A/N: I was craving Pride and Prejudice the other day (what else is new?), and couldn't seem to stop thinking, for some reason, about the deaths of our favorite characters. The result is this, times three. Yep. Pretty much I started a one-shot that is now on its twelth Microsoft Word page. So I am breaking it into three parts. In these three parts, we will learn about the life of the Darcy's through Elizabeth's end-of-her-life musings. In the two latter parts, there will be flashbacks. Expect parts two and three to come tomorrow or the next day; this story is almost finished and only needs editing. And lastly, thank you, all of my readers, for your loyal support. You honestly give me so much motivation and confidence; I cannot properly express my gratitude.

The End: Part One

Lady Elizabeth Darcy knew that she was dying.

But this, like so much else these days, she kept to herself. It was a statement that was not easily brought up in everyday conversation. What was she to say?

And, more painfully, who was she to say it to?

It was a piece of information best kept enclosed in her own skin. It had ceased to evoke much emotion in her, in any case. She had accepted it.

Besides, she figured that anyone worthy of this knowledge would have already assumed that her days were numbered without her reassurance.

It was not that she was a sickly old lady—not by any means. In fact, she was perfectly agile, surprisingly so for a woman of her years. And she did not look so very old, either. Although her face was no doubt wrinkled and weathered more than other elderly ladies who had spent less of their lives out of doors, it had retained its liveliness, through the years.

Even at death's door, Lady Darcy didn't look to be someone who was often fatigued.

But despite her youthful appearance, those people closest to her should know of her impending death, or at least be suspicious of it. Beyond the sheer number of her years, there was indeed the matter of the death of her husband, which had occurred not nine months prior.

Elizabeth was not one for melodramatics, so to the casual observer, she mightn't have changed at all after the sad event. But the more observant of the servants and Elizabeth's close relatives and acquaintances saw how the little changes in her expressions and mannerisms were, actually, significant ones.

The most noticeable of these small changes was something in the set of her brow when her face was relaxed. She had always simply looked thoughtful or focused when she sat quietly, but after that day she always seemed in her idleness more melancholy, almost desperate, a little bit longing.

A little bit harder to catch were the times her expression quickly changed when she was reminded a bit too much of the dear Lord Darcy, like the first time she had seen his horse galloping across the grounds with the, tall, dark-haired stable-hand atop him, keeping the beast conditioned. Her smiling face had instantly become drawn, and she was somewhat distracted for the rest of the day.

But there was one time of night when Lady Darcy was very much different from her old self, although there was hardly anyone around to witness this. In fact, only one person even suspected that such a thing might occur. Old Oscar Reynolds, the now-elderly son of the long deceased Mrs. Reynolds, heard something every night as he swept the house to make sure that all of the candles and oil lamps had been put out.

All of the nights, he heard crying. It was as much a part of his evening sweeps now as the creaking third servant's stair from the basement and the sticky door in the west library. Every night, as he passed the master's chamber (the master and mistress of the house had stopped the pretense of separate bedrooms some 25 years before), there was a sound emanating from the always-closed door and darkness coming out the bottom crack. Some days, it was merely the echo of shaky breath that revealed the torment that was being experienced inside. But every Sunday, a loud, desperate sob could be heard all throughout the dark hallway outside the chamber.

Lady Darcy allowed herself one night a week to really, truly grieve for her lost husband. She could not grieve as much as she needed and wished, for she would then be consumed.

The thought of this made Oscar so incredibly sad, he was often of half a mind to curse the impropriety of it all and barge in the room to comfort her himself.

But, of course, he did not. He observed quietly, respecting his mistress enough to never share tales of her sobs to the rest of the staff, even when two of the cattier, less-observant teens had been discussing the matter:

"She doesn't even seem to care that he's gone! I swear it I heard Fanny and Sarah shed more tears for the master than I ever heard the Lady. And there's all this talk of how they loved each other so! Seems a bit one-sided, to me!"

He was of half a mind to reveal all then and there, but kept his tongue. Surely the Lady knew that people would talk like this if she didn't outwardly mourn, and surely she knew of the sympathetic conversations that would ensue in their stead if she did. Her choice was clear, and Mr. Reynolds would certainly honor it.

In her later years, Lady Elizabeth Darcy had come to posses somewhat of an air of stateliness that would have certainly surprised those who knew her in her youth and had not watched her progress.

She had not lost her adventurous spirit, nor her natural openness and tendency towards kindness. No, the things that made her so intimidating upon initial acquaintance were out of her control.

It stemmed, perhaps, from her appearance. She had aged very gracefully, indeed—no one dared to say, in the last few years of Jane's life, that Jane was the handsomer of the two (and Jane had not ever lost her beauty). And yet Elizabeth's face was, very plainly, old and wise. Something in her eyes betrayed a deep cleverness and wisdom that intrigued and sometimes frightened people in its intensity.

And then she wore the clothes that she was both expected to, and had, quite honestly, become accustomed to wearing. They were beautiful and elegant and tasteful. She didn't wear the latest fashions, but no one would ever dare insult her choice of dress, if not because it wasn't aesthetically appealing then because she made it so in her old air of confidence and newly discovered stateliness.

But the stately Lady Darcy was also, essentially, a very good person. She cared for others; she helped them and enjoyed it. She taught in her goodliness, her actions affecting people all the more because of her seemingly contrasting wealth and status and openness and generosity.

As one may assume, Lady Darcy was very respected and beloved by the people that she was acquainted with, particularly those of lesser status in life, but also, in the end of her days, those above or equal to her in the eyes of society.

Therefore, her last months were busy. She was very involved, and people tended to come to her with problems and social calls because her company was always so very enjoyable.

This, in addition to frequent visits from her five children, left her with little time to sink into a state of grief, for which she was grateful. Clara, the youngest Darcy child by some 16 years and the only child unmarried, was staying with Lady Lillian Bradford, the second oldest of the Darcy children, during the summer before the death of Elizabeth Darcy. This was perhaps Lady Darcy's most potent regret. She would have liked one last summer with her youngest daughter.

Despite Lady Darcy's assurance to the contrary, not all of her five children suspected her death. All five of them were in very different places in regards to thoughts of their dear Mother.

Edward, the oldest, had been dreading his mother's death for many months, ever since his father had passed. But this was, probably, because he (and his wife and two children) had been staying at Pemberley with his parents when his mother had been told of Lord Darcy's passing. His mother had, quite literally, fallen down in a heap on the floor, shaking with tears and looking so weak, so sad, so out-of-control in a way that was not customary for her. He knew that his mother had been very greatly affected by the passing of his father.

Lillian, too, knew that her mother was experiencing much more distress than she ever let on, but that was simply because she knew her mother very well. She thought, or maybe simply hoped, that her mother could enjoy several more years on earth without her other half. In the meantime, she was glad to take Clara for a summer. She needed Clara's help, seeing as she had just birthed twin girls in addition to her three older sons. And Clara needed to get out of Pemberley, lest she fall into a pit of despair that came from losing a parent and watching the other dwindle slowly away.

Henry had positively no idea that death was next on his fearless, loving mother's To-Do list, for he saw his mother as the strongest person in the entire world. Henry, at the age of four, had experienced a rather awful bought of sickness during which he had a high fever for many days that was looking as if it may never break. Even his own father had looked beaten, sitting at his bedside, crying and distressing while Henry lied there. His mother, though, had taken initiative, made the doctor come and then another doctor and a nurse. It was she who looked at him still, during that time, as someone that was alive and well and simply needing to recover. She was strong, and she believed that he could be, too.

Anne didn't suspect anything either, but this was probably because she was so laughably bad at reading people. Besides, she hadn't seen her mother in some time, as her husband had moved her and their son out to America several years before, and her mother would never mention such sadness in her letters. She loved her parents and all of her siblings very dearly, especially her mother and Edward and Henry, but she had ambitions as an artist, and America was known as a land of opportunity.

Clara, however, knew that her mother's death was a sure thing and sometimes found herself marveling that Lady Darcy had lasted as long as she had after her father had passed. For Clara alone truly understood the depth of her parent's devotion to each other. She had been a surprise child late in the life of Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth—when Clara was born, Anne was already practically a woman at 16 years. Because Clara had lived alone with her parents for almost as long as she could remember, she knew each of them very, very well. They made quite a threesome—Uncle Fitzwilliam always commented that his brain hurt when in the room with them, for they were all of them teased for their quick minds. And they all loved each other so very much, shared a very intense and unique bond. People teased Clara that she was an exact blend in the personalities of each of her parents. While Clara knew that this wasn't true, she wished for it to be so, for Clara believed that her parents fit together better than anyone else in the whole world and were each other's perfect counterparts. Clara had always dreaded her father's death, for she knew from a very young age that when she lost one of her parents, the other would soon follow.