Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (23 page)

While the coachman and servant waited nervously with Maria, Elizabeth ascended the steps toward the church’s splintered doors, sword at the ready. The scent of death was overwhelming, and several of the stained glass windows had been shattered. Something terrible had happened here, but how recently, she knew not.

Elizabeth entered the church ready to fight, but upon perceiving the inside, she sheathed her Katana, as it could do no good here. Not now. It seemed the whole of St. Ezra Parish had barricaded themselves in the church. Bodies lay everywhere: in pews; in aisles—the tops of their skulls cracked open; every last bite of their brains scraped out, like pumpkin seeds from a jack-o’-lantern. With their Parish under attack, these people had retreated to the only safe place they knew; but it hadn’t been safe enough. The zombies had simply overwhelmed them with superior numbers and insatiable determination. Men still clutched their pitchforks. Ladies still huddled with their children. Elizabeth felt her eyes moisten as she imagined the horror of their final moments. The screams. The sight of others being torn to pieces before their eyes. The horror of being eaten alive by creatures of unspeakable evil.

A tear fell down Elizabeth’s cheek. She was quick to wipe it away, feeling somewhat ashamed that it had escaped at all.

“A house of God so defiled!” said Maria, as their journey continued. “Have these unmentionables no sense of decency?”

“They know nothing of the sort,” said Elizabeth, staring mindlessly out of the coach’s window, “and neither must we.”

With no further alarm, they reached Mr. Gardiner’s house, where they were to remain for a few days. Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation.

It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy’s proposals. To know that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish Jane was such a temptation to openness as nothing could have conquered but the state of indecision in which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate; and her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister further.

CHAPTER 39

IT WAS THE SECOND WEEK in May, in which the three young ladies set out together from Section Six East for Hertfordshire; and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet’s carriage was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman’s punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room upstairs. These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed in amusing the sentinel on guard with immodest displays of their proficiency with a throwing star, much to the consternation of the carriage horse which served as their unwilling target.

After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming, “Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable surprise?”

“And we mean to treat you all,” added Lydia, “but you must lend us the money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.” Then, showing her purchases—“Look here, I have bought this bonnet.”

And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect unconcern, “Oh! But there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what one wears this summer, after the soldiers have left Meryton, and they are going in a fortnight.”

“Are they indeed!” cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction; for not only would her sisters have one less distraction from their training, but the very fact of the decampment meant that Hertfordshire had been much relieved of the unmentionable menace while she was away.

“They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to take us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme; and I dare say would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would like to go too of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall have! With hardly any balls to be had in Meryton!”

“Yes,” thought Elizabeth, “a summer with so few balls would be miserable indeed for a girl who thinks of little else.”

“Now I have got some news for you,” said Lydia, as they sat down at table. “What do you think? It is excellent news—capital news—and about a certain person we all like!”

Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told he need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said:

“Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I never saw such a long chin in my life. I nearly ran him through for thinking him a zombie. Well, but now for my news; it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not? There is no danger of Wickham’s marrying Mary King. There’s for you! She is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe.”

“And Mary King is safe!” added Elizabeth; “safe from a connection imprudent as to fortune.”

“She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.”

“But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,” said Jane.

“I am sure there is not on his. I will answer for it, he never cared three straws about her—who could about such a nasty little freckled thing, with not a skill to boast of?”

As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their boxes, weapons, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty’s and Lydia’s purchases, were seated in it.

“How nicely we are all crammed in,” cried Lydia. “I am glad I bought my bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another hatbox! Well, now let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way home. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare. She is almost three-and-twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not being married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Phillips wants you so to get husbands, you can’t think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr. Collins; but I do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord! How I should like to be married before any of you; and then I would chaperon you about to all the balls. Dear me! We had such a good piece of fun the other day at Colonel Forster’s. Kitty and me were to spend the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the evening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are such friends!) and so she asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen was forced to come by herself—”

Elizabeth presently drew her Katana and cut off Lydia’s head, which fell into the open hatbox.

The others looked on in a state of silent shock as a torrent of blood sprang forth from Lydia’s neck, staining their dresses. Elizabeth sheathed her blade, and in a most delicate tone, said “I beg you all forgive me, but I could stand her prattling no longer.” However, when she spared another glance toward Lydia, she was surprised to see her head very much attached.

“Lord! How I laughed!” continued her younger sister. “And so did Mrs. Forster. I thought I should have died.”

Elizabeth sighed. If only she could
really
cut off Lydia’s head. With such tireless drivel did Lydia, assisted by Kitty’s hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham’s name.

Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet say voluntarily to Elizabeth:

“I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.”

Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were the subjects that occupied them: Lady Lucas inquired after the welfare of her eldest daughter, who Maria reported in excellent health and spirits. “Has everyone gone mad?” thought Elizabeth. “Can no one see that she is nine-tenths dead from the plague?” Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and, on the other, retailing them all to the younger Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person’s, was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who would hear her.

“Oh! Mary,” said she, “I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun! As we went along, Kitty and I opened the carriage windows and played at taunting the farmhands who were charged with burning the morning’s body piles; and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest cold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then we were so merry all the way home! We talked and laughed so loud that zombies might have heard us ten miles off!”

To this Mary very gravely replied, “Far be it from me, my dear sister, to depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be congenial with the generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for me—I should infinitely prefer a good spar.”

But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all.

In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to Meryton, and to see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth steadily opposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss Bennets could not be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr. Wickham again, and was resolved to bloody his mouth when she did. The comfort to her of the regiment’s approaching removal was indeed beyond expression. In a fortnight they were to go—and once gone, she hoped there could be nothing more to plague her on his account.

She had not been many hours at home before she found that the Brighton scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were at the same time so vague and equivocal that her mother had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.

CHAPTER 40

ELIZABETH’S IMPATIENCE to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no longer be overcome; and at length, resolving to suppress every particular in which her sister was concerned, she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr. Darcy and herself.

Jane’s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly partiality, which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly natural. She was sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved to learn that they had resulted in combat, and the destruction of Mr. Collins’s mantelpiece.

“His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,” said she, “and certainly ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his disappointment!”

“Indeed,” replied Elizabeth, “I am heartily sorry for him; but he has other feelings, which will probably soon drive away his regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?”

“Blame you! Oh, no.”

“But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?”

“No—I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.”

“But you
will
know it, when I tell you what happened the very next day.”

She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far as they concerned George Wickham—particularly his treatment of the deaf stable boy and Miss Darcy. What a stroke was this for poor Jane! She would willingly have gone through the world without believing that so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here collected in one individual. Nor was Darcy’s vindication, though grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery. Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and seek to clear the one without involving the other.

“This will not do,” said Elizabeth; “you never will be able to make both of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Darcy’s; but you shall do as you choose.”

It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane.

“I do not know when I have been more shocked by the living,” said she. “Wickham so very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzy, only consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! And with the knowledge of your ill opinion, too! And having to beat his sister’s governess! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it so.”

“Certainly. But there is one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintances in general understand Wickham’s character.”

Miss Bennet replied, “Surely there can be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your opinion?”

“That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me to make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in Meryton to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham will soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to anyone here what he really is. At present I will say nothing about it.”