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

As the nobleman blathered away, Elizabeth kept her eyes on her father, gauging his reaction. Though Mr. Bennet was usually a master of droll dispassion, Elizabeth detected a seething uneasiness beneath his cultivated blankness. Before she could stop herself, she found herself giving voice to the words she guessed he was thinking.

“So you had dealings with zombies during The Troubles, then?”

Lord Lumpley, Mrs. Bennet, and even Jane flinched. The Zed Word wasn’t supposed to be spoken in polite company.

The baron took a moment to compose himself before making his reply.

“I am but six-and-twenty years of age, so obviously I took part in no battle lo those many years ago. Yet I have faced the creatures. Before they became extinct—if something already dead can be said to do so!—my father used to import some from the north for the shooting season. Pathetic, shambling things, they were. It didn’t even make for good sport.”

“I would guess it is a bit more sporting, My Lord, if they outnumber you and there are no shotguns at hand,” Elizabeth said. “Would you not agree, Father?”

“I might choose a word other than sporting ,” Mr. Bennet replied.

“Papa saw a zombie eat a Scotsman once!” Lydia threw in, oblivious, as always, to subtext and nuance in conversation or anything else. “Mary told me he said . . . what?”

She glared over at Kitty, who, ever her mother’s daughter, was delivering a vicious pinch under the table.

“I’m sure His Lordship doesn’t want to hear about that,” Kitty said. “Particularly from you.”

Then she turned back to the baron, hacked out what she took to be a decorous little cough, and didn’t so much steer the conversation back to safer territory as pick it up and hurl it there.

“My, but the sun was strong today. Can you believe it’s only April?”

For the next eternity or so, by Elizabeth’s reckoning, the conversation limped along this line of thought very much like a zombie: lifeless and mindless and making a jelly of whatever healthy brains were within its reach. So oppressive did talk of the weather eventually become, Elizabeth very nearly offered to fetch a barometer and an almanac so the amateur meteorologists in the room could make a real study of it.

Her father finally put the conversation out of its (and Elizabeth’s) misery.

“I do not wish to be rude, Sir, but I feel it my duty to point out the time. Soon enough, the roads of Hertfordshire might not be safe even in the daytime. At night, I fear, you already risk disaster.”

Lord Lumpley’s fleshy face went grave as he tore his gaze away from Jane (whom he’d been staring at without stop even though she, like Elizabeth, had been weathering the weather talk without adding a word to it).

“Your concern does you credit, Mr. Bennet. If only other responsibilities had not delayed me so long in reaching your door this evening.” The baron turned toward the nearest window, and his lip curled ever so slightly—either a show of dread as day turned to dusk outside or distaste for the iron bars Mr. Bennet had insisted the servants put up the day before. “Yes, perhaps I should go . . . though if it’s as dangerous as you say, I wonder if I should risk the trip at all.”

And immediately, Elizabeth knew. The young nobleman had arrived late intentionally. He’d been fishing for an invitation to stay all along. He meant to sleep in their home! Or claim a bed in it, at any rate.

The young nobleman had a reputation for taking liberties, one Jane refused to give credence to, so without guile or distrust was she. But it was plain to Elizabeth he’d earned his reputation. And sought to do so again.

Mrs. Bennet seemed to see it all, as well—or at least that part of the picture that suited her. She perked up and leaned forward, eyes wide with delight.

Mr. Bennet was just the opposite: still, stone faced, inscrutable. It was a race to see who would speak first.

For once (and to Elizabeth’s infinite relief), Mr. Bennet won.

“I think you need not worry, My Lord, assuming you don’t allow us to detain you any further. After all, it is well established that you have the fastest carriage in the county. No doubt you could easily outpace any stiff-legged unfortunates we might have lumbering about—so long as you still have a few rays of light to steer by. And I’m sure you’re anxious to begin the preparations we spoke of earlier, as well. You have many messages to dispatch, come morning—for which I again thank you. How lucky we are to have a young man as energetic and fearless as you to spearhead these vital efforts for us.”

The baron’s already ruddy face went a shade rosier. Mr. Bennet had assigned him a role—the courageous man of action—and he had no choice but to play it.

He cleared his throat and got to his feet. “Yes, well . . . a man does what he must. Even more so when he has rank and responsibility.”

Mr. Bennet nodded solemnly.

Mrs. Bennet looked like she’d have used the Fulcrum of Doom on him, if only she knew how.

Before leaving, Lord Lumpley recovered enough to step to the divan and take Jane’s hand in his. He lingered over it at such length and with such obvious longing Elizabeth began to wonder whether he was going to kiss it or eat it.

“I will see you at the ball at Pulvis Lodge, I presume?”

Jane nodded. “I will be there.”

“Excellent. I ask now for the first dance. And the last. And as many in between as you might spare.”

Though it was Jane’s fingers he finally kissed, it was Mrs. Bennet who was on the brink of swooning.

“The least you could’ve done was invite him to stay to supper,” she snipped at her husband when he returned to the drawing room a short while later, having seen the baron on his way. “Didn’t you notice how he fawns over Jane?”

“A syphilitic bat could’ve seen it.”

“Oh! Mr. Bennet! Really!”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bennet. I misspoke.” Mr. Bennet dropped wearily into the very chair their guest had warmed with his well-padded hindquarters. “I meant to say, ‘Yes. I noticed.’”

“Well, didn’t it occur to you to capitalize on that?”

Mr. Bennet didn’t speak to her or look at her. Instead, he turned a wistful, almost remorseful gaze on Jane.

Somehow, Elizabeth got the feeling he already was capitalizing on the baron’s infatuation—and already regretting it, as well.

WHEN RICHARD George Saunders-Castleton Harper-Milford Norman-Stilton-Harrowby Lumpley II, sixth Baron of Lumpley, knight of the Bath, and defender of the realm, awoke the next morning, the first thing he did was kick the empty gin bottles from his bed. Then he kicked off the dogs. And last (and with some regret) he kicked out the chambermaids.

He had things to do this day. Important matters that demanded his attention.

He needed a new truss, and only the best would do.

He stood and admired himself in the full-length mirror strategically placed near the bed. True, his manly pear-shaped form had been swelling of late—it was now more like a gourd mounted on the twin stickpins of his legs. But, oh, his regal brow! His piercing eyes! His lordly chins! His soft, pale, pillowy arms unsullied by sinew or muscle! It was, in all respects, not just his mirror image he beheld, but that of his friend and fellow master of the bacchanal arts, the Prince Regent.

What woman could resist such a man? What female—be she girl, matron, or crone—would not fling aside her dignity and self-respect like so many hastily discarded underthings at his first wink? What delicate beauty could he not gently coax into his tender embrace . . . and then give the old how’s your father?