There was little doubt about it -- her husband was missing.

Elizabeth Darcy closed the morning parlor door, unable to suppress a frustrated sigh. It was now half past eight, and she was due for her habitual walk about the rose gardens in Pemberley's northern lawn. Her bonnet and light summer shawl, as well as her sturdy half-boots, testified as to her intent to take in the fresh air, but she had not yet ventured one step outside.

This disruption of her routine was caused by one fairly large problem. Her husband of one month, who considered it his duty to accompany his lovely wife on her morning walks, was nowhere to be found.

When he failed to appear in their rooms to escort her downstairs, she had believed him detained by business and waited patiently. After a restless quarter-hour passed without his arrival or a message excusing his absence, she took the matter into her own hands and formed a one-person search party.

She checked his bedchamber and dressing room, the library, the study, the breakfast room, the music room, the solarium, several parlors, and at last, in desperation, the kitchen. She could find no trace of him in the house and knew that he was not at the stables, for his riding boots remained at the foot of her bed, where he had placed them the night before.

As she walked toward the staircase, intending to see if he had returned to their chambers, she was approached by the housekeeper.

"If I may, Mrs. Darcy, the master is out of doors." Mrs. Reynolds, who was as accustomed to the newlyweds' routine as they were, had a slight twinkle in her eye. "If, of course, you were looking for him, ma'am."

Elizabeth knew the irritation on her face must have been more apparent than she had hoped. Chagrined, she hastened to say, "Where is he? The stables?"

"The cemetery, ma'am."

"The cemetery?" Elizabeth could not disguise her astonishment. "Whyever would he be there?"

"‘Tis the anniversary of Lady Anne's passing, ma'am." The amusement was gone from the old housekeeper's face, replaced by regret. "Mr. Darcy goes every year to see to her grave and lay out some flowers."

"Oh." Ashamed of her earlier pique at her husband's tardiness, she hesitated before venturing, "Mrs. Reynolds?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Do you think Fitzwilliam would mind his solitude being intruded upon?"

The housekeeper smiled approvingly. "I think he needs some company very badly indeed."

"Then I shall go to him at once. Thank you." She turned about decisively and had walked half the distance of the hall before she stopped and colored. "Mrs. Reynolds?"

"Yes?"

"Where is the cemetery?"

Mrs. Reynolds lifted a hand to hide her smile. "Behind the house, across from the stables, and back about a mile, ma'am."

The walk was refreshing and the weather cool, but Elizabeth's mind could not be easy. Her husband, though somewhat livelier since their marriage, had a persistent streak of melancholy that troubled him upon occasion, the cause of which she could not comprehend. He had been more withdrawn of late, but Elizabeth, caught up in learning her duties as mistress, had not observed it as well as she should have.

Incidents came to her now as she strolled along the dirt path -- his pre-dawn leaving of her bed that morning (usually the couple found it in their mutual interest to linger in their chambers), his reticence during breakfast, his refusal over the past two days to listen to any music she or Georgiana played...singular occurrences which she was now convinced were connected to the memory of this unhappy day.

Though grieved at the thought of Fitzwilliam enduring any sort of pain, she hoped that this experience would allow her a greater understanding of him. Though open with her in most areas of his life, he had never spoken of his childhood. From a few subtle hints courtesy of his aunt and uncle, Elizabeth had gathered that it was not a happy time in his life, and her reluctance to drudge up unpleasant memories had kept her from making direct inquiries.

In little time at all she found herself at the end of the path, looking up at the tall, wrought-iron gate leading into the Darcy family graveyard. She peered between the thick bars and shuddered at the gloomy picture within.

At Longbourn, the graveyard had been well-concealed at the very back of the property, and she had only visited it once or twice with her father. It had been essentially a grassy field, dotted with marble plaques inscribed with the names of the Bennet ancestors.

This cemetery, however, could well be the setting for some Gothic monstrosity of a novel. The entire section of land was roped in by a brick wall, overgrown with creeping ivy. Statues and tall headstones jutted up from the ground, the entire area repressed with shadow. She shivered again, scolded herself for being silly, and pushed open the gate.

Elizabeth meandered through the many rows of graves, uncomfortable and wondering why her husband would subject himself to such a grim place of reflection every year. She kept her eyes open for a flash of color among the greys and blacks, and soon enough, she spied her husband over at the other end of the property.

She approached, her slippers not making a sound in the neatly-trimmed grass. He was sitting upon the ground, back toward her and his chin propped on his upraised knees; to her relief, she saw that he did not look very grieved, only thoughtful.

On one side of him was a thick marble slab, laid horizontally beside the wall. As she neared, Elizabeth saw that the top of the slab had been carved into a death mask, cold white features glinting dully in the sunlight.

She came close and hovered behind him. A shock went through her when the features of the marble figurine came into view -- for a horrified moment, she thought the statue was of Georgiana -- but the next instant she saw that the nose and chin were more delicate, the face more heart-shaped than Miss Darcy's. The face, however, was as familiar to her as her sister-in-law's -- in fact, she saw the woman's portrait every time she entered the family gallery.

Elizabeth studied the pale stone face of Lady Anne Darcy. "Your mother was very beautiful, Fitzwilliam."

She saw him start a little at the sound of her voice, but he made no reply. Untying her bonnet and casting it away with her gloves, she settled next to him in the grass and reached for the fingers that lay propped on his thigh. His hands were cold. "How long have you been here?"

When he spoke, his voice was quiet and contemplative. "Long enough." He allowed her to cradle his hands within her own to warm them. "You shouldn't be out here. You might catch cold."

"As might you." She gazed back down at the figurine. "What was she like?"

He sighed.

Elizabeth persisted. "Your mother -- what sort of person was she?"

There was a lengthy silence. The wind whistled gently through the grass, winding through the headstones to ruffle clothes and hair. "It is hard to describe her." He paused. "I loved her very dearly; she was not lively like you, not really."

She nodded encouragingly.

"She died, you know, just a few hours after Georgiana was born. Childbed fevers. The physician said she was too delicate to bear children well."

"She carried you," Elizabeth reminded him, "and Georgiana both."

"But she lost others -- four of them."

Elizabeth looked at him in surprise. "Four?"

"There was one baby before me, and three others between Georgiana and I. They all died during delivery." He tugged at his cravat, clearly uncomfortable with speaking about such womanly matters with anyone, even his wife.

"Your poor mother. How dreadful, to lose so many children."

"I believe it always pained her that she could not have more; she loved children." A smile softened Darcy's face. "We would have been quite a family, had she succeeded."

"But she did have you; she must have been delighted to have such a fine son."

He waved away the compliment, a faint tinge of color in his cheeks. "She was the only one who understood me," he admitted. "Understood my temperament, I should say. Father didn't. He thought I was being timid. Mother was the only one who could identify with...." He seemed unsure how to continue.

Elizabeth kissed his palm. "With what, my love?"

He sighed again, a sound more discomfited than mournful. "I could never quite be what he expected me to be. I think I disappointed him." He saw her expression of incredulity and quickly amended his statement. "Not in my comportment, no; I never made trouble for him or gave him cause for concern. It was more....well...Father wished for me to be confident and charming and affable, like he was." There was a hesitation. "Like George was."

Elizabeth bit her lip. She had always puzzled over why Fitzwilliam's father had favored George Wickham and now her question was answered. In the young Wickham, the elder Mr. Darcy must have seen a reflection of himself. She felt a rush of sympathy for the awkward, solitary child her husband must have been.

"He was not unkind to me, Elizabeth, or made me feel to blame for my disposition -- I believe he loved me as much as any father could -- but he did not relate to me as my mother did." Somewhat disjointedly, he added, "She taught me to play the pianoforte; she was a great musician."

Elizabeth frowned. "I did not know you played!"

"I have not for some time." He dropped his eyes and shrugged. "There never seemed to be a reason for it, after she died. My father did not like it -- the sound of the pianoforte made him think of her."

Elizabeth did her best to disguise her indignance at such behavior. Imagine, refusing to permit music! "Were you so very unhappy?"

"Not so very much. I had Georgiana and Mrs. Reynolds and Richard."

"But not your father?"

"To tell the truth, Elizabeth, I did not see him much after she died. He was constantly traveling -- London, Bath, Edinburgh, even Paris a few times. We communicated almost entirely by letter, except when he returned for a span of a month or two, here and there. Georgiana did not ever know him very well -- if anything about the business pained me most, it was that she never knew him as a father."

"Did he come back?"

"Toward the end -- he had consumption. I did not even recognize him at first. He looked so worn, so aged and...bitter, I suppose. He did not say much to me, and Georgiana was too afraid of him to stay at his bedside for long. He died about a week after coming home. I was three-and-twenty, Georgiana was eleven."

He lapsed into silence, and Elizabeth nestled close to him, doing her best to communicate her sorrow and her appreciation for his honesty. He took her into his arms at last, sighing as he laid his cheek against her hair and closed his eyes.

The couple sat in contentment for a few minutes longer, listening to the rustle of the withered grass. "Let this day not be one of grief anymore, Fitzwilliam," Elizabeth ventured at last. "Let it be of remembrance -- of how much she loved you."

He kissed her softly, poignantly. "I shall try, for your sake."

She held out her hand, and, with a sweet smile of gratitude, he took it. "Come," she said -- and it was all she needed to say.

Slowly, the two walked away, arm-in-arm, as they took the path back to Pemberley.

The End