pride And prejudice And zombies: dawn of the dreadfuls

chapter 27

IT WAS OBVIOUS to Mary that the Master was distracted. He'd run through half a dozen new stances with her and Kitty and Lydia that morning, yet his drills had been slow, sloppy. Usually, he moved with an especially animated grace, almost a delight, when Mr. Bennet wasn't around, as if (Mary conjectured) he didn't want to show the older man up. But not now. Why, he didn't even bother taking off his coat and vest (something Mary was able to note without acknowledging how disappointed this made her).

Things didn't improve when the Master switched to weapons practice. He started off trying to instruct the girls in the art of throwing bolas ("the ancient Patagonian balls of death," he called them), but he could hardly even get his swinging, and when they ended up in a bunch around the post in the center of the dojo, he gave up entirely with a grunt of disgust.

Mary could guess what Lydia and Kitty made of all this. They kept on whispering and tittering no matter how many laps around the grounds it earned them.

Master Hawksworth was pouting, they thought. Moping. Heartsick because Lizzy wasn't there to moon over.

Mary knew better (as she did with all things, of course). From the beginning, she'd admired the Master's stern resolve and seriousness of purpose. She fancied him, in fact, to be a kindred spirit in that way. It would be only natural that her frivolous sisters would fail to understand him, just as they failed to understand her.

Master Hawksworth wasn't pining for Elizabeth. It was battle he yearned for. In the weeks since he'd come to Longbourn, almost everyone seemed to have slain a dreadful except the very man who was surely most adept at it.

Oh, and her.

Elizabeth, Lydia, Kitty, even sweet, gentle Jane—all had changed since the Master came. And they'd all proved it, one way or another. Yet Mary hadn't had the chance. How she feared what would happen when that moment arrived. And yet she longed for it, too, especially if the Master should be there to share it with her.

She could imagine them fighting back to back, shoulder to shoulder, even arm in arm (though it was harder to work out exactly what that would look like). Her sisters kept joking about the Master's "star pupil," Lizzy. Yet perhaps it would turn out to be she whom he truly—

"Pay attention, Mary Bennet!" Master Hawksworth snapped. "The warrior who daydreams soon sleeps the dreamless slumber of the dead!"

"Yes, Master. I'm sorry, Master. It won't happen again, Master."

Kitty snickered. Lydia snorted.

Master Hawksworth simply ignored them this time.

"I shall begin again," he said. "The secret to the bullwhip is in the wrist. Your arm moves, yes, but the snap comes from the hand. Like so."

He moved his arm up and then quickly down again, the wrist jerking. His whip remained flaccid, though, and there was no crack. When he tried again, the result was the same: The leather cord hung limp and rather sad from his hand.

Master Hawksworth tossed the bullwhip aside.

"These pathetic English whips—they have no sinew, no strength. Like so many of the English themselves. Bah! I don't even know why I try."

"'Try,' Master?" Mary said. "Did you not tell us once that try is a word the warrior does not know? That one either does, or does not?"

The girls were sitting cross-legged on the floor for the Master's demonstration, and he whirled around on them so fast that not only did they all cringe, Lydia actually toppled over onto her back.

"Mary Bennet," Master Hawksworth growled, "you—"

Something stopped him.

Mary thought it might be the sincerity that (she hoped) shone through the trepidation on her face. She hadn't meant to question him. She . . . well, she simply couldn't stop herself. She wanted to help, as she'd so often helped her family with her insightful observations and timely axioms.