Dreadfully Ever After

by Steve Hockensmith

  “Oh, but surely I couldn’t—”

  “Just.” Lady Catherine narrowed her eyes. “Go.”

  “Yes. All right. If you really think it’s for the best.…”

  Not a quarter of an later, Georgiana was hurrying out to a carriage already loaded with clothes and ropes and grappling hooks and an array of weapons from Her Ladyship’s arsenal. Riding up top were four ninjas dressed in coachmen’s livery.

  Anne de Bourgh was standing by the carriage door. Georgiana rarely saw her cousin venture outside, and her jet-black dress made her seem somehow incongruous in the full light of day, like a shaft of coal jutting from a glass of milk.

  “I understand you must leave us,” Anne said.

  “Yes. It pains me to quit my brother’s sickbed, and with such suddenness, but I fear it must be done.”

  Anne nodded.

  “Well, I, for one, am glad to see you go,” she said, “knowing that when you return, all will at last be set to rights.”

  She gave Georgiana a hug that imparted no warmth and then stepped aside, smiling. Once the carriage was rolling off up the drive, she reentered the house.

  As Anne took her young cousin’s place at Fitzwilliam’s side, curling from one of the chimneys came smoke that had been, not long before, the real letter Elizabeth had sent Georgiana from an inn on the road to London.

  CHAPTER 11

  “There is one more thing you will no doubt tell me that I don’t need,” Elizabeth said as she and her mysterious companion passed through the Northern Guard Tower and into London. The soldiers, she noticed, let them stroll by without question. “Your name. Even if, by your reckoning, it is not required, it would still be nice to know.”

  The young Asiatic who’d met her at the gate—surely another of the Japanese servants Lady Catherine so favored—pulled an envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to her.

  This is Nezu, the note inside read. He will guide you in my absence. You will find him to be an invaluable tool. Trust him in all things.

  This time, Elizabeth wasn’t caught by surprise when the paper began to smoke. She let it drop to the ground, and within seconds it was but more swirling soot in a city that produced it by the ton.

  “If you have any further messages from Her Ladyship, I’d appreciate knowing so in advance,” Elizabeth said. “I should like to have a bucket of water at the ready.”

  “There will be no more notes from the mistress. Anything else you need to know will come from me.”

  “Wonderful. You’ve been so loquacious so far.”

  Nezu said nothing.

  A dark barouche was waiting just beyond the gate, and, upon reaching it, Nezu opened the door and motioned for Elizabeth to climb in. As she started to oblige him, her eye caught sight of something odd: a grotesque parody of the very carriage she was stepping into. It was a squat black box, perhaps four feet high, careening around a corner up the street. Pulling it were two small, scruffy dogs in harness.

  “Did you see that?” Elizabeth asked.

  “See what?”

  He didn’t even bother following her gaze.

  “Never mind,” Elizabeth said. “Perhaps I didn’t see it, either.”

  Once she was seated, Nezu hauled himself up next to the driver—another stone-faced Asiatic who seemed no more garrulous than he—and with a snap of the reins they set off down the narrow streets of Section Fourteen North.

  Years ago, before the partitions were erected and London was sliced into perfect squares like some colossal cake, the area had been known as Camden Town. Once an unimportant district on the fringes of the growing metropolis, it was now more or less a rampart protecting the affluent sections of the interior. Only the meanest sorts of shops—most of them for “used” (that is, stolen) clothes and jewelry and Zed rods and swords—would take up residence where, so many times, the dreadfuls had broken through. Indeed, the buildings looked as though they’d been burned down and rebuilt before the charred planks had finished smoking. The other elegant barouches and phaetons and landaus coming through the gate shot down the filth-poked avenue with teams at full gallop, the whip-snapping drivers desperate to reach Four Central or Six East before their passengers could peek out and have their delicate sensibilities bruised by the sight of such squalor.

  More than once, Elizabeth had made this same mad dash through North London, bound for the Darcys’ town house in Mayfair (now Two Central). The route they followed was the old familiar one she knew well until they reached the City Road, at which point they turned abruptly east rather than continuing into the heart of socially acceptable London. Soon they were winding their way through the side streets of what Elizabeth guessed to be Section One North, formerly Islington. It was by no means the most fashionable part of town, but the long rows of tidy white-terraced homes was evidence that the merchant class, at least, was willing to make it their own.

  The coachman finally brought the barouche to a stop in front of a house that was identical to its neighbors in every respect but one: scale. The bay windows were taller, the front door wider, the stucco entryway arches higher, the ironwork balcony broader and more ornate. It was the very picture of size substituting for style; the perfect London home for a vulgarian parvenue from the hinterlands. As “Mrs. Bromhead,” it seemed, was supposed to be.

  Nezu climbed down and opened the carriage door.

  Elizabeth remained in her seat. She’d caught a glimpse of someone peeking out one of the windows and now found herself reluctant to enter the house with these men—minions of the woman who once threatened to cut her into chunks and use her for zombie bait.

  “Remind me,” she said. “Why would a wealthy widow such as I choose to settle, alone, in so grandiose a home in One North?”

  “I’m sure you will remember quickly enough once you are inside,” Nezu replied. “The others should be waiting in the drawing room.”

  “The others?”

  Nezu simply held out an arm toward the house.

  If he was trying to be discreet, he need not have bothered, for the “other” whom Elizabeth had seen watching the street suddenly threw open the front door and came bounding down the steps.

  “Ursula! Ursula!”

  “Kitty?”

  Elizabeth scrambled from her seat, and the moment her feet were on the ground her sister was upon her, holding her tightly.

  “Oh, Ursula—sweet Ursula!” Kitty cried. “I have been so worried about you! Just let me look at you.” She stepped back, clasping her hands, and sighed. “You are a vision, as always. Still the prettiest of the Shevington sisters—though now, of course, you are a Bromhead, Ursula.”

  “Come, come, Avis,” Elizabeth heard her father say. “You speak as though your sister needed reminding of her own name.”

  Oscar Bennet appeared beside Kitty and leaned in to kiss a stunned Elizabeth on the cheek.

  “I apologize for the theatrics,” he whispered in her ear. Then he kissed the other cheek and whispered again. “Your sister is a tad overexcited.”

  Kitty seemed to find the kiss-whispers an irresistible idea, for she jumped in to try some herself.

  Cheek one: “We were assured you were safe.”

  Cheek two: “But we didn’t know whether to believe it.”

  Forehead: “Just give the word, and I’ll take this little wretch’s head.”

  Elizabeth retreated a step before her sister resorted to kissing her nose.

  “I am overjoyed to see you, too … Avis,” she said.

  Nezu—“the little wretch,” to judge by the petulant glare Kitty bestowed upon him—sidled in and cleared his throat.

  “Perhaps it would be best if your reunion were to continue inside.” His gaze flicked left and right, sweeping over the neighboring homes. “In private.”

  “A capital idea.” Mr. Bennet took Elizabeth by the arm and began leading her toward the house. “No doubt these last days have been long and wearying for you, my dear. But fear not. Whatever comes next—”

/>   Kitty hustled up and attached herself to Elizabeth’s other arm. “You will face it with us at your side!”

  Elizabeth gave her sister the grateful smile she seemed to expect. Yet, though she was deeply pleased to see Kitty and her father, a part of her wished they’d stayed far away.

  Already the Darcy family teetered on the brink of calamity. Now, if things went as badly as they might, the Bennets would be swept over the precipice with them.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Bennets hadn’t been in the drawing room half a minute before Kitty noticed it. Her father was giving Lizzy that look—both affectionate and respectful, tender yet twinkling with wry amusement. And it brought the old feelings right back.

  Kitty didn’t want to call it jealousy. So much so, in fact, that years ago she had consulted Dr. Roget’s thesaurus in search of a more palatable word for it.

  Envy, no. Jaundice, no. Invidiousness, no. Horn-madness … what?

  In the end, she decided that “covetousness” would have to do. She didn’t resent Lizzy. She simply wanted what her sister seemed (to her) to have won so easily. A father’s esteem. A good man’s love.

  In the days when she and Lydia were so close that they shared between them not just ribbons and jewelry but one impetuous and petty personality, she would have stamped her foot and declared, “It’s not fair! Lizzy always gets what she wants!” But she was older now and trying to be wiser, and her sister needed her help. The time had come for Kitty to prove she was worthy of what she coveted.

  “You should have seen the Fulcrum of Doom I gave that first ninja!” she cackled. “I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his little black pajamas!”

  Elizabeth offered her a rather strained smile. “Master Liu would be proud.”

  “Yes. Well. Carrying on,” Mr. Bennet said. “Once they saw that we would not surrender our weapons voluntarily, they went to the extraordinary length of explaining themselves.”

  Nezu was standing not far from the elegant divans upon which the Bennets had settled themselves, and Mr. Bennet paused to arch an eyebrow in his direction.

  “I can understand the likes of Lady Catherine de Bourgh demanding obedience even when cooperation might be won by a moment’s consultation, but when their lackeys act with the same presumption, it only leads to trouble.”

  “And to a good Fulcrum of Doom! La!”

  Kitty couldn’t help but notice the degree to which she was ignored—which was total—and she immediately resolved to “La!” no more.

  “As I explained earlier to your father and sister,” Nezu said to Elizabeth, “none of you can be seen carrying arms into the house. It is a black mark against the Shevingtons already that they are new to wealth and lack obvious social connections. They would not curry further disfavor by displaying too bold a fondness for combat. I’m sure I need not remind you that, with a few notable exceptions, those who practice the deadly arts in England are largely viewed as eccentrics or outsiders … especially when it is a woman who picks up the sword.”

  Kitty bridled. Who was this presumptuous little man to call her an eccentric outsider?

  She held back her devastating retort, however. Not that she’d thought of one yet. But, she realized, there was no point in trying. He was right.

  “So that is why you were summoned here,” Lizzy said to her father. “We are all to be Shevingtons.”

  Mr. Bennet nodded. “It seems each of us has a part to play in the little melodrama Lady Catherine has arranged. What I don’t as yet know is why.”

  “Yes, Lizzy, you must tell us! What has happened to Darcy?”

  For the first time in as long as she could remember, Kitty thought her sister might cry. Elizabeth Darcy had emotions after all! She felt something other than satisfaction at an enemy’s death or amusement at another’s foibles! It was a revelation.

  Lizzy quickly composed herself and began pouring forth the sad tale: how Darcy, distracted by a disagreement between them, had been bitten by a dreadful where no amputation could save him.

  “A cure? After all these years?” Mr. Bennet said when Elizabeth told of Lady Catherine’s visit to Pemberley. “I can only pray it’s true. Although, if it is, then why hasn’t it been shared with all of England? Why hasn’t the strange plague been ended once and for all?”

  He, and then Lizzy, and then Kitty turned to stare at Nezu.

  “There are some things even Her Ladyship does not know,” he told them.

  Mr. Bennet looked dubious. “And this charade she’s arranged will somehow grant us access to the serum?”

  “Perhaps,” Lizzy said, and she continued her tale, explaining about Dr. Sir Angus MacFarquhar, and how she was supposed to get the cure from him.

  When she was done, Kitty realized another reason Lady Catherine had wanted the Bennets disarmed before entering the house. If they still had their swords handy, her flunky Nezu would have been puréed on the spot. Kitty had never seen her father so furious. Although, being a controlled and even-tempered man, even now his rage was revealed only by a reddening of the face and a narrowing of the eyes. For Oscar Bennet, however, that was as good as a spittle-spewing roar.

  “So my one daughter is to play seductress,” he said to Nezu. “What of the other? Why is she here?”

  “Sir Angus has a son.”

  Mr. Bennet’s face shifted from hot pink to purple.

  “Bunny MacFarquhar,” Nezu went on. “He is a foolish, superficial young man who spends all his time—and considerable sums—on drink, clothing, gambling, the theater, carriages, horses, and every other waywardness one can think of. He has done much to erode his father’s social standing as well as his fortune. A sizable dowry would solve many of the resulting problems. If Sir Angus does not provide an avenue to our prize, perhaps his son will.”

  “So Kitty is to be more bait,” Mr. Bennet said.

  “Just so.”

  “She is to be thrown into the snake pit of London society in the hopes that she might ensnare this young popinjay.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I see. One more question.…” Mr. Bennet rose to his feet. “Tell me, if you would, why I should not rip out your oily entrails and throttle you with them?”

  “I can give you three answers,” Nezu replied with such coolness that Kitty had to admire him. He seemed to remain utterly still, unflinching, and yet she could sense a coiled tension about him, too, like a spring wound tight. The man wasn’t simply composed. If Mr. Bennet wasn’t swayed by his answers, he was ready.

  “First,” he said, “you would not succeed. Second, even if you did, you would be killing the one person in London who can or would aid you in any way. And third, Mr. Darcy has been bitten by a dreadful, and you are in no position to quibble with how he is to be saved if he is to be saved. Lady Catherine has offered this one path to salvation, and this one alone. Step off it, and your son-in-law is damned to living death.”

  Mr. Bennet stared a moment at the younger man. Then he sighed and sat down.

  “That was four answers,” he said.

  “I considered the last more of a summation.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Bennet slumped back into the cushions. “In any event, two would have sufficed.”

  “You’re saying it’s decided, then?” Kitty asked. “I get no say, even when it’s my own disgrace that’s being debated?”

  Mr. Bennet sat up straight again. “Oh, my child, I am sorry. It’s just that—”

  “I am not a child,” Kitty shot back, much to her father’s surprise, and even more to her own. “Certainly not when something such as this is being proposed. I am being asked—no, told!—to become a jezebel, a vixen, a temptress so that I might beguile some young gentleman I’ve never even met. And yet so inconsequential is my opinion that it’s not even asked for when it’s my very character that is impugned and imperiled!”

  “You are correct, of course, and I apologize,” her father said. He jerked his chin at Nezu. “If you wish to kill this dog who has insulted
you, that is by all means your right.”

  Kitty turned to face Nezu as if she were thinking it over. He simply looked back at her, as impassive—and fearless—as ever. This was no mere valet, that much was clear. He was something … more. And Kitty found she enjoyed trying to stare him down. It took some effort to pull her gaze away and look at her sister.

  “The choice is yours,” Lizzy said, in answer to her unasked question. “It is, as you so rightly say, your honor that is at stake. Taking part in this ruse is something you must do only if you think it right.”

  Kitty nodded gravely.

  “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

  And then she could hold back her grin no longer, and she felt a “La!” coming on despite herself.

  “As it just so happens,” she said, “I think it sounds like fun!”

  CHAPTER 13

  The hunt for the MacFarquhars began the next day in Section Three Central—Hyde Park. This was the afternoon playground of the elite, where the fashionable went to see and be seen. Elizabeth wasn’t anxious for the former and dreaded the latter, even with the new look she’d been given by the waiting geishas supplied by Lady Catherine. A preparation of yogurt and powdered henna had turned her dark hair red; meticulous plucking had reshaped her eyebrows into thin, elegant arcs; a padded petticoat gave her a rounder, fuller shape while obscuring the tautness of her well-developed muscles.

  Her father and sister declared her to be utterly transformed, yet Elizabeth remained unconvinced. How long would it be before someone recognized her as Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy?

  “Longer than you might think,” Nezu told her. “In my experience, the English see the rank more clearly than the person. Change the one, and the perception of the other is altered in kind.”

  Elizabeth wasn’t so sure. It comforted her more to know that she was by no means a perennial in town. Not long into their marriage, she’d convinced her husband to stop spending the Season there. It hadn’t been hard: They both preferred the bucolic simplicity of Derbyshire to the venom of London’s so-called polite society. Elizabeth hadn’t been a pariah, as Lady Catherine had predicted before she married Darcy, but she wouldn’t have entirely minded if she had been.