(1)

In his youth, Mr. Bennet saved Miss Gardiner from an attack by a creature that polite society would have disdained to believe in had anyone been so foolish as to actually repeat the tale. It was all rather romantic and exciting, and Mr. Bennet could not say he was displeased to find himself swept up into a marriage as soon as it could be decently arranged.

Unfortunately, the new Mrs. Bennet's nerve had been permanently broken by the adventure, and Mr. Bennet soon discovered that the reality of marrying the beautiful damsel after her heroic rescue was not quite the recipe for guaranteed domestic bliss that he had hoped.

(2)

Elizabeth Bennet read everything in her father's library that she could reach, a limitation that diminished swiftly as she grew. Her favorites were the ones her father kept in the back of his study: thick tomes filled with impossible descriptions of hideous beasts and that had an annoying tendency to quote extensively in Latin or other, far more obscure languages.

Jane shuddered at the monstrous woodcuts that decorated the pages while Lydia took a ghoulish thrill from them. Elizabeth, for her part, found them a source of amusement more than anything else. She found great humor in the ridiculous, and it was hard to imagine more ridiculous creatures than those recorded in the pages of her favorite books.

Her mother had a shrieking fit when she discovered what Elizabeth was reading and took to her bed for three days. Her father for once intervened; he gave her something that very nearly resembled a lecture and moved his books to a higher shelf.

He forgot to move them again when she grew.

(3)

Her father's attitude towards correspondence was, at best, indifferent. Letters would be read sooner or later, although mostly later, but responses were another matter entirely; they were almost uniformly slow in coming and discovered to be brief in the extreme upon arrival.

For Elizabeth, this was rarely a matter of much concern as she had little need to write to her father as she was so infrequently parted from him, but it was a habit she had noted nonetheless. Only one correspondent got anything resembling a prompt reply, and even they, apparently, had cause to complain.

She discovered this last quite unintentionally. Her father had apparently used the old letter as a bookmark and then forgotten about it when he returned the book to the shelf, and the temptation of reading it upon its discovery was too great to resist.

. . . You really must start replying more promptly; it seems every time I must convince Mr. M- anew that you have not been felled by some nightmarish beast, but are merely behind once again on your correspondence, and I would really much appreciate relief from the chore. I know you say Meryton has little to fear, but have pity on an old friend's nerves, eh? . . .

It was an absurd letter, not only for its contents but for the image on its cracked seal. The imprint on it mentioned a society of some sort, which was ridiculous; she knew full well her father belonged to no such thing.

Except she had seen such letters before, she realized, and her eyes fell again to the phrase nightmarish beasts.

The woodcuts in the book suddenly seemed a little less funny.

(4)

She didn't ask her father. It was a ridiculous question, and she could not bear the idea of her father thinking her as ridiculous as he thought Kitty and Lydia.

She set the matter out of her mind and determinedly thought of other things.

She succeeded at this until the militia arrived at Meryton.

(5)

When a maid went missing, it was assumed she had run off with a sweetheart. Scandalous and inconvenient, but nothing more.

When a second and third went missing, a faint sense of uneasiness began to rise.

Elizabeth had expected her mother to complain about servants in general and fret that theirs would be running off next. She had not expected the genuine fear in her mother's eyes - or for the growing crease between her father's.

She dreamed of the woodcuts coming to life.

It was still nonsense, surely.

Even if her father had gone to the trouble of writing a letter and posting it with far more than his usual haste.

(6)

The arrival of Mr. Darcy was a relief. Whatever was going on - and Elizabeth refused to name it in bald terms even to herself for fear of becoming quite ridiculous - it was indisputable that it had started only after the militia had arrived, and while this correlation did not quite imply causation, it was nonetheless suspicious, and suspicion was exactly how Mr. Darcy was regarding those of the militia who had been invited to the Netherfield Ball, particularly the charming Mr. Wickham and the friends he spoke with.

That Mr. Darcy had arrived to deal with the problem was quite certain in Elizabeth's mind. The black looks he regarded the militia with and the caution he was treated with in return certainly spoke to some sort of history, and surely his arrival so soon after her father's letter could not be a coincidence.

No, she was determined that he must be part of the society her father's letters had spoken of. That he was a friend of Mr. Bingley's was convenient pretext, nothing more, and she could not think otherwise. That something was going on was no longer disputable; her mother, of all people, had nearly refused to let them come to the ball for fear of unnamed dangers that would come from travelling even this short distance in the dark. Her father had soothed those fears with a quiet conversation Elizabeth had been unable to arrange to overhear, but surely this was the solution. It was being handled.

So why did her father still look so concerned?

(7)

If she had not been keeping so careful an eye on Mr. Darcy, she would never have noticed when he jerked to attention and made his quick, quiet way out of the room.

Mr. Wickham, she realized, was already gone.

For a moment, she badly wanted to follow him. It was, of course, in all respects a bad idea, both for the sake of propriety and for the sake of her half-formed suspicions, but the very uncertainty of those suspicions made her burn with curiosity all the more. She had come to the limit of what she could learn by reading, and she dared not ask. What else was left to her?

But it was a ridiculous, indulgent, impulsive thought, far more suited to Lydia than herself –

Lydia.

Where was Lydia?

A bewildered Jane said that she had last seen her dancing with Wickham.

(8)

The grounds of Netherfield were quite lovely in the daylight hours.

In the darkness, every tree limb was a grasping hand, and every shadow grew eyes.

She was being absurd. She should go back inside. She should tell her father.

But it was hard to imagine her father in any active pursuit, and –

There.

She had rounded a corner, and there before her was Wickham, holding Lydia indecently tight to his chest.

There was blood on Lydia's neck.

She was swaying, utterly silent, eyes dreamlike, apparently totally unaware of what was happening around her. Wickham was snarling at Darcy, and there was blood on his teeth. Her sister's blood.

This was far worse than any woodcut.

Mr. Darcy had some sort of weapon in his hand, but he held it at the ready only.

He couldn't strike, she realized. Not with Lydia in the way.

His eyes flicked over to her for the barest second, and his face drained of color, but he turned his attention back to Wickham immediately.

Her mouth had gone utterly dry.

She had pieced it all together. She had been right.

That did not at all change the fact that she did not feel the slightest bit clever now.

"Hello, Mr. Wickham," she said, and long years of keeping her voice cheerful for Mama served her well. "You promised me this dance."

Mr. Wickham spun to face her, eyes wide.

The distraction cost him.

Mr. Dracy sprang forward and buried his weapon in Mr. Wickham's back.

Mr. Wickham convulsed, Lydia slipping from his arms, and Elizabeth sprang forward to pull her to safety, a shriek hastily bitten back on her tongue.

Mr. Darcy swung again, a blade glinting in the moonlight and –

And in two strokes it was done, and there was nothing more than dark dust floating away under the moonlight.

Elizabeth reminded herself, very firmly, that she must not scream.

(9)

Her next clear memory was of sitting on a nicely solid stone bench by the path. Lydia was leaning against her shoulder, all but asleep, and Mr. Darcy was crouched in front of her, looking highly concerned.

"Your sister should be alright now," he was saying. "I – I know the events of tonight have been highly – irregular. I cannot imagine what you must think."

"It's alright," Elizabeth said faintly.

Mr. Darcy looked highly relieved to hear her speak. "I should, I suppose, provide an explanation."

"He was a vampire," Elizabeth said. The word felt foreign on her tongue. She hadn't spoken of creatures like that aloud since she was giggling over them when she was too young to know better. It felt absurd to speak of them here.

"I – yes. How – "

"I read some of my father's letters," Elizabeth said vaguely. That should be sufficient, surely. She helped Lydia stand. "We really must get back to the ball."

(10)

Elizabeth was not surprised when Mr. Darcy disappeared almost immediately after the ball. His business was, after all, concluded, and she had no idea how in demand his services might be.

She did wish that he had remained a little longer. She felt she could not have made a good impression with her shock after the fight, and she would have liked the chance to make a better accounting of herself. He was almost certainly her best chance at getting any answers, and her squeamishness had prevented her from demanding them.

Her father might have provided them; he had gone pale after seeing the marks on Lydia's neck, carefully concealed throughout the ball but revealed at home, and he had all but dragged her into his office to talk. Lydia had emerged pale and quieter than ever; her father had emerged refusing to speak of the matter at all.

Mama had taken to her bed for a week, which was exasperating, but not surprising.

What was surprising was when a friend of Papa's arrived at the end of that week, apologizing for his late arrival and wearing a ring that bore the exact same image as the seals on the letters her father so often received.

So if this was who her father had sent for –

What, exactly, had been Mr. Darcy's role in events?

It was a puzzle, and one she was unlikely to get any answers to.

She was glad, at least, to have her holiday with her aunt and uncle to look forward to. It would be good to get out of the house, with all its reminders, and distract herself with new scenery.

Perhaps she could put all of this behind her when she went.

(x)

(When Darcy finally arrived at home, having pushed the horses as fast as he dared, he was told he could find Georgiana on the grounds.)

(He found her drinking in the bright sunlight, glowing in it without a hint of a burn.)

(When she went flying into his arms for an embrace, her skin was warm and alive beneath his hands.)

(xx)

(He had thought well of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She had been shocked by events, of course, but she had kept her wits about her, and he was intrigued by the hint that she knew more than he would have expected of any young lady who had not before seen the depths of the shadows. He had not, however, thought he was particularly likely to ever see her again.)

(He thought this right up until he all but ran into her in the middle of the Pemberley grounds.)

(It was not an at all unwelcome encounter.)