***
Eleanor Ann Porden-Franklin couldn't be consoled. "You know how he gets! Oh, I do hope his carriage has arrived safely!"
"I'm sure it has." Jane Griffin murmured, parting the drapes to peer out into the expanse of the manor house's lawn. In her early thirties, Jane was a handsome woman round of face with expressive eyes and a quick tongue along with an even quicker drawing hand - we don't mean with pencils. Her skills provided a striking contrast against one of her dearest friends, Mrs. John Franklin.
"Yes, but...my poor husband, at the first sign of anything potentially shambling and malodorous, he feels faint." Eleanor groused, dabbing her tears. She herself had always been on the sickly side, possessing a weakened body and artistic composite mind. "Not even I feel faint when an unmentionable clutches at my hemskirts after Church. Only a kind of pity...do you suppose they are conscious at all, Jane?"
"Doubtful. For if they were then they would be the sorriest creatures on earth, forced to carry out Satan's bidding." Jane responded somewhat sharply, her hand dropping to caress the cold reassuring metal of a Lady's Derringer pistol concealed within the upper fashionable leather cuirass over her day gown. Eleanor had attired herself lightly for the visit, appearing almost nymph-like in a flimsy light blue gown that brought out the sickly color in her cheeks.
"Oh! You are probably right, as usual. I'm very glad that you were kind enough to postpone your trip abroad in light of the depressing atmosphere and keep me company."
At that, Jane's stern expression softened. Eleanor sometimes presented such a helpless picture, 't'was truly difficult not to feel affection for the dear. "Anytime." Jane went to stand by the lounger, pressing Eleanor's slim fingers firmly, "after all what are friends for?"
And as she spoke, the window crashed in with a hail of glass. Eleanor screamed, scrambling her slender legs up, shrinking from the figure in tattered black livery moaning afresh at the sight of the cowering woman. "God!" Eleanor cried, "it's the butler! We though45678-"
But, Jane didn't waste time, not when she could saving another poor soul. Whipping out the heavy silver revolver from the brace, she fired the single shot into the emissary of Satan. The loud 'pop' of the gunpowder igniting made Eleanor cover her ears, wincing. Jane watched with satisfaction as the diseased body of the Franklin butler crumpled, her contentment dashed cold with the snarling blood-smeared countenance of a young woman clad in a torn dress, appearing in the butler's place, reaching for her with clawing fingers.
"My personal maid!" Eleanor exclaimed, having presence of mind to take up a heavy plaque given to her husband by the Spilsby town folk - it truly was an unsightly carving - and bash it over the maid's head. Jane raised a brow at her friend's newfound courage. Eleanor stepped to the side of the black-coated body, gathering her dainty skirts in one hand whilst shaking her head in pity. "We thought they had run away together last week!"
“Now, that one mystery has been solved, Jane steered her friend toward the matter at hand, forcibly pulling Eleanor to the door. Various shambling shapes in tattered funerary attire and once-fashionable dresses, sadly spoilt by mud and other distasteful things, could be seen slowly ambling up to the lit windows of the newly purchased Franklin manor.
Both ladies glimpsed this frightening scene like out of a vulgar Charing Cross theatrics, performed only days after England’s troubles began - and Eleanor snapped out of her lethargy, snatching up an iron poker from the fireplace.
“We mustn’t forget little Sophia and her Governess!” She called over her shoulder, whirling toward the doors, her pale blue skirts rustling. Jane was much slower, having reloaded her pistol and arming herself with the only sharp object contained in the Franklins’ study, a silver letter opener. Not a single servant was to be seen cowering in the spacious halls and dimly lit foyer where dozens of hands were soon pressed up against the intricate cornice work, pounding to gain ingress.
Eleanor was first up the stairs, gathering her skirts in one hand, Jane lingered below, pushing a hallway bench across the shaking white wood panel. She knew it wouldn’t hold long, backing out of the foyer, their only hope was if the backdoor or servant’s entrance remained clear. Not for the first time did she regret leaving her Brown Bess and her father’s hunting gun at home. Anxiously, Jane mounted the steps, just as Eleanor cleared the landing, too out of breath to even scream as the child’s bedroom door swung open on ominously creaking hinges. Innocent, ringlet-haired little Sophia Cracroft clutched a bloodied sampler, her rosy little lips emitted a low hiss, blood dripping from her tiny child’s teeth.
As Eleanor stumbled back, Jane came up at her side, steadying her friend.
“Poor thing.” Jane said softly, momentary pity shining in her pale blue eyes. Then, she raised her pistol and fired into the unmentionable child’s brain. Dark blood and decaying brain matter spattered the paintings and walls. Eleanor flinched, her thin lips compressing tighter. She took a step forward then turned away. “We must get to the stables, quickly now!”