A/N: And here you are, Dearest Readers. Drumroll, please. I present you with the final part of this story. I implore you to review, for this story really kind of was my little baby and I am dying to know what everyone thought. Thank you so very much for reading, and to those of you who are frustrated with the time it took to update, look at it this way—this chapter is twice as long. Twice the wait, twice the length, twice the quality, no? Let's hope. I adore you all and please, enjoy.

P.S. This'll disappear tomorrow, but for now, I'm going to tell you something. I have spent the last...well, very long while at my computer. Yes, I wrote this all in one sitting. So guess what? I'm not going to edit it. Nope. Nada. What you read here is pure, unedited me, with my fingers flying at ten thousand miles a minute and convoluted ideas making no sense in my own head, much less on paper. I hope that it's still presentable, and I shutter to think what I'll encounter when I edit it tomorrow, but I'm really tired and I really really wanted to get this posted tonight. So...yeah. Forgive me! Enjoy!!!

The End of The End – Part Five

The next few weeks passed in a confusing mixture of mourning and holiday cheer. The clothing of the house was black, the facial expression somber, and yet, as every year, festive decorations went up and the frosty air brought winter exhilaration. Christmas would come and go for the Darcy children whether or not their parents were there to celebrate it with them.

The mood surrounding the approaching holiday was both a very happy and sad one. It was happy because it was Christmas, and that was always lovely, but it was sad because with the passing of Christmas came the departure of Henry and Lillian and their respective families. Nobody wanted the bittersweet reunion to come to an end.

But there was little time to dwell upon such things, for the annual Pemberley Christmas Ball was approaching. Edward and Rosaline had debated cancelling, only to be urged most strongly by Henry's wife Nina, whose father was a diplomat and always knew what to do in terms of society and correctness, that the show must go on—the people of Derbyshire needed to see and be reassured by the new Master and Mistress of Pemberley.

Therefore, Pemberley was decorated in a way that showcased its splendor, and Lillian, Anne, Rosaline, and Nina were fitted for grand ball gowns. Clara wasn't to attend the ball, for she wasn't out until the Spring. Rather, she would spend the evening with her nine nieces and nephews. This fact brought her little pleasure—although she adored children, she enjoyed society, and the exclusion from the ball brought back those insecurities of being an outsider because of her age that she hadn't felt in the past month.

During the weeks leading up to the ball, the house was a flurry of activity. Rosaline, Anne, and Lillian were busy planning the ball, Nina and Clara were occupied with getting Clara ready for society in the Spring, Edward was stressed with learning to be Master of Pemberley, and Henry was always working on his new novel. The little cousins were chasing each other around the house, getting to know each other, and Arthur was in Italy on business.

Anyone watching the family would note their slow steps to recovery during this period. Edward became a little more sure of himself and his position; Lillian stopped being distant and began acting like the loving mother-figure she was to all; Henry started to trust again. Clara started becoming familiar with herself and her new identity. And sometimes, if you were lucky, you could catch Anne in a smile.

Rosaline Darcy woke late on Christmas Eve to find her large, still-unfamiliar bed empty and cold.

Her eyes still slits from sleep, she rose from bed and stepped onto the cold floor.

"Edward?" she called softly. She wanted his warmth, right now, and she was worried about how much sleep he was getting. She wanted him to come back to her.

He was clearly not in the room. She deliberated for a while before crossing to the door and opening it, stepping into the hallway. Her new home was still unfamiliar to her. This would be her first late-night excursion inside its halls.

It also, it turned out to be, would be the first time she truly understood the enormity of Pemberley.

Edward was not in the kitchen. He wasn't in the dining room, three living rooms, four bathrooms, or five sitting rooms. She momentarily feared that he sought removal from her company and was sleeping in one of the numerous guest rooms, but a rather long-winded search yielded no results. She was starting to get very worried when she heard a sound coming from a very grand set of doors at the end of the hallway.

The ballroom! She was silly. She knew he loved that room…of course he would go there when he sought comfort.

She opened the large doors silently, no simple feat—they were really quite enormous.

And she saw her husband, waltzing around the dark room with his arms around an imaginary partner, his eyes closed. He was humming the tune that they had selected for the first dance…the dance that they would waltz to together to open the ball. They had practiced extensively—all eyes would be on them, and it had to be flawless.

An involuntary smile spread across her face. One of the things that irritated her most about her husband was that he would not be embarrassed. He was always proper and prim, never willing to be silly or risky. He acted just as he should, always.

Except now.

Rosaline watched for a long while, before the urge to join him became powerful enough to make her cross the floor. Sneaking up on him, she placed herself in the arms, set up so perfectly for her. His hand was exactly where her shoulder was; his other arm extended the perfect length for her own.

At her touch, he was intensely started. His eyes snapped open.

"Rose!" he exclaimed. "You scared me!"

It took a second of his heavy breathing and her good-natured smirk for his face to pink.

"I was just—" he began. "You see, sleep evaded me, and I felt the need—"

"It's okay, Edward," she said, and his tense face relaxed a bit. She went to him and embraced him. "It's okay," she repeated. Slowly, he relaxed. She felt him take a deep breath.

"I couldn't sleep," he said quietly. "I kept thinking about my parents…they were so majestic, so beautiful, so sure, when they took the floor…Lily and Henry and Anne and I would always look down on them. My father's dancing was flawless. My Mother's wasn't at all, but she gave them life, and he was so good he made her never miss a step."

He drew away from her so that he could look into her eyes. She saw his face, tired but handsome, a little bit of grey in the roots of his dark hair. "That's us now, Rose. We have to be what they were…parents and leaders and masters. I just wish I had my dad here, to help. Or my mother, to comfort."

The corner of Rosaline's mouth raised in a sad half-smile.

"Come," she said. In a move very unlike her usually shy disposition, she took his hand and dragged him to the center of the floor. She positioned them to begin dancing.

"No, Rose," he said with a shake of his head.

"Come on, Edward," she urged.

"It's not proper!"

"You were doing it when I entered! Now humor me." She curtsied. "Mr. Darcy, may I please have this dance?"

He rolled his eyes a little, but then smiled. "It is I, not you, who should request the dance."

Nevertheless, he took her hand, and they began humming the song together as they moved in synch.

His step was precise, measured and never incorrect. She usually spent so much time concentrating on not making a misstep, but today she considered what he said about his mother. She knew it to be true; she had seen her in-laws dance together.

She was a gifted dancer, she knew, and she let herself go a bit. She missed a step, and then another, but he only guided her with a little more force, and responded to her liveliness with some of his own.

Soon, they were flying across the floor. He improvised, lifting her up into the air, causing them both to laugh a little.

She felt herself release, felt that tight code of behavior that she kept to as a lady of such status unravel a bit. It was liberating.

And she could tell from his face that Edward was soaring, too—he was smiling, hoping, living. She hadn't seen him look so lively in quite some time.

Should someone have been passing by and seen the couple from the door, it would have been very easy, even with Rosaline's auburn hair, to mistake them for another couple.

That waltz, Rosaline decided, would be a model for their time at Pemberley. They both needed to get out of bed sometimes, in the middle of the night, and dance. This was something that Elizabeth had understood about life.

Rose understood, now, too.

"Henry," Nina whispered, her face alight with excitement. He didn't awake. "Henry!"

"Mum?" he questioned, groggily. Nina's face fell a little bit. Would he see her and be disappointed? She wanted him to be happy, at this moment.

She wanted him to be happy whenever she woke him. She wanted him to value her midnight ramblings more than his sleep. It was ridiculous, but true.

But when he saw her, he didn't look disappointed. He was shocked for a moment, and disoriented. And then he recognized her, and his face lit up.

She smiled wider. This was what she had always hoped for in a marriage.

"I have something to tell you, Henry," she said. "I was going to wait until morning, but I couldn't sleep, and it's past twelve, so really, it is Christmas right now…"

He sat up in bed, trying to fully awaken. "Tell me, Love," he said. He was excited.

"We're going to move."

"What?" he asked, very confused. "But why? I thought you loved the cabin…"

Although they could certainly afford more, the small cabin that they had bought as a young couple was very dear to both of them, and neither were eager to leave.

"Your last novel sold more than enough for a considerable expansion of our quarters, and I will absolutely not have two babies sleeping in our bedroom."

And then he understood.

"No," he said incredulously.

She nodded her head, overcome with happiness.

"No!" he said, different this time. He was disappointed; he was sad. "No!"

She couldn't help herself. She would claim it was the hormones, but she knew that even if she had been entirely well, she still would have started to cry.

Lillian lay awake for a while, listening to Arthur's snores. She couldn't sleep. She lied awake far past twelve, thinking of her family.

She loved them all so much. She prayed well into the night for their health, safety, and happiness.

And when she saw the visions that plagued her—her son Samuel, dead; Clara, raped; Arthur, sick—she just sat there and prayed more. What would come would come, and in the meantime, they could enjoy each other. Her mother couldn't make the world perfect, and she couldn't either.

She could just love and be the best she could be. And she had to have faith that this would be enough.

That night, Clara dreamt of her mother. But instead of the horrific dreams of her dead body that had plagued her throughout the past month, this was different.

She was standing in the crowded Pemberley Ballroom. It was the Christmas Ball that would be held the next day, but she was attending in her dream, and it was her first ball. As she reached the top of the stairs, every girl's fantasy was fulfilled. The crowd turned to look at her, and they all stood in awe at her beauty. She started to move down the stairs, but suddenly she knew, like you sometimes just knew things in dreams, that she couldn't move unless her mother carried her. It was like she was a little child; she couldn't navigate the stairs on her own. They were scary—they were tall! She needed her mother's arms…

The crowd was watching, expectant. Clara panicked. She couldn't get down the stairs! She needed her mother! Where was her mother?

And then Elizabeth was there, coming from the hallway behind her. She came and stood next to Clara and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Mother!" Clara whispered frantically, turning and grasping her mother's hand. "I need you to carry me!"

Elizabeth smiled softly. "Clarabelle," she whispered. "You don't need me. Trust me. Just take the first step."

"No! I don't think you understand! I can't—"

"Clara, you'll be fine. You must to let go of my hand."

"I need you—"

"Let go of my hand, Clara. I'll be right behind you. Let go. I'll be right there…"

"I don't know if I can—"

"I'll be there, Sweetheart. I promise."

On Christmas morning, Henry dressed with frustration and anger.

Nina, his Nina, was pregnant.

It wasn't yet a year since she had borne the baby that very nearly killed her. He couldn't bear to go through that again; he was certain, this time, that she would not make it through…

She had told him to have faith.

But that was ridiculous! He should have faith that his wife should not die, when in all likelihood her days were numbered! Preposterous! They shouldn't have…

He wouldn't accept this. Couldn't accept this.

His wife walked into the room avoiding his eyes, her eyes blotchy and red. She was angry and she was going to give him the silent treatment. Henry and Nina were infamous for their fights.

Henry looked at her, his eyes a mixture of sadness and resignation because he couldn't stop what would take over his wife, what would consume and change and kill her….

And then he realized something.

He was looking at her as everyone had looked upon him when he had been sick all of those years ago…like she was already dead.

It had been his mother who had saved his life, simply by believing that he was strong enough.

"Oh my," he muttered, horrified at himself.

His wife looked up, curious for a second before she remembered that he was mad.

"Nina, Love," he said, crossing the room to her.

"Don't—"

"Listen, please," he pleaded. "I was so foolish. I feared so desperately for your life and so I forgot to be happy with you, to celebrate and tell you that I believed in you. I am happy, Nina, I promise I am. I was just scared."

"So, you're excited? You want this to happen?"

Henry checked himself. "I want us to be safe together with two healthy children and a comfortable house," he answered, truthfully.

"I love you," she said, and there was such a fire in her eyes, he found it very hard to believe that she would even break a sweat.

The carriages started arriving at six, before the impending storm had began. One could tell from the first arrivals that the ball would be a very large success.

The first carriage to arrive happened to arrive early. In it happened to be a very handsome and wealthy young man of three and twenty.

And it just so happened that Clara was returning from a walk with little Theo when the carriage pulled up.

Introductions were made; flirtatious glances were exchanged. The two weren't eager to part when the second carriage arrived, but they did so with promise:

"Well, Miss Darcy, you may take comfort in the fact that you shall have a friend when you arrive in London in the spring."

"And you, Mr. Hart, may take comfort in the fact that you have a willing young partner reserved for the first dance."

"I look forward to it," said Alexander Hart.

So did Clara.

The ball was in full swing when, all of a sudden, one of the servants that Anne had thought was tending to the children made her way through the crowd, slightly frantically.

"Mrs. Saunders!" she said when she was near. "Mrs. Saunders, you must know that there is someone here to see you!"

"Well then, Etna, for heaven's sake why aren't they inside? It's not as if there is a penalty for arriving late!"

"They said it would be better if you saw them outside, Ma'am."

"In the rain?" Anne asked.

"I understand, Ma'am. I said the same. He was very insistent."

"Very well then," Anne said, mystified.

She walked outside, in the rain, too curious to care if she was getting wet. She found a man standing before her, turned with his back to her.

He was scruffy, but his clothes were not that of a poor man, or even a merchant—they were quite fancy, but well-worn. He was thin, and his hair was a very pleasant color of brown.

"Hello?" she asked.

He turned, and she found herself looking at her husband. He was much thinner and healthier, with an overgrown beard and sorrow in his eyes, but it was him.

"Horace," she squeeked.

"Anne. Oh, my Anne," he said, tears starting to form in his eyes. Anne was shocked. He never cried. Ever. "Tell me it isn't true. Tell me Imogene is here with you."

Anne couldn't bear to lie to him, nor could she bear to speak the truth. She just shook her head, tears falling down her own face.

"No!" he said, and he was sobbing in her arms. "No!"

Anne was of half a mind to force him away. But she so wanted him in her arms…she had forgotten how good it felt to hold him, to see his face…she ached for him.

But no—she was strong! She was seeking to be like her mother. Her mother would never allow a man so pathetic as Horace had become in her lap. Her mother was the strongest, most grounded person she knew. She would have the power to make Horace leave.

But…no.

Anne saw something now. She remembered….

She remembered herself journeying half way across the world to this house to be met with warm arms…with the only pair of warm arms that she knew loved her with all of their being. She had needed someone then, and had been met with cold.

Elizabeth would have provided that warmth to Anne, regardless of whether or not she disgraced the family with divorce or didn't keep a close enough eye on her daughter.

Anne would provide that warmth to Horace, even if it was his neglect and self-gratification that found them sitting on the steps of Pemberley in the freezing cold night rain of December.

They cried together for Imogene. They held each other and cried together and remembered her and organized a funeral. Anne was more open than she had been in years…more open than the time she said goodbye to her mother the last time before leaving for America…

And when they were done, they just sat on the steps.

"I would have come after you right away, Annie," he said, "if I had thought you wanted me to. But I figured you wouldn't want me unless I was sober and rich again and not a gambler."

"And?" Anne prompted.

"And my pride was a little hurt," he admitted with a small smile. "Maybe," he added, laughing a little.

"But Annie, I did what I wanted. I'm sober. I don't gamble. I'm working—I know, I know. I can't believe it either. I left as soon as I heard the rumors, but…"

Anne paused. She didn't know what to do. Trust him? Honestly, she had very little reason to. Mother, she thought. Help me out a little bit, here?

Nothing. No triggered memories, no echoing response in her head, no sudden epiphany. She couldn't go write a letter to her mother asking her advice; she couldn't go cry with her until the answer came to her. She was alone.

Later, she would think that maybe her mother had answered her in her silence, for it forced her to make her own decision. She would never know either way. But she did know what she said to him.

"Horace," she said, her voice tight with emotion.

"What, Annie?"

"Promise never to leave me again."

"I didn't—"

"Promise."

He nodded his head slowly, understanding. There was a pain in his eyes, but it looked as if he would recover.

"I promise," he mouthed.

And she kissed him.

No one questioned anything when a soaking wet Anne led her ex-husband upstairs, nor when they didn't reappear until dawn had broken and the last of the guests were driving down the way.

But Anne and Horace did reappear then, along with Clara, who had woken early from the crash that resulted from a man who had had a bit too much to drink colliding with a tray of empty wine glasses.

They all found themselves, the four sibling and their spouses and little Clara, at the breakfast table. They were all starved, and wished to eat a little before retiring to bed for the day.

The mood was tired and quiet until Anne muttered, "This is our last meal together for quite a while."

Everyone raised their eyebrows.

"Henry and Nina are leaving this afternoon. Lillian departs tomorrow. And Horace, Theodore and I will be returning to America in a few weeks."

They all looked down at their plates. Lillian wiped a tear.

"When, sister," Edward asked, "do you expect to return for a visit?"

"I was hoping, if it is okay with you of course, Edward, that we might make it a tradition? The month of December at Pemberley for the Darcy's?"

There was an explosion of agreement. It was decided upon: on the day of their mother's death every year, they would convene at Pemberley, and there they would stay through Christmas.

Despite their extreme fatigue, no one wished to arise from that table. There they stayed for many hours, talking and eating and drinking and prolonging their time together.

And when it was time for a positively exhausted Nina and Henry to depart, they all agreed to one last toast.

"To Mother and Father," Edward said.

"To Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam," Arthur chimed in.

And Nina, who had always, for some reason, addressed them this way, said: "To Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy!"

And that, my friends, is the end of this tale. It is how the love story concludes, how the characters live on in others and leave behind footprints of their presence on the Earth.

This, readers, is The End.