“All you said was ‘Let’s behead it.’ I’m the one who suggested ‘Satan’s Scissors’!”
“Oh, girls, girls, hush, please! I can’t stand to hear another word!” Mrs. Bennet wailed, fanning herself with a fresh hankie.
Everyone else ignored them.
“Don’t tell me you actually approve of all this?” Lt. Tindall said to Master Hawksworth. “Young ladies going about fighting with these strange, barbaric weapons?”
“I’ll tell you what I don’t approve of,” the Master grated out. “Failure.” He spun on his heel and started for the door, speaking over his shoulder to Elizabeth again. “Now come. After you’ve finished your dand-baithaks—a hundred should suffice—we will identify where you erred and ensure it never happens again.”
Elizabeth followed wearily, still aching from her fall and the fights with the dreadfuls and the walk to Meryton and back again. Yet despite it all, it was such sweet relief to escape the drawing room—and her mother and Lt. Tindall—she almost pitied her sisters.
CHAPTER 18
MR. BENNET’S LIBRARY—his private sanctuary, his refuge from foolishness and chatter and, in short, Everyone Else—had never felt more crowded. The captain’s Limbs were, by necessity, big, burly men, being beasts of a very peculiar burden (and one which weighed no less than fifteen stone). Standing at attention bracketing the captain, they blocked off an entire bookcase.
It was somewhat unsettling to find so many soldiers facing him across the top of his desk: It made Mr. Bennet feel a little like he was facing a firing squad. Yet the one thing that would have perturbed almost any other gentleman—the fact that the guest seated directly across from him had nary a (lowercase l) limb left—was, for Mr. Bennet, a much-welcome comfort. There was no need to ask the captain whether he’d served during The Troubles. Lydia and Kitty had described how the other soldiers broke ranks and ran from a single charging dreadful, but their commander was obviously a man of experience—hard, hellish experience. And that was precisely the kind all England needed to call on now.
Mr. Bennet told the captain all that had happened since he’d sent word of the dreadfuls’ return to the War Office in London. Some of it, he learned, Elizabeth had already passed along. There was much his daughter didn’t know, however, perceptive though she was. Much Mr. Bennet had been holding back for just this moment, when there would be no questions, no gasps. Just much-needed action.
“As I’m sure you noticed when you marched past St. Chad’s,” he said, “we haven’t taken the necessary measures at the cemetery. Until now, I’ve lacked both the manpower and the standing for such a step. I thought I might have an ally: a peer with an estate near here. Unfortunately—and unsurprisingly—he proved unreliable. In fact, I don’t think he’s so much as set foot outside his manor house since catching sight of his first unmentionable. And without his influence. . . .” Mr. Bennet shook his head and sighed. “People have forgotten what once was necessary. That’s especially true in a quiet little hamlet like this that never saw the worst of it even when half the Midlands was feasting on the other half’s brains. Of course, there are strategic advantages to such naiveté. I’m sure you remember well the danger posed by panic en masse. But now that you and the rest of your regiment are here, I think we can safely—”
“There is no regiment,” Capt. Cannon said.
Mr. Bennet cocked an ear, as if he’d simply misheard what the man had said as opposed to disbelieving it.
“Pardon?”
“My company is attached to no regiment,” the captain said. “We are here alone. One hundred men, all told.”
“But . . . surely you must realize . . . if it’s all beginning again . . . beginning here in Hertfordshire, this time. . . .”
Capt. Cannon simply stared back at his host with an air of imperturbable composure Mr. Bennet found both admirable and infuriating.
“Damn it, man, the Burial Act’s been repealed five years now!” he snapped. “Five years we’ve been letting people bury their dead with their heads on their necks! Which means this very moment there’s probably a pack of zombies tunneling around under St. Chad’s cemetery like so many moles! Have you any idea how many men—well-trained, disciplined men—it will take to deal with that? And how many more will be needed to secure the roads and patrol the countryside?”
“The War Office felt a company of a hundred would be sufficient for the task at hand here,” the captain said coolly.
“The only thing a company of a hundred will be sufficient for, Captain, is hors d’oeuvres! It’s been weeks since the first unmentionable sat up in his coffin. You know what could be coming next. A thousand men would be hard pressed to do what needs done in time!”
“Nevertheless,” Capt. Cannon said, “we have one hundred.”
“Why, by God? No more could be spared?”
“No more are being made available,” the captain said, and his expression finally changed. No longer was it simply impassive. Now it was a wall of cold stone.
This far and no further, the look said.
Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair and blew out a long breath. First the Order let him down by sending such a young master—and one, he was discovering, who was prone to diversion. Now his old comrades in the War Office had disappointed him, as well. More than disappointed him. Thrown him and his family to the undead wolves.
“You know, Captain,” he sighed, “the only reason I hadn’t lost hope entirely was because the army was on its way. Now, however . . .”
“I would take it as a great favor, Mr. Bennet, if you didn’t panic quite yet.”
Mr. Bennet searched Capt. Cannon’s face for any sign he was being insulted. Yet the other man’s expression had softened, as had his voice, and it was quickly clear no slight was intended. He’d merely been reminding Mr. Bennet of something he’d lost sight of: that the soldiers were being thrown to the wolves, too, and the captain might need his help as much as vice versa.
“Agreed,” he said with a slight, wry smile. “I won’t panic . . . yet. There will be plenty of time for that later, I’ll wager.”
The captain nodded. “Indeed, there will.”
The two old warriors meditated for a moment on what might be in store for them. Then Capt. Cannon broke the gloomy silence by lifting his chin and saying, “Right Limb. Nose. Itch.”
“Well,” Mr. Bennet said as the Limb leaned in to scratch at the captain’s bulbous nose, “I had been counting on the sway a full regimental colonel would have. There will be resistance when we make our first move, and that will be more difficult to overcome now. Much more difficult, I’m afraid.”
“Lower. Over. Harder. Not that hard!” The captain dismissed Right Limb with a jerk of the head. “Mr. Bennet, you are a man of great cleverness, I’ve been told. A man of courage and honor. Unfortunately, what we need is a man of rank. Someone whose name—or, preferably, title—could ease the way for us in the days ahead. This nobleman you spoke of, for instance. . . .”
Mr. Bennet nodded glumly.
“Yes, yes. I was just thinking the same thing,” he said. “And believe me, you don’t find it half so unfortunate as do I.”
CHAPTER 19
MASTER HAWKSWORTH PACED slowly around Elizabeth as she did her dand-baithaks, and though he kept his observations to her technique—“Back straight, Elizabeth Bennet!” . . . “Nose to the floor, Elizabeth Bennet!” . . . “I can hear you breathing, Elizabeth Bennet!”—she couldn’t help but wonder how much he was simply observing her. This was, after all, the first time the two of them had been alone in the dojo, and she, for one, was keenly aware that the flush to her cheeks and the tightness in her chest weren’t entirely due to the exercise.
The Master had been worried about her, that much had been obvious back in the house. And despite all his bluster, it wasn’t the cold, calculating, utilitarian worry of a warrior who needed every sword he could muster against The Enemy.
He cared. Elizabeth was sure of it.
W
hat she wasn’t so sure of was what—if anything—she should do about it.
When Master Hawksworth finally let her get up off the floor, he kept circling, looking her over. She knew she was supposed to keep her gaze straight ahead, “piercing infinity” as the Master called it when drilling the girls on their warrior scowls. Yet her self-consciousness grew so acute Elizabeth couldn’t keep her eyes up, and soon her gaze was piercing nothing save her own toes.
Master Hawksworth stopped directly before her, his chest mere inches from hers.
“What’s this? Staring at the floor? Have I mistakenly brought Jane Bennet to the dojo?”
Elizabeth forced herself to look up and meet the Master’s stare.
He nodded once, brusquely. “There. Now I know I am looking at Elizabeth Bennet.”
“And you are grateful to see her?”
Master Hawksworth’s face took on the look of pained astonishment Elizabeth imagined he wore when he first felt the Fulcrum of Doom, and as he whirled away, putting his back to her, she cursed her own reckless presumption. It wasn’t Jane anyone would mistake her for now; it was foolish, imprudent Lydia.
“A student doesn’t—!” the Master began. “I am . . . I should . . .!”
Then he slumped and sighed and was silent. When he went on again a moment later, he sounded not outraged but resigned.
“Why should I be surprised that you would speak so boldly? You, who are the very model of . . .”
Whatever his last word was, it came out so softly Elizabeth couldn’t even hear it.
He turned toward her again, straightening his back and setting his legs apart as if facing a foe. Yet his expression remained wounded, torn.
“Yes,” he said, “I am grateful to see you. Grateful catastrophe did not befall you today. Very grateful to have you back in my dojo. Do you know why?”
Elizabeth fought to swallow a lump in her throat. It felt like it was the size of a baked potato, or perhaps even a smallish ham.
“No,” she croaked.
“You should know. You should feel it. For it was obvious to me the first time I laid eyes on you. You are special, Elizabeth Bennet.”
Master Hawksworth stepped up close to her again—so close, in fact, Elizabeth worried parts of their bodies she blushed to even think of would soon be rubbing up against each other.
The Master stopped just in time.
“At the lake. With the unmentionable. Your father ordered your sister to attack, yet it was you who took action. You, who are as much the lady as she, you could lay that aside and charge in and fight. Without much competence, perhaps, but with all the courage any warrior could hope for. The skills will come with time. That is why I push you so hard. The courage, though . . . at times I think it is something one must be born with. As you were.”
Elizabeth wondered if she should say “Thank you,” but found herself too flustered to speak at all. Before, the highest praise the Master had doled out to anyone was “Not bad,” a phrase that implied no matter how well one had done, he could do better blindfolded. Yet now it almost sounded as though he admired her.
“Elizabeth Bennet,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “I need you to teach me—”
And somewhere in that moment, as he either searched for the right word or the nerve to say it, it ended. Elizabeth saw it in his eyes. They went distant again. Dead.
“—how to fillet a spider!” Master Hawksworth barked, and he leapt aside, arm stretched out toward a fresh-spun cobweb in the corner.
“HAAAAAAAA-IIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” Elizabeth cried, grateful for the excuse to move, scream, give her heart something to thump over other than feelings she didn’t understand.
She charged the web, unsheathed her blade and, with a few quick cuts, diced the spider. It was as close to “fillet” as she could get.
“Not bad . . . not bad,” Master Hawksworth mused as he leaned in to inspect the spider. He was careful to keep his distance now, and his hands were clasped behind his back. “Tell me, how is it you failed in the forest?”
Elizabeth kept her eyes on his as she told him of her brief battle with the zombie that afternoon. She was looking for some hint of the vulnerability, the humanity he’d allowed her to see just a minute before. But his armor was firmly back in place now, and she could see nothing beyond it.
“So, this doctor. He is a good shot?” he said when she was done.
“I very much doubt it. He was simply too close to miss.”
The Master shook his head. “An inelegant solution. A warrior prefers to deal death with his own hands.”
“Dr. Keckilpenny is not a warrior. He puts his faith in the sciences rather than the deadly arts.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of such men. They believe we can think our enemies away. Fools!”
“Is it not to a warrior’s advantage to understand his enemy?”
Hawksworth gave Elizabeth a long, hard look, and for a moment she feared she’d let this new, disconcerting informality between them loosen her tongue overmuch yet again. She had caught a glimpse of the real Geoffrey Hawksworth, yes, but it wasn’t to him she was speaking now. It was the Master.
She almost started shaking out her aching arms in preparation for the inevitable dand-baithaks.
“Do you truly think there is anything about the unmentionables one could understand?” Master Hawksworth finally said.
“That is what the ‘fools’ intend to discover,” Elizabeth might have replied, but she felt weary and wary now, and she said nothing.
The Master stared at her for a painfully long time before shrugging his own question away.
“No. Understanding didn’t stop the dreadfuls the last time. This—” He launched himself into the air, grabbed hold of a post, swung around it, then landed in a perfect Hour Glass Stance, fists up. “—is what stopped them.”
A Leaping Leopard brought him across the room, and he set down with surprising lightness inches from Elizabeth again.
“Yes, you are special, Elizabeth Bennet. Yet clearly you are not ready to face what awaits unaided. So we must focus, for the moment, on moves you can use in tandem with a more skillful ally. Pas de deux, you might call them—though these are dances of death. Natural stance!”
Elizabeth assumed the position, and Master Hawksworth took a step back and did the same.
“These moves will require us to act in unison, in harmony, as one,” he said. “So . . . no Fulcrum of Doom or Axis of Calamity from you. And I will not again allow myself to become careless or distracted. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” Elizabeth said, though it wasn’t entirely true.
“Good. Then take my hands.” Master Hawksworth reached out toward Elizabeth. “This move is called the Hawk and the Dove. It begins like this. . . .”
CHAPTER 20
THE BARON OF LUMPLEY awoke with his arms around one of his hounds and a pile of empty gin bottles nestled against his back. He felt blearily around the bed for the chambermaids, but the only naked rump to slap was his own.
Then he remembered.
He’d been wrestling around with Yvonne, Yvette, Ywhat-have-you, the French one, the night before. She was a slender little doe-eyed thing with dark curls and milky skin and, most appealing of all, an almost complete inability to speak English. Only the baron had rolled over her a little too roughly at one point, his lordly girth flattening her, forcing the air from her lungs, and she’d wheezed out a sound that needed no translation: “Ohhhh!” And when he’d glanced down at her, it hadn’t been Ywhoever he’d seen beneath him.
It was Emily Ward.
How easily he’d forgotten that name just a few weeks before, as he’d let so many names flit from his memory when they (and their bearers) no longer served a purpose. Yet now he couldn’t forget it no matter how hard he tried, and the same was true of the face that went with it. The faces, really—one pert and pretty, the other puffy, putrescent.
“Go! Get away from me! Leave me alone!” he’d howled, pressing
his hands to his eyes, and the chambermaid had shrieked and snatched up her clothes and scurried from the room, leaving him to greedily glug down more gin until he collapsed into dreamless oblivion.
And now he was awake again—sort of. But why why why? Being awake meant being aware, and that was the exact thing he didn’t want to be.
There was a soft knock on the door, and the baron lifted his head off his pillow—or was it another dog?—and spoke the first words of a new day.
“Hmf ibbit?”
“It’s me, Milord. Lucy. Belgrave sent me up to see if there was anything you’d be needing right about now. Or wanting.”
Ahhhhhhh, Lucy, she of the hips as wide and sturdy as the White Cliffs of Dover. She was an old favorite of his. Belgrave, God bless the man, was trying to cheer him up.
Yet for once the thought of her did nothing to rouse him, and he remained stretched across his bed like a beached whale.
“Guh awuh,” he said.
“As you wish, Milord.”
A while later—ten minutes, perhaps, or maybe two hours, Lord Lumpley neither knew nor cared—he pushed himself up and, resenting every second of his labors, pulled on a stained and wrinkled robe. Then he shuffled to a pair of double doors, threw them open, and stepped out onto a balcony overlooking Netherfield’s long, lush front lawn.
It was another bright-sunny day in what seemed like an infinite succession of them, and the baron knew he should be out and about making the most of it. There was so much he could be doing! Racing over the roads in his cabriolet, whipping his horses, terrorizing the locals. Wasn’t that just what he needed? Wouldn’t that bring him roaring back to life?
Lord Lumpley was still squinting, watering eyes adjusting to the light, when a shimmering figure moved out of the trees lining the lawn. With his first blink, it took shape: a girl in white, ghostly pale except for the scarlet splotches around her mouth and hands.
With his second blink, she was gone.
The baron cursed. He couldn’t even step outside without seeing things.
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