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

By “the old way,” of course, she meant unbeheaded.

The vicar stumbled, rested a hand atop a headstone for support and then, when he saw what he was leaning on, jerked away.

“How many of those markers have you added here since the Burial Act was repealed?” Mr. Bennet asked him. “Twenty? Thirty? If you can’t recall, you need not worry: Soon enough an exact count will be easy indeed. Fancy caskets might last a little longer in the ground, but they won’t hold what lies within them forever.”

“I suppose it’s t-t-true. . . . God help us. . . .” Mr. Cummings dared a glance at the dark circle of gore around the now-motionless unmentionable. “This calls for suh-suh-ssssssswift action.” He straightened his black frock coat with a trembly tug, then turned and tottered off toward the vicarage. “I shall write my bishop immediately.”

“Excuse me?” Mr. Bennet said.

“I l-l-lack the authority to approve a m-m-mass disinterment,” Mr. Cummings muttered as he shuffled away. “I must consult with the head of the d-d-diocese . . . perhaps even the archbishop himmmmself. But I will state the matter’s urgency in no uncertain terms, you may rest assured.”

“Get your head out of your cassock, you fool!” Lord Lumpley called after him. “There’s no time for any of that!”

Jane slipped swiftly past the baron, catching up to Mr. Cummings in but a few, fleet-footed strides.

“You look weak.” She wrapped an arm around the man’s waist. “Allow me to help, Mr. Cummings.”

In a blink, she was behind him, her other arm crooked around his neck.

She’d seen the Panther’s Kiss performed only once, but she was a very attentive pupil.

The vicar squirmed weakly, sagged, then dropped to the ground.

“Oh, dear,” Jane said. “It appears Mr. Cummings has fainted, just like Ensign Pratt.”

“Well, I suppose the grass here is as soft as any bed. We’ll just let him rest on”—Mr. Bennet peered at the headstone marking the plot Mr. Cummings was stretched out upon—“Mrs. Foreman until his nerves recover. She was buried during The Troubles, so I don’t suppose the lady will be raising any objections. And while our friend the vicar is recuperating, we might as well carry on with our labors here. He did call for swift action before he went all woozy and incomprehensible.” He turned one of his dry little smirks on Lord Lumpley. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes. Quite,” the baron grated out. “Though it does make me curious. If I should refuse to host the ball at Netherfield—which I assume you wish me to do for some devious reason all your own—will I suddenly find myself becoming ‘woozy and incomprehensible,’ as well?”

“Oh, I can’t imagine that, my Lord.” Jane turned and started walking toward the baron. “Your constitution seems quite sound. If not for your rather strongly worded intervention when the dreadful took hold of me, I suspect I’d now be stretched out on the ground like Mr. Cummings and Ensign Pratt.” She stopped directly before Lord Lumpley and held his gaze for a long moment with no hint of a blush to her cheeks. “No, the only thing you should suffer should you decline, I think, would be the loss of an opportunity to dance with me and my sister, for as you know we would not be welcome at Pulvis Lodge.”

Behind her, Mr. Bennet shifted uneasily, jaw clenching. He might have assigned this role to his daughter, but he was troubled now to see how well she could play it.

Lord Lumpley noticed—and was pleased.

“Well, since you put it like that, the matter is settled,” he said. “You and I must return to Netherfield at once, Miss Bennet. Balls don’t throw themselves, you know, and I’m certain you will soon prove yourself ever so helpful with mine.”

IT WAS OBVIOUS to Mary that the Master was distracted. He’d run through half a dozen new stances with her and Kitty and Lydia that morning, yet his drills had been slow, sloppy. Usually, he moved with an especially animated grace, almost a delight, when Mr. Bennet wasn’t around, as if (Mary conjectured) he didn’t want to show the older man up. But not now. Why, he didn’t even bother taking off his coat and vest (something Mary was able to note without acknowledging how disappointed this made her).

Things didn’t improve when the Master switched to weapons practice. He started off trying to instruct the girls in the art of throwing bolas (“the ancient Patagonian balls of death,” he called them), but he could hardly even get his swinging, and when they ended up in a bunch around the post in the center of the dojo, he gave up entirely with a grunt of disgust.

Mary could guess what Lydia and Kitty made of all this. They kept on whispering and tittering no matter how many laps around the grounds it earned them.

Master Hawksworth was pouting, they thought. Moping. Heartsick because Lizzy wasn’t there to moon over.

Mary knew better (as she did with all things, of course). From the beginning, she’d admired the Master’s stern resolve and seriousness of purpose. She fancied him, in fact, to be a kindred spirit in that way. It would be only natural that her frivolous sisters would fail to understand him, just as they failed to understand her.

Master Hawksworth wasn’t pining for Elizabeth. It was battle he yearned for. In the weeks since he’d come to Longbourn, almost everyone seemed to have slain a dreadful except the very man who was surely most adept at it.

Oh, and her.

Elizabeth, Lydia, Kitty, even sweet, gentle Jane—all had changed since the Master came. And they’d all proved it, one way or another. Yet Mary hadn’t had the chance. How she feared what would happen when that moment arrived. And yet she longed for it, too, especially if the Master should be there to share it with her.

She could imagine them fighting back to back, shoulder to shoulder, even arm in arm (though it was harder to work out exactly what that would look like). Her sisters kept joking about the Master’s “star pupil,” Lizzy. Yet perhaps it would turn out to be she whom he truly—

“Pay attention, Mary Bennet!” Master Hawksworth snapped. “The warrior who daydreams soon sleeps the dreamless slumber of the dead!”

“Yes, Master. I’m sorry, Master. It won’t happen again, Master.”

Kitty snickered. Lydia snorted.

Master Hawksworth simply ignored them this time.

“I shall begin again,” he said. “The secret to the bullwhip is in the wrist. Your arm moves, yes, but the snap comes from the hand. Like so.”

He moved his arm up and then quickly down again, the wrist jerking. His whip remained flaccid, though, and there was no crack . When he tried again, the result was the same: The leather cord hung limp and rather sad from his hand.

Master Hawksworth tossed the bullwhip aside.

“These pathetic English whips—they have no sinew, no strength. Like so many of the English themselves. Bah! I don’t even know why I try.”

“‘Try,’ Master?” Mary said. “Did you not tell us once that try is a word the warrior does not know? That one either does, or does not?”

The girls were sitting cross-legged on the floor for the Master’s demonstration, and he whirled around on them so fast that not only did they all cringe, Lydia actually toppled over onto her back.

“Mary Bennet,” Master Hawksworth growled, “you—”

Something stopped him.

Mary thought it might be the sincerity that (she hoped) shone through the trepidation on her face. She hadn’t meant to question him. She . . . well, she simply couldn’t stop herself. She wanted to help, as she’d so often helped her family with her insightful observations and timely axioms.

“You,” the Master said again, “are . . . correct.”