women and quite a few men had died with him. He shambled along in a slow, unsteady, shuffling gait, his shoulders hunched, his arms hanging limply at his sides. Puddles of pungent water gathered in his wake. Pondweed clung to his form.

Lizzy circled him carefully and stopped upwind of him. She'd once made the mistake of standing downwind of him and had nearly gagged from the overwhelming stench of decay.

Darcy noticed her and stopped. For a moment, he looked at her owlishly as if it was too difficult to go from motion to standstill without a minute to gather his thoughts. Then he gurgled, "Elizabeth?"

"Yes." She folded her arms in front of her and looked steadily at him.

Darcy had the decency to look abashed but didn't say anything else.

She picked up the conversation. "We've talked about this. Do you remember that?"

She waited patiently until he had nodded and continued, "And correct me if I'm wrong but I remember you promised not to come to the house again."

He nodded miserably again.

"So, why," she asked, "are you doing it anyway?"

Darcy shrugged. It made a squelching sound. "I was bored."

"Pardon?"

"It's a pond. It's not very big. There's not much to do. After a while, you've seen all the fish. I was starting to name the algae!" He lifted one floppy, greenish weed that doubled as a fringe. "That's Caroline. She's very clingy."

The real Caroline, who'd been happily married for quite a few years now, would probably object to having pondweed named after her but Elizabeth didn't intend to tell her about it. Ignoring the name thing, she said instead, "Let me get this straight. You've come to the house, which you promised on your honour never to do again, because you were bored?"

Darcy shrugged squelchingly again. "Yes?"

"You find nothing wrong with that?"

He shrugged again. She wished he'd stop that. The squelching got on her nerves. "You're my wife," he said. "For better or for worse. We've just hit upon one of those bad times. They happen in every marriage."

Lizzy's eyes widened incredulously. "Bad times? You call that 'bad times'?" There was a hint of hysteric laughter in her voice. "I wouldn't call that merely the bad times! Do you remember the bit that followed the bad times? 'Til death do us part'. You're dead. You've been dead for years. Death parted us. It's not my fault if you can't keep to your side of the bargain."

"That's where you're wrong." He sounded almost smug. "Death tried to part us but didn't succeed. I'm still here, am I not?"

"Are you arguing a technicality here?" she asked suspiciously.

His face grimaced into the resemblance of a grin. "Whatever it takes."

"You're a rotten carcass!" she cried. "I refuse to be married to a rotten carcass."

"Hey," he protested and sounded hurt. "You don't look so well anymore either."

"Ten years of dealing with a dead husband who refuses to stay dead can do that to a person," she said scathingly.

"I can't help it. I get lonely in the pond. And I miss our conversations." He gave her the Look. It had been more effective when he had been alive.

She still deflated in defeat. "Alright."

Darcy perked up and grinned at her happily.

"But you're not staying in the house. I don't want you dripping water all over the carpets and the furniture," she amended sternly. "And you snore terribly." She paused and added, "It's only for conversation, too."

"I can live with that," he said cheerfully. "Well, be not-quite-dead with that."