“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.
CHAPTER 34
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?”