Zombie Abbey

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  Once he’d settled Mr. Young back down, everything nice and fresh again, the duke stepped back from the bed, relieved to be away from the closeness of that smell and guilty at feeling that relief.

  “There!” he said with forced bright cheer. “As good as new!”

  “Thank you, my friend,” Mr. Young said, clearly feeling better now, although he did look very tired. “You’re very kind.”

  The duke was moved by his words. He couldn’t remember a time in his life when anyone had referred to him as their “friend.” And “kind”? If no one else had ever called him friend, he surely never would have thought to refer to himself as kind.

  “I’m feeling a bit better now,” Mr. Young said. “Perhaps some of that soup…”

  The duke fussed with getting the bowl and spoon and a napkin for any stray drips. Then he filled the spoon partway and held it to the other man’s lips.

  “I’m sorry it’s cold now,” he said, “but my nanny always said that a good soup could cure just about anything, so I think you’ll find…”

  The duke let the sentence trail off when he realized that now he was the one who was nattering on and he had no idea how to finish the sentence. What would Mr. Young find in eating soup? That it was, in fact, soup?

  “Tell me a story,” Mr. Young said.

  “A story?”

  “Yes, you said you had a nanny, which is no surprise. I never had one myself, and I just wondered what that must be like. Surely you must have some happy stories about that time in your life.”

  Did he? The duke racked his brain for one, finally settling on a story involving his nanny and him and a pony that didn’t end too, too badly for him. Well, he supposed, he could always leave out the ending part.

  So the duke told the story to Mr. Young, between feeding him mouthfuls of soup. Before the bowl was empty or the story finished, Mr. Young had fallen asleep.

  The duke, careful to do so quietly, set the bowl, spoon, and napkin down on the bedside table and then settled back into his seat, keeping his friend company while he slept.

  They were still like that when Fanny came in.

  “I came to see how Mr. Young is doing,” she whispered.

  “He was a bit restless before, feverish, too, but he seems to be a bit better now,” the duke whispered back. “He took some soup.”

  “That’s nice,” Fanny said. “Mrs. Owen always says that a good bowl of soup can cure just about anything. Since I’m here, though, if I may, I might as well just…”

  She gestured toward the bed with both hands, and he nodded his permission, although he wasn’t quite sure what she had in mind.

  Fanny stepped right up to the bed, her nose only wrinkling slightly at the smell he’d already grown accustomed to; it surprised him to think how quickly a person could get used to changing circumstances, whether it be a foul smell or even being called upon to take care of someone else when a person—a duke, no less!—had never done such a thing before.

  But as Fanny’s confident hands flew around, tucking and straightening a sheet here, plumping a pillow there, all without disturbing the sleeping patient, the duke saw that those hands were far more capable than his had been.

  And he saw something else.

  “Your hands!” he said. “Have you hurt yourself?”

  The little maid launched into something of a speech then, a whole litany beginning with “Today, yesterday, and every day before that” and ending with something about rubbing a large block of salt through a sieve to create the household’s daily supply. In between, there were a lot of other things, about boiling water and about copper pots and even vinegar. He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t followed it all because, well, it was a lot to take in. And clearly, it was a speech she’d given before.

  When he didn’t immediately reply upon her completion of it, she held her hands away from her, studying their backs before offering them to him, presumably for inspection.

  “Not exactly a fine lady’s hands, are they?” she said with a rueful grin.

  “No,” he said honestly. “No, they are not.” Then he thought about what he’d just seen those hands do—flying all around Mr. Young, helping and never hurting—and he thought about something he’d never given any consideration to before at all: how much the life of someone like Fanny was spent taking care of other people, and how many hours spent in simple good, honest labor. “But they’re beautiful hands all the same,” he found himself adding.

  Before she could respond, the footman entered. Or was he the valet, his personal valet now? No, he was back to being the footman. It was so hard to keep it all straight. Best to just think of him as Daniel.

  Daniel, too, just wanted to see how Mr. Young was doing.

  So the duke and Fanny filled him in, and just as they were finishing, Lady Grace entered, too.

  If she was surprised to find him there in his shirtsleeves, she didn’t show it, but then she caught sight of Fanny and Daniel.

  “Oh!” she said with a surprised smile. “I didn’t know there was a second party going on up here!”

  There was nothing censorious in her expression or the tone with which she invested her words, but Fanny must have imagined one there, for she dipped a quick curtsy, bowing her head as she said, “I’m ever so sorry, Your Ladyship. I know I should’ve asked permission before coming up here. Only I wanted to see how Mr. Young was doing, and I didn’t want to bother anyone by asking. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not, Fanny,” Lady Grace said. “Your concern does you credit.” She turned to Daniel. “I suppose you came for the same reason?”

  Daniel simply nodded—rather stiffly, the duke thought, even for him. Was there something about Lady Grace that made Daniel feel particularly awkward?

  No doubt deciding they were no longer needed now that Her Ladyship was there, Fanny and Daniel moved to depart the room.

  “Oh, Fanny!” the duke called her back.

  Fanny turned.

  The duke indicated the pile of discarded laundry, including the sheets he’d removed from the bed earlier and Mr. Young’s sweat-soaked nightshirt.

  “I took the sheets from my own bed to replace his,” he finished, after explaining why he’d removed them in the first place. “I hope that was all right?”

  “It’s fine,” Fanny said, gathering up the heap that practically dwarfed her behind it. “I’ll be sure to get some fresh ones for your room right away.”

  Then she was gone.

  “You changed the sheets?” Lady Grace said, sounding amused.

  “Yes, and his nightshirt, too. Oh, and I also gave him some soup.”

  “How enterprising of you! And kind, too.”

  He felt himself sitting straighter in his chair at her words as a rare feeling of pride came over him.

  “Yes, well,” he said. Then he gave her a full report on his night of nursing, ending with, “He looks to be more peaceful now. He might even sleep through the night. I think the worst is over.”

  “That’s a relief. Now, why don’t you give up your seat and let me take over.”

  Peculiarly, he found himself reluctant to leave. It was rather nice feeling useful.

  “I could stay…”

  “Nonsense. You’ve done your part. The others are still dancing. Why don’t you join them?”

  “I suppose I could. But why don’t you come with me? I really do think he’ll just sleep now.”

  “I promise I will. I’ll even dance with you when I do. I just want to sit with Merry for a bit.”

  “All right then, although I suppose I should put on a fresh shirt first.” He gathered up his rumpled jacket, tie, and waistcoat, and his cuff links, and headed for the door.

  Once there, he turned back.

  “When Mr. Young and I were talking earlier, just the two of us,” he said, “he told me the most amazing story.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Did you know he made his own fortune? I always thought people just inherited them. W
hat an extraordinary man!”

  Chapter

  Thirty-Five

  How awkwardly Daniel reacted, Grace thought, when I came upon him earlier in Merry’s room. Was it possible that he had felt the same exhilarating surge she had downstairs, in the music room, when she’d placed his hand on the small of her back? No, she told herself, it was not possible. He no doubt merely felt awkward at being caught upstairs when no one had sent him there.

  The duke was right—Merry was an extraordinary man, Grace thought, sitting beside him now as he slept, and he had been extraordinarily kind to her.

  Oh, how cruel the world was sometimes! That some people should have so much while others like him, who were kind and deserving, should go through their lives without ever finding love.

  Well, now that he was feeling better, once he recovered he might still find it yet. It wouldn’t be with her—he was far too old for her, more like an uncle, really. He was too old for Kate, too. What had Father been thinking?

  The entail.

  That’s what he’d been thinking, an idea that she was sure must be as far from everyone else’s minds as it was from hers now, now that so much else had happened.

  The entail! What a laughably small problem!

  And yet Father had been worried about it, and so he had brought in Merry, the duke, too, in the hopes of solving it. The arrival of Cousin Benedict had potentially resolved that issue, leaving Merry without a chance.

  No, he was too old for her, but he might yet find someone who would be suitable. And for now, she would be his friend.

  She cast about in her mind, considering older women in her acquaintance but not too old. Perhaps she could come up with someone and then play matchmaker? She’d never done anything like it before, but she figured, just because she might be hopeless at finding love for herself, it didn’t mean she’d be hopeless at finding it for someone else.

  Rowena Clarke! Benedict’s mother—she was alone in the world! Perhaps…

  “Grace?”

  “You’re awake!” she cried, pleased.

  But then she saw that his hands were shaking horribly as they clutched at the sheets and his teeth were literally chattering in his head as he stuttered out the words, “Wh-wh-wh-what is ha-ha-ha-happening to me?”

  She placed her hand on his forehead, and it was ice cold. She grabbed on to one of his shaking hands, and that was ice cold, too. But the room wasn’t. The temperature there was fine.

  Grace rubbed one of his hands and then the other between her own.

  “I’m so cold,” he said.

  “Yes, I can see that, Merry. I’ll just—”

  She started to rise from her chair. She was going to go and find some extra blankets from another room; she would grab every blanket she could find, but he stopped her, hanging on to her hand in a desperate grip.

  “Please,” he said. “Don’t leave me.”

  “No, of course not. I was just going to—”

  “Please, Grace!”

  What else could she do?

  What was there to be done if he was freezing but couldn’t bear to be left alone?

  Gently, she pulled back the sheets and climbed into bed beside him, without even taking off her dancing shoes first. He rolled over halfway, so he was on his side facing away from her, and she rolled over in the same direction. She pulled the sheets up over both of them, then she wrapped her arms around his thick waist, pressing the front of her body into his from behind in the hopes of transferring some of her warmth to him.

  Since she’d first learned about what married people did, she’d always imagined that one day she’d lie down in bed with a man, but she never imagined that the first time she did so it would be like this.

  “That’s better, Grace,” he said, feebly patting at her hands that encircled him. “I feel so much better now.”

  But his teeth were still chattering, so loud she could hear them, and he felt so frightfully cold.

  This close, he smelled, too, bad, but she didn’t mind that.

  “I’m glad,” she said, forcing cheer into her voice.

  “Tell me a story,” he said. “Tell me something about growing up here at Porthampton Abbey.”

  So she did.

  She told him a story of Kate and Lizzy and her when they were just little things, the same one she’d told him when she’d taken him on a tour of the abbey, about Grandmama training them to be able to talk to anybody, no matter what the other person’s station in life, by making them have conversations with the suit of armor, Fred.

  The irony of it! She’d been trained to make conversation, and here she couldn’t think of a fresh story to tell, one she hadn’t told him before.

  But it didn’t matter. Merry didn’t appear to mind, for as she talked, the chattering in his teeth gradually silenced, the trembling throughout his body slowly subsided and stilled, until finally, there was no movement at all.

  Good, she thought. He’s sleeping. Sleep will heal him.

  But when she removed her support from behind him, his body fell backward awkwardly against the bed, and she saw that his mouth had frozen open in an unusual position and his eyes were wide, vacant and unblinking.

  She almost screamed then.

  She’d never seen a dead person before, not someone she cared about, and it did scare her, making her heart race faster.

  But she did care about him, so she forced the fear to flee, and then all she could think was, Merry.

  He’d actually been quite a nice man. He’d only ever dreamed of finding love.

  Merry.

  Even though he’d never been married nor had any children, he must have had some family back in London, some friends who would miss him, not to mention that his affairs would need to be settled. No matter what was going on here, they would need to do the right thing by him and calls would need to be made.

  Merry.

  She placed her palm over his face, gently closing his eyes, and then she laid a soft kiss on his cheek.

  She should tell the others, she thought. Everyone must know.

  But then she thought: Why?

  They were all still dancing, having their good time.

  Just because she was sad now, why spoil it for everybody else? She would rejoin the others downstairs, but when she did, she would say nothing of what had just transpired up here.

  Morning would come again soon enough. There would be time to tell everybody then.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Six

  Not long after one of Them exited the bedroom, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern slithered their way in. They’d seen some food brought in there earlier in the evening, but they’d never seen it come out again, and they thought there might be some left for them. Any extra meal you could take without anyone seeing you was a gift. Although sometimes, it was even more fun being spotted but then managing to escape with the food before you were physically caught.

  They smelled it, in the dark broken only by the strip of hall light behind them and by some small bit of moonlight peeking in through the heavy draperies, before they saw it.

  The thing on the bed.

  Rosencrantz and Guildenstern had enjoyed lots of experiences with dead things. Mostly, they’d been the agency for those deaths. But this, now, this was something different.

  This dead thing was changing.

  Chapter

  Thirty-Seven

  “Father,” Kate said with a laugh, “when you decide to do a thing, you certainly don’t go at it by half measures, do you?”

  “I like to think that about myself,” he said, still huffing and puffing slightly after his exertions. “But to what exactly are you referring in this instance?”

  “When I suggested that you should dance with Mrs. Murphy, I didn’t mean you should feel the need to dance with all the female help. After she came back from wherever she disappeared to, you even danced with Fanny!”

  “Yes, well, in for a penny, in for a pound. And you know, the pound is worth so much more.�
�� He gave a last big exhale. “Although I must confess, that Agnes of yours can dance—that girl wore me out!”

  “I think everyone’s a bit worn out now,” Kate said, assessing the music room, in which everyone had finally ceased dancing, preferring to talk in small groupings, and even Mr. Wright had grown a little lackluster in his manning of the gramophone. There had been at least a few minutes’ gap between when the last record ended and this one began.

  “I think,” Father said, “that some refreshments are in order and then to bed for all of us.”

  “I quite agree. I’ll just tell Mrs. Owen to—”

  “No, don’t do that,” Father said. “I mean, of course Mrs. Owen will need to organize the food end of things, and Fanny will need to help her, but I have another idea.”

  “Which is what, exactly?”

  “It’s what you said before.” He tapped his forefinger against his lips. “About not doing things by half measures.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “When I said that we should have a dance this evening and that we should include the servants, as a diversion for every one of us from all this unpleasantness this weekend, well… It’s not much of a diversion for the servants, is it, if they immediately have to go back to waiting on us?”

  “It is what servants are for, Father. If they did not serve us, how else would we know that they are servants?”

  “Yes, of course. But wouldn’t it be more—oh, I don’t know—festive, if we were to pitch in, too?”

  “Festive?” Kate narrowed her eyes. “What are you proposing? That I chop up some beef and Mother can roast it in a pan? That Lizzy whip up a blancmange and Grace—well, I can’t think right now what Grace might be good for, but give me some time and I’m sure I can manage to come up with something.”

  “Of course that is not what I am proposing—don’t be absurd! I already indicated that Mrs. Owen and Fanny would still need to do the more…kitcheny things, and of course the footmen would have to carry any heavy trays.” He put his hands in front of him and then slowly separated them outward, as though laying out whatever scene he was envisioning in his head. “Then everything could be set up in the front parlor—no, make that the back parlor. Since the servants will be joining us, it might as well be in a less formal room. Plus, you know, less nice things for them to muck up. And then—”