Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls (31 page)

A hand settled lightly on Mr. Bennet’s forearm.

“Papa?” Jane said. “How did we do?”

Mr. Bennet glanced at Master Hawksworth, who was sitting, legs spread out, back propped against a wall. Both Elizabeth and Mary were leaning in over him.

“You were splendid,” Mr. Bennet said to Jane. “But there are tests yet for you to face.”

“What?” Capt. Cannon said. “Limbs! Pace!”

Right Limb and Left Limb began wheeling him around the foyer so he could scowl at panting, shame-faced soldiers.

“I’d say your daughters have already proved themselves more warrior than many another here.”

“If I’d had more men, it would have looked different,” Lt. Tindall protested. “So many were held back in the house.”

“One doesn’t fight dreadfuls in the dark, Lieutenant,” Capt. Cannon snapped. “When we face them again on the battlefield, it will be on our terms. Now, let us see to the—”

“I would have words with you, Cannon,” Mr. Bennet said. “Alone.”

“Limbs. Halt.”

The two men looked into each other’s eyes a moment. Mr. Bennet’s were full of rage; the captain’s, remorse.

“Limbs, to my chambers. Lieutenant, see to it there’s a man—or a lady—at every window and door. It’s going to be a long night.”

The pounding began before he’d even finished. One fist thumped against the door, then another smashed into a window, then another started in, and another and another and another until the whole house rattled and seemed to shudder. Some of the villagers packed into the rooms nearby screamed in terror, and their cries were answered by screeches from just outside.

“We must have calm!” Capt. Cannon roared. “The next person I hear shrieking will be put outside with the other banshees!”

The screaming stopped, for a time. As the captain and Mr. Bennet moved off into the north wing, they approached the room where Dr. Thorne, the company’s gruff old duffer of a surgeon, was seeing to the wounded.

“You’re lucky, boy. That’s not a bad scratch at all,” the doctor was saying as they passed by. “You’ll only lose the arm up to the elbow.”

Mr. Cummings could be heard offering comfort by reading haltingly from his
Book of Common Prayer
. It seemed to be a selection from the table of contents, however, and it was soon drowned out by the sound of sawing and all the attendant lamentations.

When they reached the bedroom Capt. Cannon had commandeered for his headquarters, the soldiers guarding the windows were dismissed and Left Limb and Right Limb positioned in their place. The captain was left in the middle of the room in his cart. Mr. Bennet, although offered a seat, chose to stand directly before him.

“Are you sure you want your men to hear this?” Mr. Bennet said, nodding at the Limbs.

“By necessity, I have no secrets from them.”

“So they know already that which has been withheld from me?”

Capt. Cannon nodded slowly, head hanging. “They do.”

“Then you have grievously insulted me, Captain. When you first arrived in Hertfordshire, I greeted you as a comrade. Yet you were deceiving me from the very beginning.”

“Yes. And how it has weighed on me!” the captain cried out in anguish. “You are a good man, Bennet, and I have treated you shamefully. I welcome the opportunity to expunge some of my guilt by acknowledging my dishonor now.” He took in a deep, shuddering breath before going on. “Your suspicions are correct. I have been wooing your good lady wife.”

Mr. Bennet nodded impatiently, opened his mouth, and then froze, utterly dumbstruck.

A softly wheezed “What?” was all he could get off his lips.

“Prudence was the one true love of my life,” Capt. Cannon went on. “The one love Fate allowed me before I became as you find me. When I saw her again, it was as if parts of me that were long dead suddenly sprang to life again. I became, in those precious moments I could be with her, some semblance of my younger self . . . my
whole
self, so long lost to—”

Mr. Bennet held up a hand.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he said. “
What
?”

The captain blinked at him. “You didn’t suspect?”

“No! I was talking about the dreadful hordes. You’ve known all along that the strange plague has spread far beyond Meryton. As far as I know, we’re the
last
to see its return, not the first. It’s why the War Office could spare only one company of new recruits commanded by callow youths and an officer who has, to be blunt, seen better days. It’s why some of the unmentionables I saw tonight obviously came from Cambridge and companies of soldiers other than your own. It’s why you already had your men preparing boards for the windows and doors. It’s why the mails and hackney coaches haven’t been . . . my God,
really
? You’ve been dillydallying with Mrs. Bennet?”

“Yes. Courting her with all my heart.”

“When you knew we were probably all about to die?”

“In which case there would be no opportunity later.”

“But . . .
why
?”

“As I said. Because I love her. And should you fall in the days ahead and I survive, I fully intend to claim the happiness that chance has denied me the last twenty years.”

“You assume Prudence would marry you?”

“Can you truly say you have been so attentive and loving a husband she would stay in mourning all her remaining days?”

Mr. Bennet gaped at the man a moment, put a hand to the side of his head as if to assure himself it was still there, then waved his confusion away and tried to focus on what he thought mattered most.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the dreadfuls?”

“Orders. The War Office was desperate to avoid a panic in the Home Counties. You remember The Troubles. People try to flee, the roads become clogged, the dreadfuls descend, and before long you’ve got one thousand zombies where before you had one hundred.”

“Yes, yes, I remember. Tell me—”

Mr. Bennet had a dozen more questions he wished to ask, but he realized they all really came down to one thing.

“Is there any hope for us?”

It was a question that could be answered with a yes or a no, of course, and Mr. Bennet found it instructive—if not encouraging—that Capt. Cannon didn’t use either word.

“The North is overrun. If you didn’t have friends in the War Office, even my one company of untrained London urchins would not have been sent to your aid. Lord Paget is moving a battalion over from Suffolk to reinforce the capital—to think anyone was worried about Napoleon at a time like this!—but I can’t say for certain where he is at the moment. Assuming he hasn’t met with disaster already, however, his column
might
be in or near Hertfordshire, and if we could get word to him somehow he
might
decide to send reinforcements.”

“‘Might,’ ‘somehow,’ and ‘might’ again,” Mr. Bennet said. “It is little to pin our lives on.”

Capt. Cannon shrugged. “Yet it is something.”

Mr. Bennet nodded, then sucked in a long, deep breath.

“You know that my code of honor demands your death,” he said.

“Of course. And
you
know that, shamed though I might be to have betrayed the trust of a worthy man, a soldier does not face death without defending himself. My Limbs stand ready to act as my seconds.”

“Of course.”

Something began scratching at the planks over the nearest window.

“And yet,” Mr. Bennet said, “this does not strike me as an opportune time for a duel.”

“Nor I.”

The scratching grew louder and was soon joined by the sound of clumsy pawing from another pair of hands.

“I propose, then, a gentleman’s agreement,” Mr. Bennet said. “For now, we will continue to work together. If we are both alive in two days’ time, however, we may do our utmost to kill each other.”

“Done. Right Limb, shake the man’s hand.”

And so they shook.

__________________

EVENTUALLY, ELIZABETH TIRED of chopping off limbs and wandered away from her post. Mary had relieved her an hour before, yet she’d lingered by the window with her anyway, shouting “Breach!” and hacking away every time a plank popped free. By the time a soldier rushed over to nail the board back in place, the pile of splotchy, tatter-fleshed arms under the sill would have grown taller by at least two.

“Interesting. That one looks like it came from a blackamoor,” Mary said at one point. “Or do you think that’s just the way he was decaying?”

“I’m done,” Elizabeth mumbled, and she simply walked off.

Just getting out of the room and down the hall was a challenge, crowded as the lower floor was: Lord Lumpley had insisted that “the un-invited” stay downstairs while the upper floor remained reserved for him and his guests. (The ballroom had been abandoned straight off, for its long rows of broad, tall windows made it impossible to defend.)

Yet the villagers cleared a path for Elizabeth as best they could, and those who weren’t huddled up weeping or asleep nodded tight-lipped encouragement. Some even thanked her. They’d seen what she and her sisters had done to help hold the dreadfuls back. No one looked at them
as pariahs now. They were saviors.

It was the same when Elizabeth went up to the second floor (to escape the constant pounding and the choking smell of fear and death downstairs, she told herself). The very people who’d snubbed her hours before were offering her grim smiles and the occasional “Well done” or “Good show.” They were currying her favor now, and it sickened her.

Her father would understand her weariness and disgust, but he was in conference with Capt. Cannon and Lt. Tindall, planning an “action” for the next morning (assuming they lasted out the night). She knew where Jane was—just down the hall, posted outside Lord Lumpley’s bedchamber door. There was no use talking to her at such a time, however. Jane was too pure-hearted to appreciate bitterness.

And then there was Master Hawksworth. Once, she would have thought that he, a proud warrior, would understand. But he’d hobbled off to stand guard in some far corner of the house, and Elizabeth found she lacked the will to seek him out. She had many questions for the Master—and little stomach for the likely answers. Easier to simply escape.

She kept going up until there was no higher to climb.

Mr. Smith noticed her first.

“Buh ruhzzzzz!” he said. “Buh ruhzzzzz!”

“And good evening to you.”

Dr. Keckilpenny was half-dozing on the floor, his head against his trunk. At the sound of Elizabeth’s voice, though, he hopped up smiling, instantly alert.

“Miss Bennet! I was hoping you would return to my little aerie sooner or later!” He started toward her but stopped after just one stride, his smile taking on a stiff, frozen quality. “As you can see, I’ve made quite a bit of progress with our subject.”

“You have?”

“Indeed!”

“Buh ruhzzzzzz,” said Mr. Smith. “Buh ruhzzzzz!”

“Did you hear that, Miss Bennet? ‘Buh ruhz’ instead of just ‘Buhruh.’
And all it took was another three hours of intensive re-Anglification. Why, at this rate, I’ll have him speaking complete sentences by . . . oh, the early twenty-first century, at the latest.”

Mr. Smith was, as usual, pulling against his chains, his arms back, as he writhed and kicked and snapped his teeth at Elizabeth.

“Do you really think this can be of any help to us now?” she asked.

Dr. Keckilpenny shrugged. “I think it is what I can best contribute.”

“I assume Dr. Thorne could still use some help with the wounded.”

“He has an orderly and a clergyman assisting him already. With one to cart away the spare parts and the other to usher out the souls, I really don’t see what good I could do.”

“You might do much. There will be more sick soon, even if the dreadfuls don’t break in tonight. The air downstairs is fetid and growing worse by the minute, and what food and drink are left will soon be gone.”

For what seemed like the first time since Elizabeth met him, the doctor stopped smiling.

“Yes, well, I’ll do what I can about that when the time comes. Until then, my work remains here.”

Elizabeth wasn’t sure what she’d come up to the attic to say, but somehow that didn’t matter now. She was speaking to a different Dr. Keckilpenny than she’d once known. Or perhaps simply a truer one.

“You know, Doctor,” she said, “I’m beginning to think you can’t be bothered with any problem that isn’t hypothetical. It’s as if you exist nowhere but in your own head.”

Dr. Keckilpenny’s grin returned. It was askew, though—so slanted it was almost half smile, half frown.

“My favoritest place,” he said, tapping a finger against his forehead. “Though I like it infinitely better when I’m not up here alone.”

“Elizabeth Bennet?” a voice called out, and heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. “Elizabeth Bennet, are you there?”

Master Hawksworth stepped into the attic.

He then immediately jumped out of the attic—or several steps back
down the stairwell, at least.

“Is that a . . .?” he said, gaping at Mr. Smith.

“Yes,” Dr. Keckilpenny said. “It is
a
. A chained
a
. You have nothing to fear from him.”

The Master scowled and stomped slowly to the top of the stairs again, favoring his left leg. “You are Bertram Cuckilpony?”

“Oh, my. He’s even worse than I am!” the doctor scoffed. “It’s Keckilpenny. And even mangling my name, Sir, you have me at a disadvantage. You would be . . .?”

Hawksworth spread his legs and put his hands on his hips. “Elizabeth Bennet’s master.”

“Her
what
? Goodness gracious, this isn’t America. You make it sound as though you own her.”

“Master Hawksworth is my instructor in the deadly arts,” Elizabeth said, moving between the two men.

Dr. Keckilpenny nodded and looked the Master up and down. “Ahhhh. That explains the physique, I suppose. Though why anyone should want to be all swollen up like a Frenchman’s balloon, I don’t know.”

“Better to be swollen than as spindly as a dried-out twig,” Master Hawksworth sneered back.

“Buh ruhzzzz,” Mr. Smith moaned, hungrily ogling the Master’s physique. “Buh ruhzzzzzz!”