AN:

Dear readers,

This one-shot is a little April Fool's Day prank I pulled on the readers of my full-length story, An Untoward Circumstance. If you have not read that story, this will probably not make any sense! I took it down so that I could replace it with a real chapter, but a number of people requested that I leave it up. As such, I am publishing this as a one-shot. If any of my readers are still inspired, you are welcome to take the idea and run with it! I assure you all, I will NOT be writing a full-length AU story with zombies in it. This is entirely the extent of my zombie-inspired writing. I hope you enjoy it!

Best,

mydearlizzy

Chapter Thirty-Two

"Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Georgiana Darcy and Miss Mary Bennet performing a Sonata in D Major for Four Hands by Mozart," she announced. Mary curtseyed and took her seat once again as the room applauded. Georgiana counted under her breath, and off they went – four hands chasing the keys playfully in search of tune while their audience looked on in raptures.

Elizabeth smiled, and gave Jane's hand another squeeze. They shared a smile. Who could have imagined such harmony in Longbourn's parlour?

Such harmony, however pleasant, can never last, and the party's cheerful morning was soon most raucously disturbed by the sound of shouting. Mary and Georgiana, hearing the noise, ceased their playing, and Mr. Bennet rose wearily.

"I beg your pardon," he excused himself. Elizabeth rose to follow him, but he waved her back with a small, tired smile. Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy exchanged worried glances. Unable to help herself in spite of the incivility, Elizabeth rose and moved to the window seat to watch the encounter.

The vicar of the Longbourn parish, Reverend Fellows, stood in the drive shivering in the cold and snow as he seemed to be babbling about something to Mr. Bennet. Mr. Bennet attempted to draw him inside, but the man appeared immoveable. Elizabeth's brows drew together.

"What is it, Lizzy?" Jane asked, concern woven throughout her voice. "Shall I send for someone?"

"I hardly know," Elizabeth confessed, watching with deepening worry as the Reverend continued to spurn Mr. Bennet's assistance and looked over his shoulder with panic in his eyes. "Either the Reverend has gone mad and is in need of a doctor, or he has been attacked by someone and is need of the Magistrate. Surely … surely the man who murdered Lydia would not have attacked him? Could it be? But he refuses to come inside! Whatever can it mean?"

Jane approached the window as well, with Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy now trailing behind her. They all peered out of the window.

"Oh, my! And in this storm! We are all stranded and there is a murderer on the loose!" Mrs. Bennet cried, fanning herself with her handkerchief. "My nerves! Oh, my nerves!"

Mr. Darcy, after taking one brief look outside, immediately moved to the door with determined stride. Mr. Bingley observed his movement, looked outside once more, looked to Jane, and then followed with his own quick step. Elizabeth opened her mouth to call after them, to stop them, but stopped herself – could she so readily refuse her father the assistance of two able-bodied gentlemen in such a moment? Instead, she turned her gaze once again to the front lane. There was a shadow at the gate now, but it was so distant that it was impossible to tell who it was. The Reverend watched the figure with terror in his eyes – was it the murderer? But what interest could the man have in murdering the Reverend? In murder victims, there were likely not many more unlike each other than Lydia and the Reverend.

Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley appeared onto the scene now, wrapped up in great coats and scarves against the fierce wind. Georgiana and Mary joined the girls at the window just as Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley took the Reverend each by an arm and removed him bodily from the lane, lifting him with apparent ease up the steps and towards the front door. Mr. Bennet remained outside, staring at the approaching figure.

Jane quickly removed herself to call for Mrs. Hill and the footman to assist the Reverend, with Mary (who had a very sincere affection for the parish vicar) tagging along behind to assist where she could. Elizabeth could not move herself from the window. Who was it? What did they want? Was this Lydia's murderer? Why approach so calmly a house in which resided all of the persons most likely to do harm to such a person?

She could hear the bustle in the corridor, could hear the Reverend being ushered upstairs even as he stammered something about death and life and the power of the Almighty. Still, Elizabeth and her father watched the figure approach. Georgiana, standing beside Elizabeth now, grasped her hand in a show of solidarity and comfort.

"Why!" Georgiana cried with astonishment as the figure came near enough to make out some features, "I do believe it is a girl! And hardly dressed for the weather – no coat, no shawl! Why, she must be freezing! Why would the Reverend fear her? Ought he not to help her?"

Elizabeth, straining her eyes against the whirling snow, saw that Georgiana's keen eyes had observed correctly – it was a girl approaching in clothes unbefitting the season, moving slowly but steadily through the snow with determined gait, seemingly unperturbed by the storm around her. Mr. Bennet moved to approach the girl, reaching out his arms welcomingly. Elizabeth saw the briefest flash of the girl's face and curls, and she had only the time to think "-Lydia?" before the girl pounced upon Mr. Bennet and dragged him down into the deep drifts of snow. Elizabeth knew not what happened next, for all she saw was the spray of blood upon the snow before she fainted dead away.

Georgiana stood in shock for a total of ten seconds before she came to her senses and ran to the parlour door.

"Fitzwilliam!" she cried, terror in her voice. "Fitzwilliam! Help!"

Fitzwilliam came running down the stairs, alarm on his face. "What is it?"

"Mr. Bennet! He's been attacked! A girl! In the snow! Oh, Fitzwilliam, hurry!"

Fitzwilliam paled and ran to the door, bolting it quickly and securely.

"Charles! Mr. Hill! Quickly!" he shouted, his deeper voice carrying the sound to every corner of the house. "We must lock every door! Every window! Georgiana," his voice was softer now as he addressed his sister, "please, return to the parlour. Will you escort Elizabeth and her sisters and mother upstairs?"

Georgiana nodded, flinching a little bit at the sound of feet pounding upon the stairs. "I will need help with Elizabeth – she has fainted, and I cannot carry her."

Fitzwilliam looked torn, and Georgiana felt more confident now than ever that her brother truly was in love with this lady. He showed no such emotion for anyone else.

"I must be sure the ground floor is secure," he said at last, "but I will be there as soon as I can."

With no further ado, Fitzwilliam dashed after Mr. Bingley and Mr. Hill to seek every possible entrance to the house and secure it, leaving Georgiana to her duties. She hurried back to the parlour to find Mrs. Bennet kneeling beside Elizabeth's prone form on the window seat, sobbing into her handkerchief.

"Oh, it is the end of everything!" she wailed. "Husband and daughters dead! Oh, it is the end! It is the end!"

"Mrs. Bennet!" Georgiana cried, putting a strong arm underneath the woman's elbow and pulling her, with some difficulty, to her feet. "Elizabeth is not dead, only faint, and shall soon be well. Please, come upstairs with me. My brother will see to Elizabeth. Please, come upstairs."

"I will do whatever you like," Mrs. Bennet moaned, shaking her head mournfully. "I am mistress of Longbourn no more. I am ruined. I am alone. It is the end of all things."

"It is not the end of all things," Georgiana insisted firmly, guiding the older woman gently towards the door. "Jane and Mary are upstairs, and they will care for you. Come, Mrs. Bennet, come."

Georgiana had escorted Mrs. Bennet to hallway by the time the gentlemen returned from securing all of the doors and windows. Fitzwilliam gave her a grateful look and hurried to the parlour, obviously in search of Elizabeth. Mr. Bingley and Mr. Hill, however, stopped and carefully took Mrs. Bennet from Georgiana to assist her upstairs. Georgiana was relieved – while she could have managed it, Mrs. Bennet was not a light weight to support.

She returned to the parlour to see if her brother needed any assistance with Elizabeth, only to pause in the doorway at the sight which met her eyes.

Her brother sat upon the window seat beside Elizabeth, leaning over her with a hand ever-so-gently brushing against her cheek. He seemed completely lost, utterly absorbed in her pale face and light breath. Georgiana moved into the room, hesitating to announce herself but knowing that she must, when such an event occurred as to make such an announcement unnecessary.

A loud thud against the window startled both Darcy siblings, causing both to cry out with fright and shock. There, pressed against and clawing at the frosted window, was the most terrifying face Georgiana had ever seen – a tall young girl with dark curls, but her face partially decomposed and eyes red as blood, teeth bloody with what Georgiana was sure was the blood of Mr. Bennet. She sat down heavily upon the sofa, breathing quickly, but what frightened her the most was her brother's face.

Fitzwilliam was pale, and he sat upon the floor with Elizabeth cradled in his arms, clearly having yanked her from the window seat for her own protection once he had been startled. He looked as though he had seen a ghost.

"Fitzwilliam," Georgiana breathed, unable to move from her place on the sofa. "Who is that?"

Her brother did not turn to look at her – his eyes were trained, horror and fear within, on the gory face of the creature outside as it clawed and attacked the window with terrifying enthusiasm.

"It is, I believe, what remains of Miss Lydia Bennet."

Elizabeth, as she slowly came out of the dark fog which had enveloped her mind, heard only the words "…remains of Miss Lydia Bennet."

She heard next a gasp, although from whom she could not say. She next became aware of the fact that she had felt those words being spoken as she heard them, and soon came to understand herself to be cradled in the arms of the speaker. Certainly it was a man, and most certainly it was not her father. If it had been any other circumstance, she might have been rather more concerned by this position, but as it was, she could only feel grateful to have such a support as she attempted to recall what had happened.

The figure. Her father. Lydia. Her eyes shot open, the light causing her to wince slightly, her breath escaping her in ragged gasp. "Lydia!" she cried. "Oh, God, it is Lydia! How can it be?"

The man holding her pulled her closer to his chest, burying her face into his neck cloth and pressing his own cheek against her ear.

"Elizabeth!" he exclaimed, surprised and deeply moved. His voice was dark with emotion. "I hardly know, but it is something very evil to be sure. Come, let me assist you upstairs."

"Upstairs? I cannot…"

"Elizabeth, you fainted," the man, whom Elizabeth now recognized as Mr. Darcy (and the realization only made her heart skip a couple of beats), looked at her very seriously. "You must rest. Please."

"But my sisters –"

"Are well looked after," Mr. Darcy assured her. She could feel him shifting his weight around, preparing to stand with her in his arms. "Between Charles and myself, you shall all be quite safe, I assure you."

Elizabeth wanted to protest, but her head spun as Mr. Darcy carefully rose to his feet. She clutched at his form in a very unladylike way, wishing the world would cease spinning. She closed her eyes and pressed her head into his chest, seeking dark and quiet and unable to resist the warmth and strength of his chest.

He began to walk, and Elizabeth burrowed closer to him with a small whimper at the movement.

"My father," she whispered sadly.

Mr. Darcy shifted her in his arms and sighed. "Yes, I know. I'm so sorry."

Their path to Elizabeth's room went mostly unimpeded and unnoticed, as the rest of the household was involved in either preparing it for defence or tending to the two people driven quite beside themselves with the shock. Having been instructed last night on which rooms he ought not to enter, Mr. Darcy found himself now entering just such a room. Under any other circumstance, he might have felt all of the impropriety of such a situation. Now, in this moment, he was frankly just grateful to have a moment alone with lady.

He set her gently upon the bed, pulling one of the thick blankets at the end of the bed over her lower half. As she settled herself, he moved to stoke the fire into liveliness once more, adding another log to the dying embers. Once finished, he returned to Elizabeth's side and rested himself carefully on the side of her bed. Her eyes followed him intently.

"So," she began quietly, "my sister has come back from the dead and murdered my father."

"It seems that way, yes," Mr. Darcy confirmed.

Elizabeth smiled weakly. "An average Bennet family Christmas then," she remarked. Mr. Darcy could not return the smile. Her own joke quickly subdued her spirits as tears gathered in her eyes. "You may not have known it, but he was a wonderful, clever man."

"I believe you," Mr. Darcy affirmed her gently. "I believe that he loved you very much."

But not as much as I do.

Some things must be thought and not said, although at the moment it was quite difficult to remember why.

"He did," Elizabeth agreed sadly. "Not even Jane loves me as he did – with the understanding of kindred spirits."

"But I do," Mr. Darcy whispered before he could stop himself. He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but he could not take them back. Indeed, now that they were said, he could not seem to hold anything back. "I love you, Elizabeth, so … ardently. So passionately. You cannot imagine how I have struggled to keep this from you, how I have watched your mourning from afar and wished to be able to comfort you as Charles comforts your sister." He reached out a hand to carefully brush a tear from her cheek, relishing the contact. "It is wrong, so wrong, to say such a thing at this moment, in this place, but I cannot … I cannot let you believe that you are unloved, or that there is no creature on Earth who understands you. You and I, Elizabeth, are kindred spirits in our own way, although I suppose you have not realized that yet."

Elizabeth was, for possibly the first time in her life, stunned into silence. Perhaps her brain was still too muddled or tired, but she could not compose a response to such a passionate declaration. Luckily, she did not have to. Mr. Darcy leaned down, pressed his lips gently on her forehead and then even more gently on her lips, and then stood to leave.

"Get some rest," he instructed quietly, his voice soft and deep with affection. "I must see to your family. I will keep them safe, I promise."

Without another word, he left, and Elizabeth left in her bed with her head spinning just as much as before and the hot remembrance of his kisses burning tattoos upon her face and mind.

It was fortunate that Mr. Darcy returned downstairs at that moment, for he was handed a fire poker by Mr. Bingley only a moment before there came the sound of shattering glass from the parlour. The men braced themselves, weapons in hand. Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy exchanged a serious look, not dissimilar to the one exchanged between Mr. Hill and his men, the footman and the stable hand who had also come to defend the house against the undead.

It was not long before the men were faced not, as they expected, with the lone figure of the dead girl, but also with the dead girl's father, similarly red-eyed and bloody. Mr. Darcy raised his fire poker, prepared to fight to the death, but could not help wondering in the back of his mind what Elizabeth would think if she were to see him attacking her father and sister with a fire poker.

So much for happily ever after.