Steve Hockensmith - Pride and Prejudice and Zombies - Dawn of the Dreadfuls

“Perhaps we might do some sword work together during one of my many visits,” Elizabeth replied. “It would be wise, I think, to remind the baron what you’re capable of with a katana . . . though I will admit, I would be happier packing a chastity belt.”

“Lizzy!”

“For Lord Lumpley, of course,” Elizabeth said. “I suspect the man already wears a truss. A chastity belt would require but the tiniest bit of extra—”

“Elizabeth Bennet, you should be ashamed of yourself,” Jane said. But she was grinning as she said it. “You say the most awful things!”

Elizabeth smiled back, pleased to see she’d lifted her sister’s spirits. Yet it would take a lot more than naughty quips, she knew, to actually keep Jane safe.

She put a pair of tekko brass knuckles in the trunk. Then an ivory-handled push dagger. Then her sister’s nunchucks. Then her flintlock pistol and powder horn. Then a bag of shot. Then a retractable bo staff and ninja hand claws and a battle-axe and . . . and . . . and . .

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, the Bennets lined up outside the house to bid Jane adieu.

“I’m sure you will acquit yourself well,” said Mary.

“Just you with a baron and a hundred soldiers—I’m so jealous!” said Kitty.

“I should be so lucky when I’m your age!” said Lydia.

“Be careful, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet. “But not too careful.” And she gave Jane a broad wink.

Master Hawksworth watched all the proceedings from the doorway of the dojo. The only farewell he offered to Jane was a solemn bow. Yet this, in its own way, seemed as heartfelt as anything the Bennets had to say.

As Jane returned the bow, the Master’s eyes flicked, for just an instant, to Elizabeth and her father.

Mr. Bennet, Elizabeth noticed, was watching the younger man with a look of dry disdain. When the Master noticed it as well, he abruptly spun on his heel and stalked back into the dojo.

Something had shifted between her father and Master Hawksworth—something, Elizabeth feared, that had to do with her. Just that morning, when she’d asked if she might accompany Jane to Nether-field, Mr. Bennet had said, “That’s a splendid idea. I’ll tell Hawksworth you shall be gone for the day.”

Not “ask the Master.” “ Tell Hawksworth.”

Whatever it meant, she had no chance to ask about it, however slyly she might have gone about it, for when they left Longbourn, her father suddenly began acting like her mother. He’d decided that they should walk (an armed servant in a dogcart having been dispatched with Jane’s trunk at first light), and all the way to Netherfield Park he kept up a stream of nervous chatter. Fortunately, it wasn’t the need for an heir or rich sons-in-law or the certainty of his own encroaching doom that occupied him: He was reviewing fighting techniques, tossing out bits of zombie lore (“Have I mentioned their fondness for cabbage patches?”), and reminding Jane, not once but twice, of the efficaciousness of the Fulcrum of Doom and its sundry variations.

It was as if all their father had learned through months of study in the Orient and years battling the unmentionables might be imparted to his daughters in one fifty-minute walk, provided he talked quickly enough. He barely paused for so much as a breath until he spotted something by the side of the road that, for a moment, seemed to take it away entirely.

“Well, well, well . . . and I was just about to get to this, too,” he muttered, and he slowly approached a small mound of what looked like mincemeat or the contents of a particularly lumpy haggis. “It appears Fate has taken an interest in your education.”

“What is it?” Elizabeth asked.

“Zombie droppings.”

“Zombie . . . droppings ?”

“Oh, my,” Jane said. “I didn’t think unmentionables would need to, um, you know. . . .”

“They don’t. Not the way the living do, at least.” Mr. Bennet pulled out a dagger, knelt down beside the gloppy mess, and began sifting through it with the tip of the blade. “It moves through their bodies without being digested and then eventually just . . . falls out. That’s how you can tell it’s from a dreadful.”

He stabbed something, brought it up to his nose, and gave it a sniff.

It was a finger. A wedding band was still attached just above the exposed knuckle bone.

“Fresh. We must be doubly wary,” Mr. Bennet said. Then he flicked the finger into the brush, stood up, and started off again up the lane. “Now where was I? Oh, yes! Eyes! Always a nice, soft, vulnerable target in a human foe, but don’t bother with them when you’re up against a dreadful. They seem to see without the things, somehow. . . .”

He carried on along this line for only another minute or so, for soon the lane curved around to the baron’s estate and a shrill voice squeaked out, “Who goes there?”

About fifty feet ahead, a young solider stood in the middle of the road, his wobbling Brown Bess pointed at the Bennets.

“Friends, lad!” Mr. Bennet called out. “Living, breathing friends, as you can tell from the fact that I’m answering you at all! I commend you on your caution—keep it up, by all means—but if you could stand down for now, it would be appreciated!”

The soldier lowered his musket.

“You may pass,” he squawked.

He did his best to look stout and manly as Mr. Bennet and the girls passed him by, but with his splotchy skin and baggy uniform he appeared more boy than man.

“Are foot soldiers always so young?” Elizabeth asked.

“Not for long,” her father replied.

Before Elizabeth could ask what that meant, he was waving at a stiff figure on the other side of the estate’s lush front lawn.

“LieutenantTindall! Good morning! Where might the captain be?”

The lieutenant was watching a small squad of soldiers drill with muskets on their shoulders—watching and not approving, to judge by the scowl Elizabeth could see even from so far away.

When he turned to face the Bennets, the scowl deepened.

He started toward them with quick, crisp steps, his back still perfectly straight, as though he wished to demonstrate how a real English soldier marches.

“Mr. Bennet,” he said as he drew near, and he gave the girls a brusque nod of greeting. “Ladies.”

His gaze didn’t linger on Jane, as it had back at Longbourn. Quite the opposite: It was clear he was taking pains not to look at her at all.

“Captain Cannon is awaiting your arrival with Lord Lumpley,” he said to Mr. Bennet. “It is the captain’s wish that His Lordship and his new . . .” It was hard to believe the man’s upper lip could curl any further, yet he managed it. “. . . escort should set off for Meryton immediately. There is a vicar who needs talking to, I gather.”

“Capital!” Mr. Bennet enthused. “I’m glad to find we’re wasting no time this morning—enough has been squandered already. If you would show the way?”

Lt. Tindall bowed stiffly, then marched off again with a strained “Follow me.”

Elizabeth peeped over at her sister as the Bennets followed. Jane looked pale and pinch-cheeked, and her wide eyes were pointed at the grass. Humility had always been her natural state, but this was humiliation .

Elizabeth took her by the arm.

“Don’t be anxious, Jane. You do what you must for king and country, and you will do it with honor. Surely, anyone with even the slightest sense will appreciate that. As for those who disapprove, well, I would say let the unmentionables have them, but they’re so narrow-minded there’s probably not enough in their heads to tempt even the most peckish dreadful.”