Chapter 5

Elizabeth glanced out the window, staring at the multitude below. Their groaning had not ceased since their arrival yesterday and despite her exhausted state, she had not been able to sleep a wink. She observed them in a delirious state all night, wondering how Wickham had managed to organize such a multitude. What was he planning? How could she get word to Fitzwilliam and her family? By this time, she knew her husband would be planning some sort of rescue attempt, but would he even know where to begin looking? Would he even consider Pemberley? Or would he venture back to the In-Between somehow? She had to send word, as soon as the opportunity presented itself. But how? There was no paper, quill, or ink. No one to even deliver a message if she did manage to write one down. And glancing around there was nothing in the barren room apart from the bed, an empty wardrobe, nightstand, table, and a heavy chair; nothing that could be used as a weapon or thrown out the window to create a means of escape.

Food had been brought to her that morning as well as a new dress. Elizabeth ignored the dress and instead opted to stay in her tattered wedding gown. She eagerly rushed towards the plate of fruit, cheese, and bread as soon as the servant had left however, her pride be damned. She wondered if Wickham had kept the household staff alive to tend to him, or rather her, seeing as he didn't need to eat. Or Is that what they were to him? Food. The thought sent a shiver through her body.

After she emptied the plate, she walked about the vast room once more. Her windows looked at both the back and side of the house. Both directions must have boasted spectacular countryside views at one point but now contained haunting views of the undead mulling about below. She placed her hands on the mantle and leaned over, glancing downward through the glass. The room was possibly four stories high and there was no trellis on the house to allow for an easy escape. Reaching up, she tried pushing the window open but it wouldn't budge. Upon further inspection, she saw it had been sealed shut. She was trapped.

Elizabeth paced over to her bedroom door and pulled, panic finally overcoming her. She hated feeling restrained and wanted to know why she was here and what his plan was. To her surprise, it opened with perfect ease. She stood there stunned for a second before taking a quiet step into the dark hallway. It was empty. The corridor ended directly to the right of the bedroom door so she slipped out in the other direction. She walked with slow, deliberate steps, keeping her back to the wall as much as possible. All the doors were closed. She contemplated searching them but gave up after the first few were locked. Instead she was steered to the main stairway. Glancing up, she saw an elaborate chandelier and gilded molding. The ceiling above her was painted to mimic the sky on a bright blue day. White puffy clouds were even included in the realistic representation. Her feet echoed loudly on the marbled steps, but she made it to the second story before hearing any other sounds of life.

Elizabeth clutched the dark wooden railing and peeked over. Servants, or undead, roamed the floors below. She wasn't sure which was which at this point, and although one could assume that those with black and white servant frocks on were still among the living, it was better to be safe than sorry and presume that everyone was a threat. Though how would she protect herself? She had no weapon. Realization dawned on her through her exhausted haze. Of course. Leaning over, she patted her hand against her gown. Through the fabric she still felt her two daggers hidden. She gave a quiet sigh of relief before standing once more, gratitude coursing over her that she had some form of protection and was not completely defenseless in a house surrounded by thousands of zombies.

"Good morning, Elizabeth," said a voice behind her. Turning, she faced Wickham. He wore a bright new uniform, and his eyes gazed intensely at her. She wondered how much he had seen. "I am happy you decided to venture out. Come, join me in the parlor."

He motioned up another hall. She was surprised by his calm, open nature. He almost appeared to be as he was before; all smiles, charisma, and the appearance of goodness. But she knew better. She walked slowly, trying to memorize as much of her new surroundings as possible. He eventually directed her into a rather large parlor room. Light paper lined the walls and all the furnishings were upholstered in rich red fabric. Despite the circumstances, everything was spotless. The numerous windows brightened the room, making the paintings on the walls easy to view. The ceiling in this room even possessed a mural of angelic beings perched gracefully atop clouds. Like in the stairwell, gold molding outlined the ceiling as well as the walls. It was the second time Elizabeth truly comprehended what kind of a man she married, the first being their initial approach towards Pemberley. Her mother had repeated over and over how wealthy Fitzwilliam was in comparison to Mr. Bingley, but to Elizabeth it never really mattered. Instead she admired his caring heart, his protectiveness towards those he loved, the way his brow furrowed and eyes darkened when she teased him, how his warm lips felt against hers.

As she anticipated, undead lined the room like guards. They wore spotless regimentals, which took her by surprise. Wickham sunk into a chair in the center of the room. Elizabeth took a seat in the couch opposite, placing a small table between them.

"How does it feel to be home?" Wickham mocked.

She offered him a stony glare and remained silent. The house and everything within it was foreign to her, but yet it strangely did feel like home. Not for its familiarity but that it was Fitzwilliam's. That fact alone made her feel closer to him despite the miles of distance between them. This was his home, and her home now, and she felt defensive knowing that undead were plaguing something else precious to her husband.

"Is it quite like you imagined?" he persisted.

She decided to play along. "I admit the arrival was a little different than I pictured, as well as the surrounding landscape." She shot him another harsh glance.

"Well, as the lord of this house," said Wickham, "I will do everything within my power to make you feel at home."

"Think of yourself how you will, but you'll never be lord of Pemberley," she spat back.

"All in good time," he responded good-naturedly.

A female servant no older than two and ten walked in then with a tea tray and biscuits. She nervously placed it onto the table between her and Wickham, the teacup tinkling all the while against the saucer. She shot a timid glance in Wickham's direction before eyeing Elizabeth, her eyes growing wide in shock, before quickly curtseying and fleeing the room.

"I thought you might like some tea," he offered, gesturing to the tray.

"Let that poor girl go," said Elizabeth, sitting defiantly on the sofa.

"No," he responded curtly. "Despite her age, she is well trained. Darcy would obtain the best servants… Anyways, I don't intend on turning her or any other member of the staff… but things do happen." He smiled devilishly.

A sickening feeling arose in Elizabeth's stomach, and her body instinctively leaned forward into an attack pose. Two undead began moving towards them, but Wickham motioned for them to go back to their positions along the wall.

She knew attacking him now would not accomplish anything, and sat back once more. He sought something and was attempting to gain her trust by calling off the undead guards.

"What do you want with me?" she asked him outright, not expecting an answer, but unable to hold her tongue any longer. She was surprised, however, at his response.

"I am very sorry I lost the pleasure of dancing with you."

"Excuse me?" she asked, confused.

"At the Netherfield Ball," Wickham clarified. "Your cousin interrupted us, and I never had the opportunity."

"If I recall correctly, you were too busy showing the undead orphans how to enter the kitchens and turn the servants," Elizabeth retorted bitterly.

"I was happy to see you emerged unscathed."

"Was all that an act?" Elizabeth asked angrily. "You taking me to St. Lazarus. Wanting to form an alliance between the living and the dead. Getting close to me. You were just after Aunt Catherine's money. For what? To arm your undead army? Get revenge on Fitzwilliam?"

"I knew Darcy fancied you," he responded, leaning back in his chair and propping his elbows on the arms. "I knew from the very moment he came riding into town and saw us together. I also saw the way your cousin eyed you. From then on I understood if I wanted to get close to Darcy's aunt, it could happen through either one, but what with my background with Darcy, your ignorant cousin was the best option. After I heard you had rejected Parson Collins, I realized you wouldn't be making Lady Catherine's acquaintance, so I had to create a way for you two to meet, knowing you would invite me along to defend the cause. That's why I put the idea into your cousin's head to propose to your friend. Parson Collins would invite her to stay and gain Lady Catherine's approval and she, in turn, would require a chaperone. Someone she was close to. Someone who could hold her own against Lady Catherine: You. After you heard my plans, I knew you would sympathize and invite me to plead my case. What I didn't anticipate was Darcy being there. I should have known though with his attraction for you."

Elizabeth stared at him dumbfounded. They had all been pawns in his elaborate scheme from the very beginning. "And what about your affections towards me?" she inquired, not caring for the answer, but wanting to determine where he stood now.

"I asked you once before to run away with me," he began. "You rejected me. And shortly thereafter trampled me with your horse."

She was surprised he didn't say it with any hostility, but rather as fact and with complete indifference, which made her uneasy.

"And taking Lydia?" she inquired. "Did you take her to spite me or gain revenge against Fitzwilliam?"

"Both," he replied with a smirk.

"Why are you telling me all this?" she asked after a few moments. She dreaded his answer for the only probable reason she could conjure up was because she would not live long enough to relay the information to anyone else.

"Because, my dear Miss Bennet," he mocked, remembering her correction from the day before, "you aren't going anywhere."

He scrutinized her for some time before questioning, "Do you wish to know my plan?"

"Why would I believe a word you say?" Elizabeth responded. Her voice was calm and, to her delight, it was having an annoying affect on Wickham. "You lied about Darcy's treatment of you. About his father being slain in the Second Battle of Kent. About what you really were."

"He turned me into this!" Wickham shouted, his façade crumbling. He stood and hurled the tea tray across the room. It soared into the wall, barely missing one of his undead guards. "If Darcy had given me the living promised I would never have been in the militia or been infected. I just want what is owed to me."

Elizabeth recalled the letter Darcy wrote to her last year. The one in which he stated Wickham had received what Darcy Senior had indicated and that he squandered it. More lies. He was baiting her. Trying to gain her sympathy even though he new it was a desperate move made by a desperate man... undead. But why? She suppressed her desire to either strike him down or flee the room, knowing the undead would be on her in an instant.

"So you plan on taking everything that is my husbands," she stated matter-of-factly.

"Indeed, madam," he responded. "Everything."

He was looking at her in a way he had no right to. Elizabeth wished she had left when she had the chance instead of sitting here defiantly trying to ignore the knowing look in his eyes. She knew what he was implying, what he wanted, but she tried to plead ignorance. She wished Fitzwilliam were here. She would feel safer, more secure. She felt like half of herself was missing without him. And even if they had been captured together, at least they would still be together: two halves of a perfect whole. Fitzwilliam would slice Wickham down in an instant, without the slightest hesitation or thought, for making such a comment and that gave her some sense of satisfaction. That he would be there to defend her honor as both a warrior and woman for the rest of her life, but yet he wasn't. Because Wickham knew this posed as the largest threat for them both: they were each other's greatest weakness.

She wondered what her husband was doing now while she sat here in the midst of their enemy. While the undead they hated most was trying to gain her trust and affections by sizing her husband up to being a monster even more barbaric than he, an undead. A zombie.

Her hands writhed in her lap and she knew if she did not occupy them soon, they would reach for the daggers beneath her skirts but then all of her cards would be on the table, and she would loose her advantage.

She was surprised when Wickham walked around the table towards her. Elizabeth stiffened. He kneeled next to the couch and leaned towards her, his face mere inches from hers.

"This should have been mine," he said, indicating the home, room, and belongings. "And this…"

He placed a hand on her knee, right where a hole in her tattered dress revealed her porcelain skin, and shot her a suggestive look, as if he had hoped she would opt to remain in her wedding gown. Elizabeth gazed at his hand and then turned her narrow eyes upon the undead kneeling in front of her. In one swift motion she reached under his arm and thrust it upward. The gesture was enough to throw him off balance.

She decided to save her daggers for a more opportune time and instead stood up and delivered a swift kick to Wickham's chest, sending him flying onto the table. It broke beneath his weight and sent him falling to the ground. She made for him but undead were upon her before she could deliver another blow. Their fingers dug into her skin and she soon felt her arms going numb.

Wickham broke into a fit of laughter from his place on the floor, his chest fluttering with every quick breath. After what seemed like several minutes he stood and straightened his jacket.

"I expected nothing less, my dear," he said with a smirk as he ran his hand through his hair. He then moved it to her cheek, his thumb caressing her skin for a few moments before lowering. "Until next time," he said with that same devilish grin. "Take her to her room."