Zombie Abbey

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  Fanny was about to ask him who “she” was but then realized she didn’t need to. He was no doubt talking about Lady Katherine—or Lady Kate, as he apparently called her now. It occurred to her then that Will Harvey thought that he disliked Lady Katherine when, in reality, he kind of did. Like her, that is. Which was too bad, since Fanny kind of liked Will.

  Oh, well. She’d known all that already, hadn’t she? The only one who appeared to be oblivious to it was Will.

  “Fanny!” Mr. Wright’s voice came at her. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, hastily rising to her feet. “But what am I doing wrong now, Mr. Wright?”

  “You’re feeding the stable boy rare roast beef! Why, that is what His Lordship himself is eating right this second!”

  Oh. That’s all it was.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Wright,” she said again, not really feeling sorry at all. “I know I should’ve waited for lunch to be completely over, so I could be sure that any food left over really was left over, only I didn’t think you’d mind in this instance.”

  “Not mind? How could you imagine that?”

  “Because Will Harvey saved Lady Katherine’s life again today, didn’t he? When he made sure she got back safely, along with all the others.”

  Mr. Wright opened his mouth and shut it, twice, like an old frog trying to catch a fly but failing the speed to do so.

  “I suppose that, just this once, you’re right, Fanny.”

  It was a small victory, but it was all hers.

  “But don’t let it happen again!” Mr. Wright admonished, raising a forefinger high to underscore his point. “Just because things have been…a little off lately, it doesn’t mean this household will fall to pieces. It doesn’t mean that now we will start dishing up fresh meals to all and sundry willy-nilly.”

  “Of course not, Mr. Wright,” Fanny agreed, casting her eyes downward, not so much because she felt the sting of his admonishment but because she didn’t want him to catch her smile.

  “I should think not,” he huffed and was gone.

  “You know how to take care of yourself, don’t you, Fanny?” Will observed with respect.

  “If I don’t, who will?” she said. On another day, she might have felt the bitterness of her situation. But not now. It seemed to her that being able to take care of oneself, whether there was anyone to help or not, was the best way for a person to survive.

  Speaking of survival…

  “They had me take hot water up for Mr. Young,” she said, “for them to clean his wounds. But now I’m thinking I should fetch some cool water, too? After all, if his wounds get infected, he’ll run a fever, and—”

  Fanny stopped talking at the sight of Lady Elizabeth entering the servants’ hall and the astonishing sight of her taking a seat at the table with them.

  Lady Elizabeth had on a white cotton dress with blue stripes, cinched at the waist, a far more casual garment than she’d typically wear for a Sunday luncheon. Why, it practically looked practical.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Lady Elizabeth said, by way of asking permission for the seat she’d already taken. “Will, I was hoping I’d find you still here. Did you enjoy the lunch?”

  Lady Elizabeth invited him? Fanny had been sure it was Lady Katherine. Perhaps Lady Elizabeth had meant “little jam” in some other way, then? One that was not in any way insulting?

  “It was fine, and I thank you kindly for it,” Will said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, which he then discarded beside his empty plate. “Are you feeling all right? After this morning?”

  “Of course. I’m perfectly well. Or as well as one might expect.”

  “What is it, then? Do you need more bullets?”

  Fanny thought she would fall off her seat at that one.

  What? Will Harvey had given Lady Elizabeth the gun she’d used to kill Dr. Webb after he’d taken bites out of poor Mr. Young?

  “Of course I need more bullets,” Lady Elizabeth said, sounding mildly dismissive as she added, “and I’d be grateful if you got more for me. But this isn’t about that.”

  “What, then?”

  “The others,” Lady Elizabeth said. “I still don’t think they grasp the enormity of what’s going on. Cousin Benedict just now suggested it might be mustard gas. He said that he’d seen mustard gas do awful things to people during the war.”

  “If he was so close to the mustard gas”—Fanny couldn’t stop herself from butting in—“then why wasn’t he affected by it, too?”

  “You know,” Lady Elizabeth said thoughtfully, tapping her lip with one beautifully elegant finger, so unlike Fanny’s; Lady Elizabeth may have fired a gun and killed a man—make that two men—but she’d never had to scrub pots and pans, “that is a very good question.” Lady Elizabeth shrugged. “I may have gotten things confused. People tell me I do that a lot. I suppose it’s possible Cousin Benedict merely said he’d heard a lot about mustard gas somehow or read about it in the papers.”

  She shrugged again. “Anyhow, after Cousin Benedict said whatever he said about mustard gas, I naturally pointed out: ‘But where would the mustard gas have come from? And why would it have affected only Will Harvey’s uncle, the duke’s valet, and Dr. Webb?’ Then Kate laughed, told me to stop playing doctor, and the others laughed at what she’d said to me, Mother asked if we might talk about Paris instead, and that’s as far as it got for that round.”

  “I know they’re not taking it seriously enough,” Will said, “but what’s to be done about it?”

  “I think you should move in here,” Lady Elizabeth said.

  Fanny felt her jaw drop open.

  “I know Father will never approve,” Lady Elizabeth said, “so I needn’t bother even trying to ask. There’s no point. But maybe you can move into the servants’ quarters, in the attic, with no one else really knowing about it. It seems like it would be safer for you, and I know it would be safer for us.” She blew out a soft breath before hastening to add, “Just until this all blows over, which I’m sure will be very soon.”

  Lady Elizabeth had used the word “this.” Fanny was sure Lady Elizabeth had no idea just what exactly “this” meant here, and she was equally certain that she had no clue, either.

  Only that it was bad.

  So far, she didn’t know what this was, only what it wasn’t:

  Not vampires.

  Not rabies.

  Not mustard gas.

  It was a start. Fanny supposed if she had time enough, one by one she could rule out every other possibility until the only one remaining had to be the answer. She suspected, though, that they didn’t have that kind of time. Worse, she was beginning to suspect that what they were seeing was something unlike anything the world had ever seen before. So while medical books might provide inspiration for treatments, the whole answer would never lie there.

  Or at least, not until someone did discover all the answers and then write an entry for those medical books like nothing that had ever before existed, one that no human could have imagined in his or her wildest dreams.

  If Fanny had only thought earlier that she might fall off her seat, she really did fall off her seat now when Lady Elizabeth turned and, focusing her eyes on Fanny, said, “Fanny. Maybe you can help.”

  Chapter

  Thirty

  Lizzy couldn’t believe what she’d heard at lunch.

  After she’d said what she’d said, about how maybe what had happened to Dr. Webb had happened to Ralph, too, she’d thought that surely then they’d all take the threat seriously.

  What had happened with Will’s uncle—only his aunt had seen that.

  And what had happened with the valet, Parker—only she had witnessed that.

  So maybe in their minds, it was logical to disbelieve what they themselves had not seen?

  But at the church—they’d all seen that.

  They’d all been there to witness the changes in Dr. Webb; witness what Dr. Webb had done to poor Mr. Young; witness wha
t she, Lizzy, had been forced to do in order to stop it.

  Sure, they’d acknowledged the individual parts of what had happened that morning. They’d even praised Lizzy for her part, what they referred to as her bravery. But they had not and would not acknowledge the whole.

  When she’d tried to suggest, at lunch, that they should consider things more seriously, they’d all but laughed at her.

  “But I shot him twice first!” she’d cried. “And he never stopped what he was doing—he never reacted at all! It was only after I finally shot him in the head—”

  They’d found a way to laugh at that, too, found a way to make excuses, excuses that made no real sense at all, provided answers for none of this, and yet they deemed them acceptable.

  Then there had followed Cousin Benedict’s blind-alley suggestion about mustard gas. She did think that he had at least been sincere in his suggestion, trying to find a solution to her problem for her—as she’d begun to notice males always tried to do for females—but she was certain he was wrong. How could mustard gas have found its way to Porthampton Abbey? And even if it had, how could that mustard gas be so terribly selective?

  Was it even made of mustard?

  And now that it was teatime, and they were all gathered before the fire in the parlor, even Grandfather, she couldn’t believe that it was still going on.

  “I’m sure there’s some explanation,” Father said now, “for what happened to Dr. Webb.”

  “Well, of course there’s an explanation,” Lizzy said, feeling exasperated, “but what do you propose that might be?”

  “How should I know?” Father said. “Perhaps he was taken with a madness?”

  “So,” Lizzy said, “Will Harvey’s aunt was crazy with grief and thought she saw something that wasn’t real, the valet was taken with a wanderlust that caused him to walk away from his employment without notice followed by a madness that caused him to try to attack Kate and then me, and now Dr. Webb was taken by a madness—perhaps brought on by too many hours trying to heal villagers. You’re saying all of that is what’s happened and you further think none of it is in any way related?”

  “Lizzy,” Kate said, “I did not bother to count the words, but I do believe that is the longest speech you’ve made in your life, and most of it was even coherent.”

  It was so like Kate, to make fun of her intellectual weaknesses like that.

  For the first time in her life, it occurred to Lizzy to wonder: Was she really stupid? Or did she only think herself so because other people kept telling her she was and she believed them? Was it possible that they all only thought of themselves, however each of them did, in the ways in which they assumed the world viewed them? And was it further possible for any of them—her, specifically—to retrain their minds to think differently of themselves?

  “Lizzy,” Mother said, “I don’t think you should talk to your father like that.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Fidelia,” Grandmama said. “I rather like this new Lizzy. She shoots guns, she kills inconvenient people for us, she speaks her mind. Well, just so long as she doesn’t speak any of it to me.”

  Yes, Lizzy thought, that is exactly right. I am a new Lizzy.

  “You know,” Rowena Clarke spoke up. “As fun as this weekend has been…”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Father said. “We should see about getting you and Benedict and the duke back to your various homes.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?” Lizzy asked.

  Father rose, went to the wall, pulled a cord, and waited for Mr. Wright to appear.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Wright,” Father said, “please send one of the servants into the village.”

  “Into the village, my lord?”

  “Yes, Wright, that’s what I said: the village! And ask whoever you send to look around, perhaps starting in the vicinity of Dr. Webb’s surgery, to see if they can find the Rolls-Royce and then bring it back here.”

  When Mr. Wright did not immediately respond, Father added, “It shouldn’t be that difficult to find. It’s the only Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost around here—it’s the only Rolls-Royce around here of any kind, I’m sure!”

  Lizzy did not think she’d ever seen Mr. Wright squirm before. Indeed, he’d only ever been prompt in his determination to fulfill any of Father’s requests, no matter what or how outlandish they might be. But he definitely appeared to be squirming now as he replied, “I’ll try, my lord. But I don’t think—”

  “What do you mean, try?”

  “There’s been some talk among the staff…”

  “What kind of talk?”

  “After what happened today… Once the stable boy got everyone home safely… I just think that people are scared to go outside right now.”

  “Scared to… What nonsense!” Father sighed, as though the weight of the world and everyone’s foolishness in it sat on his shoulders. “Servants will be superstitious and have their fears. If there’s nothing to be done about it right now, then there’s nothing to be done. No doubt, we can sort out our transportation problems in the morning. If need be, we can call up to London and have a car sent down from there.” He turned to his guests, once again the genial host.

  “I hope you won’t mind too terribly much staying on with us for just one more night,” he said.

  What, Lizzy wondered, can they possibly say in reply? What choice do they have?

  “How generous of you to have us,” new cousin Benedict replied.

  “I know!” Father said, his eyes filling with delight at some notion he’d no doubt just come up with. He turned to his father-in-law. “Remember what you said earlier, George?”

  “I’m not even sure I remember earlier,” Grandfather said, “much less what I might have said then. What did I say?”

  “Oh, come on, you must remember! You said that by the time we got back from church, you’d have your dancing shoes on.” Father paused. “We could have a dance!”

  Chapter

  Thirty-One

  Will Harvey took in his new accommodations.

  “It’s pretty drab up here, I know,” Fanny said. “And hot, too, even though it’s nearly winter. You get used to that.”

  After Lizzy had made her suggestion earlier, it hadn’t taken Fanny long to fulfill it.

  “We have plenty of rooms available in the attic,” Fanny’d said, leading him up the back stairs once the coast was clear. “We had more servants before the war, but afterward… Hey, where did you come from?”

  Will had looked down to find the kitchen cat, Henry Clay, moving back and forth between them.

  “He must’ve followed us up,” she told Will before turning to the cat. “Don’t let Mr. Wright catch you, Henry Clay,” Fanny said, “wandering around the main part of the house during the daytime. He’ll have your head first, and then he’ll have mine, too.”

  When Will stood up straight now in the room, his head just about touched the ceiling.

  “Now that,” Fanny said, making the bed up for him with fresh sheets, “I never get used to. Compared to Downstairs? Sometimes, when I’m working in the early hours of the morning, before anyone else is awake, I sometimes just walk around with my head tilted back”—here Fanny tilted her head all the way back to illustrate—“gazing up at the high ceilings, and I just marvel—oh, to have all that space above your head, as your God-given right, every day of your life!”

  Will had to admit that even at home in his meager cottage, there was at least a little more space over his head than there was here in the attic.

  “And all the colors they get to have,” Fanny said. “It’s so drab where they keep us—it’s like we’re not allowed to have any real color at all!”

  He knew what she meant. When he’d dropped off the family and their guests earlier in the day, through the opened front doors he’d glimpsed colors beyond. And then of course he’d been the one to help Daniel carry Mr. Young gently up the grand staircase and to his room on the gallery. Will hadn’t lo
itered, but in his brief time inside the family part of the abbey, he’d seen how vividly colorful so much of it was when taken in comparison with the drabness of the kitchen area and what he was seeing now here in the attic servants’ quarters.

  “At least you’ve got fresh sheets now,” Fanny said, slipping a cotton case over the pillow.

  Will had spent more time with Fanny in the last few days probably than in all the time he’d known her, but as her hands moved to smooth out the wrinkles in the cotton-covered pillow she’d just laid down, for the first time he noticed something about her.

  “Fanny,” he said. “Your hands. Did you burn yourself today?”

  “Today, yesterday, and every day for as long as I can remember before that,” she said with a laugh. “I burn them on the stove, I burn them on the range, I burn them taking things out of the oven. And if the water’s too boiling hot when I go to wash something, I burn them some more. And if I’m not burning them, they’re getting chapped and cracked when I clean the copper pots—I use salt, vinegar, sand, and flour. And, of course, it’s my job to create the daily supply of salt by rubbing a large solid block of it through a sieve. I don’t think that helps much, either.”

  She looked down at the twin objects of their discussion, holding the backs of her hands at a distance so she could study them. “Not exactly like Lady Elizabeth’s beautiful, delicate hands, are they?” she said with a rueful grin. “Or Lady Katherine’s, come to that?”

  Why had she mentioned Lady Kate?

  Hearing her name on Fanny’s lips caused his heart to race, but almost immediately, he pushed that feeling away.

  “No, they’re not.” Will couldn’t help but agree; anything else would be a lie and Fanny would never believe him. “But,” he added, “they’re fine enough hands, just as they are.”

  Fanny, perhaps unused to compliments no matter how meager, blushed and put her hands behind her back. “So,” she said, “are you going to live here forever now?”

  “Hardly,” he said. “I’ll just stay until things get better.”

  He said it, even though he was no longer sure when that might be.