***
Eleanor was tiring fast. Since the early morning interruption of Jane’s visit, they’d been on the constant run, evading first by carriage until the last Franklin servant had been plucked clean from the driver’s seat, then by horseback once Jane unhitched the horses. She wasn’t used to so much exertion in one day, in particular running for the preservation of their lives. “How much farther, Jane?” Eleanor called, her voice bouncing as the beast beneath her cantered over dips and muddy spots in the uneven road. Twice they had passed overturned carriages, a fair arm thrown dramatically over the side of the splintered door, the occupants long-since departed from the world. Jane Griffin had foregone the occasion of side-saddle as Eleanor hadn’t, she had loose black pantaloons devoid of ruffles, riding astride like a man. Liberating from a Franklin manservant, a fowling piece and a Brown Bess, she expertly controlled the horse, a large brown Bay, to a smooth canter beside Eleanor, the smaller gun cradled in her arms.
“The burning fields are past the next rise, so yes. We aren’t far.”
Eleanor absorbed this information with a slight nod, no wonder her nose had begun to burn, her eyes watering from the acridness in the air. Too, she’d noticed the lack of unmentionables as they grew scarcer and scarcer near the pit where disposed ones returned to the bosom of God. Heartened at the thought of reuniting with her erstwhile husband, Eleanor denied further stoppage was necessary and they continued on, passing through the silent streets of Finchley Road less than two and a half hours later.
“What a sad state our capital city has fallen into.” Eleanor whispered, it possessed the air of a sepulcher without the holiness of eternal rest. Jane agreed, aware of the clop-clop the horses made as they passed through deserted cobble streets and overturned carriages. More than one curtain parted on a distant window but the occupants were never seen by face.
Jane assumed that fear was far more virulent then the plague itself. Social calls had all been abandoned in the wake of the tide of the undead. “Where shall we go?” Her companion asked the interminable question after close friends of the Griffins proved emptied of life and a putrid odor of decay wafted from the opened front door of the fine Georgian facade.
“To my family residence.” She assured with more certainty than she felt. Her sisters had been sent abroad to avoid the worst of the Spring ground-softening, only her father had retired to London a month before to conduct familial business. Though, she didn’t let a breath of anxiety escape her rigid self-control, her father hadn’t sent his customary letter this past week. Deep in her heart, Jane began to fear for his safety.
Directing their horses to Bedford Place, Eleanor wondered briefly if she should’ve suggested the old Franklin home on Devonshire Street in case her husband had stopped there. Then, she cast off that thought, for travelling alone had never appealed to her as it did Jane and besides, for all she knew he had either been eaten on the way to the Admiralty or was safe and sound at his designated hotel. Lost in their own respective thoughts, the ladies were soon dismayed to discover the Griffin home emptied as well.
“Looters.” Jane spat in a not very lady-like way, hopping from her horse and abandoning all decorum as she rushed into her family home. Eleanor grasped the reins of the other horse and the small pony carrying their travelling cases, unsure of what to say other than empathy for the loss suffered. The shadows were growing long over the refuse-filled streets, more than once her head had whipped toward a sound unfamiliar to the human experience. Eleanor knew instinctively they had to find shelter before complete dark was upon them.
“Jane! Jane, dear, I think we ought to...” her sweet voice trailed off, there it was again. The clink-clink of glass against stone. Eleanor turned in her makeshift saddle made up of her shawl. The sight that met her eyes filled her with immediate fright. Shuffling from the rank and file of row houses, crawling from broken ornamental trellis gates, were the former inhabitants of Bedford Place. Once in fashionable garb, rotting clumps of hair sagged from green, moldering flesh. In unison, their open sore smeared arms extended, fingers pawing the air heading straight for her.
The moment she parted her lips to scream, Jane appeared, running down the steps as if the hounds of hell were at her heels. Mounting the horse, she unsheathed her father’s ornamental mameluke sword, dashing the closest unmentionables reaching for the stirrups, to pieces. Reining in the neighing beasts, Jane motioned for the only road left clear for immediate escape. Keeping a hold of her own horse just barely, Eleanor gave harried consent, trying not to feel a coughing fit tighten her chest. This was one time when she couldn’t afford to be a burden.
As they galloped through a city partition blockade, unattended by prerequisite police, she wondered idly if any still remained that could call law and order into account. Another coughing fit assailed her and between gasps, she suggested they try Mayfair where her husband’s hotel was located. Jane betrayed none of her grief at what she had found inside, too, Mister Griffin hadn’t been among Satan’s emissaries they’d left behind in their dust; but Eleanor felt sure a fate of the unpleasant kind had overtaken the Griffin household. Holding her tongue for a kind, curiosity finally wouldn’t be held at bay. She prompted gently when Jane’s swift pace had lessened some and they’d come to quieter streets again, “your father?”
“He has departed this world...” she faltered, her strong facade buckling. “As a gentleman should.” She couldn’t say more, the image of her kindly father lying in his best Sunday-going out clothes and the emptied chamber of the pistol lying on the floor beside his favored chair. A few small effects she’d gathered from his desk, taking up the keepsake of forgotten travels, she had seen the gathering hoards of the undead reacting to the stirring of life in Bedford Place. Looters had been through the house before by the evidences of broken chair legs and scattered silk cushions littering the front steps. In an ordinary world, Jane would’ve rallied with fury against a desecration of her father’s home, but the world had changed, she had changed.
Dimly, she was aware of Eleanor’s sympathetic look and murmur of condolences. Suddenly, she envied Eleanor, small and petty though it was, to begrudge a young woman of weak body; it was uncontrollable. She envied Eleanor her husband, wishing she too could look forward to the protective embrace of a man. Ever speculative, her mind turned to the prospect of Captain William Parry being in the company of Captain Franklin, hardly considered a catch due to the subtle roughness behind his firm voice, he had some connections and was the son of a prosperous Doctor from Bath. She had seen Parry in passing and had disliked his physical appearance, finding it wanting compared to the refined, somehow exciting qualities of Captain Lyon, during a time when the social whirl of London was everything and her family had entertained the preeminent Polar explorers. Still, however, Jane couldn’t forget a time when Captain Franklin had made her heart race before his engagement to then-Miss Porden.
All too abruptly, the annoying sound of a howling dog cut into her reminiscing.
“Jane, look.” Eleanor whispered, leaning dangerously forward on the horse’s neck, pointing ahead to a wrought-iron fence enclosing a two-story mansion. An unmentionable dog had dragged itself on lame legs more bone than flesh and fur, to the edge where cobblestone met the fence perimeter and howled incessantly up at the edifice, demanding entry.
“I’ve never seen an unmentionable howl at another unmentionable.” She remarked, sliding from the saddle to the ground.
“True.” Eleanor murmured, following suit slower. Together, they drew nearer, holding the reins of the horses. Jane unsheathed her bloodied sword, decapitating the dog, silencing its funereal cries once and for all. “Is this the place?” she inquired, gazing about for some signs of human habitation or even a decent sign declaring this to be the hotel De Armis.
“I think so.” Eleanor had noticed a familiar black object lying on the ground near a puddle of sick. “I’d recognize this chapeau anywhere.” She failed to notice the shadow cross Jane’s face when she
declared, “John must be inside. I know how he is. He always drops his hat when startled.”
“Shall we knock for entry or simply walk in?” Jane said instead, her tone decidedly less pleased. Perhaps Captain Parry might be acceptable if he was willing to acquiesce to her demands; partly the reason why she had cast her eye speculatively on Franklin had been his malleability. Definitely, in her healthier moments, Eleanor Franklin ruled her polar explorer husband as Jane wished to.
“Why knock?” Eleanor slipped her arm through the gate slats, flicking the latchkey open. “Everyone knows unmentionables don’t knock.”