by Anne Morris
Colonel Maurice Fitzwilliam had a hundred questions he wanted to ask. First off was, had Darcy done the asking and been accepted? The way his cousin had spoken, Fitzwilliam wasn’t quite sure if Darcy was so arrogant as to obtain a license without first obtaining the lady’s permission. It was possible that Darcy would do something like that, but Colonel Fitzwilliam asked none of the questions which pounded against his forehead because there was a wealth of emotions coursing through his body at the same time.
Fitzwilliam had admired this same lady, though his mother had dissuaded him from considering her “because she was as poor as a church mouse. You need an heiress the way you spend money.” The Countess had said nothing else against Elizabeth’s prospects as a wife. Fitzwilliam could not deny his habits, but he also could not deny his admiration for the young lady. Maurice had worked hard to try to change some of those habits that summer in an attempt at reforming himself. It seemed that all of that had been in vain.
“You’re to return to her, to her family?” threw out the colonel.
“I’ve been staying with Bingley; he’s leased an estate which is quite near where she lives. I rediscovered her,” explained Darcy. The way his cousin spoke and the sideways glance told Fitzwilliam that it was no accident, this meeting with Miss Bennet.
“She lives in Hertfordshire?” confirmed Fitzwilliam.
“Yes,” answered Darcy. There was no mistaking his impatience.
“I don’t see why we shouldn’t hit the road now. As long as we’re to travel north, I might as well stop over. Do we have time to return to Hertfordshire by the evening?” Faithful on the exterior; Maurice’s insides told a different story.
“It is but a half-day’s journey,” assured Darcy.
“Then let us be off. You don’t suppose Bingley would mind putting me up for the evening? I can continue to Derbyshire tomorrow,” said Fitzwilliam.
“Of course!” asserted Darcy, his eagerness was apparent.
“I’m a soldier. I can pack and be on the road faster than you can.” It was almost a challenge. One place where Maurice Fitzwilliam out-shone his cousin.
***
They did leave in a short amount of time though it was still the afternoon when they set off north. It was like the day when Darcy had left; sunlight failed the pair at the end, and they had to make their way in the darkness, walking their horses the last few miles as they came into Meryton.
The lights from the remote cottages and businesses in town were a welcome sight to Fitzwilliam. There had not conversed much as they had ridden. He had offered his congratulations, though the colonel had not felt the same elation that he espoused about the prospect of Darcy marrying Elizabeth Bennet.
Darcy directed him to turn down a road, but Fitzwilliam spied the unmistakable sign of a public-house. He called over, “let us stop for a drink.” His cousin agreed.
Despite the darkness and the hour, men were sitting outside smoking, with tankards in-hand. Fitzwilliam and Darcy pushed past them after having tossed a coin to a scrawny lad who they asked to walk their horses so they did not cool down too quickly. They explained that they would not be long.
It was smoky inside as well, larger than Fitzwilliam expected, and cramped like most public-houses were—full of men busy at their drink. His eyes moved about for the publican, and Maurice raised his hand slightly when he spied the man. But Fitzwilliam also heard a hiss of breath from his cousin, and the colonel turned to look at Darcy, noticing the whiteness of his cousin’s face. He followed Darcy’s gaze to discover where Darcy stared. George Wickham sat at a small table staring back at them. Wickham sat by himself, an empty bowl of some meal before him, an empty tankard beside it, though another was in his hands. Wickham spied Fitzwilliam looking at him as well as Darcy, and Wickham raised his drink in a mock salute.
“Let’s leave,” Darcy said quietly without turning to look at Fitzwilliam. The colonel nodded without saying anything. He was in the process of pulling a coin out of a pocket when Wickham called out. “Come join me!”
Darcy shook his head a modicum.
“I saw you, you know,” cried George. Fitzwilliam felt, rather than saw a change in Darcy’s attitude next to him. Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to look at Darcy, who had gone from white to red now. Fitzwilliam did not understand either Wickham’s remark or Darcy’s response.
“Come join me,” repeated George. This time it was the voice of a man bent on seduction. Fitzwilliam did not feel inclined to go, but Darcy took a step forward, and then another until finally, two more steps took him to the chair that faced Wickham, and Darcy pulled it out. His cousin sat facing the vile creature that they both despised. Fitzwilliam did not understand, but grabbed one of the few empty chairs at another table without seeking permission and sat askew at a corner of the table, next to Darcy.
“You’ve been missed.” George took a pull of his ale. He was like an actor on the stage who knew eyes were upon him. He took another long deep pull of his ale, taking time to swallow it down.
“I am under no misapprehension that it was you who missed my presence in Hertfordshire,” alleged Darcy.
“I have been visiting at Longbourn,” Wickham re]vealed as he placed the tankard on the table.
Again Colonel Fitzwilliam could sense rather than see his cousin’s response next to him.
“She misses you. That was quite the farewell in the Hollybush Woods, the day you left,” taunted George.
Darcy’s hands came up to thump on the table. “What are you playing at George!”
There was another drawn-out pause as Wickham took a sip of his ale. The landlord made his appearance as well, placing two tankards in front of them, Fitzwilliam threw down the coin which he had been fingering in his pocket.
“I’ve spent the last two days trying to figure this out, Darcy,” smiled Wickham. “Trying to figure out what sort of arts and allurements Miss Elizabeth Bennet has that could so captivate you.”
Darcy’s gloved hands still rested on that stained and worn tabletop, but Darcy slowly drew his left hand up into a fist.
“You’ve never been one for the ladies, for all that they are ones who follow you around like bitches in heat. It must be pleasant having money.” Wickham’s eyebrows rose in amusement.
“You’re a bastard, George!” Darcy stood, kicking the chair out behind him. “You’ve no right to be in civil company. To be calling at Longbourn. You’re a vile man.”
“Darcy!” Fitzwilliam called to him, but it was as if Darcy didn’t hear.
“You’re so cock-sure,” insulted Wickham, leaning back and looking at him. “You stand there incensed like you’re offended! Like I don’t know about that tryst in the woods with Miss Bennet.”
“What?” stated Darcy in a voice that Fitzwilliam didn’t even recognize.
“I suspected that the youngest Bennet daughter would give her favors easily, but I hadn’t imagined Miss Elizabeth was a whore. How is it that you surround yourself with whores, Darcy? A tryst in the woods with Elizabeth and a whore for a sister? Do you know how close I came? Georgiana practically begged me; she was so ready to give herself to me.”
Wickham found his head turned under the power of Darcy’s hand. Darcy wrenched the glove off of his hand and threw it on the table.
“You will name your seconds, Wickham,” growled Darcy.
“It’s to come to this, is it?” lamented George. “Pistols at dawn and some pathetic code of honor. I guess I better finish this and get to it then. All over a mere strumpet.” Wickham spat on the ground before he drained the last of the ale out of his mug.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
They brought lanterns in order to be able to stake out that small meadow in the Netherfield Woods, though they were not to rely on lantern light. The light from the eastern sky was pale; however, heavy clouds suppressed the sunlight. The sun grappled with other elements as it came up, night did not wish to surrender to the day, and the weather was against allowing this exchange to take place.
Wickham stood on the other side of the clearing beneath an elm. He was standing tall, all bravado. Four red-coated men had come with him to witness this show, one of which was the company’s surgeon.
Night held out as best she could, but that sun, despite the darkness of the clouds overhead, continued to filter light down to all of them as it rose, and light made its way through the trees to illuminate the meadow. It was toilsome to permeate through the foliage, but the meadow had been well chosen. It might have been a happier place at another time. Darcy could imagine having a picnic there, perhaps that was why it had been selected—some previous owner of Netherfield Hall had been known to hold al fresco meals there in the past.
Bingley finished his tasks as Darcy’s second and came strolling back across the meadow to where Darcy stood under that oak with Fitzwilliam following silently in his wake. “Are you certain you wish to go through with this?” asked his friend. None of Bingley’s habitual humor showed on his face. He did not look like his usual self. Ever such a loyal friend, Bingley had stepped up to be his second. Fitzwilliam, having taken the king’s shilling, had more to lose.
“Yes,” was all Darcy had to say. Darcy did not need to defend himself or go into his reasons, and Bingley did not need to question him further. Darcy didn’t even bother looking at Fitzwilliam to see his reaction.
“I did have to ask. We are in readiness. We want only the light,” remarked Bingley. They turned and stood side by side and looked back across at that half group of men on the other side of the meadow while they waited for the dawn to give illumination to their battlefield. Fitzwilliam seemed lost, not of the party, though he was in solidarity with his cousin even if the soldier stood silent and apart.
Then there was some moment which caused Mr. Denny’s feet to walk halfway across the meadow, and Bingley walked in dew-strewn grass out to meet him, and they agreed that it was time. The two principals started to divest themselves of their outer coats, their coats, and waistcoats. Darcy’s valet took each piece carefully and laid it in a small trunk as his master handed them over one by one until Darcy stood only in his shirt sleeves. Allen simply nodded after the last garment had been handed over, but Darcy held out his hand, and they shook then as equals before he turned to face his adversary.
Bingley was beside him, and they marched together to the center. Wickham had also stripped down, and he stood at the midpoint of the meadow. Wickham had chosen his gun from the pair of pistols; he had the right of choice since Darcy had issued the challenge. Wickham gave Darcy a mock salute with his free hand, but Darcy ignored him.
Darcy picked up his pistol in his left hand, and Bingley snapped the dueling pistol case shut with a decisive click. Darcy had nothing to say to Wickham. He supposed he should say something. Perhaps he should be gentleman-like and shake hands, but Darcy did not feel that the blackguard deserved such attention.
“Fifteen paces, turn, aim,” announced Denny, “and then on my mark, fire.”
The two men nodded in agreement with the instructions. Darcy and Wickham took their places back-to-back. Darcy faced off looking at that giant, gnarled, perverse oak—black with age—which stood in front of him. Then he heard Denny counting the steps, one…two…three…four. Darcy wondered who else had heard about the duel. Obviously, Wickham had told his fellow officers that there were others in attendance to witness, seven...eight…nine. But was there local gossip in town? There might be eyes Darcy could not see just beyond the rim of the meadow under the trees. He had not heard any voices or feet, thirteen…fourteen…fifteen.
Darcy turned, raised his pistol, and pointed it at Wickham’s heart. Denny stood to the side, but still visible with a white cloth in his hand. Darcy and Wickham peered at each other with narrowed eyes as they stood sideways, attempting to present the smallest possible target to the other. Then the cloth fell from Denny’s hand, and Darcy and Wickham fired.
Darcy’s arm bent as he deloped and fired into the air. In the process, Darcy raised his elbow slightly. Wickham’s bullet did not hit its intended target but swooped down to pierce Darcy’s gut. Darcy felt shock as it tore into him, a searing heat as he was knocked slightly backwards. Darcy’s mouth was open, but he was unable to breathe as there was a fire in his belly, unlike any he’d ever felt. He took another step back, and the pistol in his hand fell from his grip, and that hand came up to cover the wound. Darcy fell over, onto his back, to lie under that ancient oak tree.
The pain was more than anything Darcy had experienced. It had been hot, that bullet, when it tore into him. He was surprised that he did not lose consciousness because of the intensity of the pain in his gut as it shot out, up, and through his body. But Darcy felt that heat turn and cool, numbing his limbs as he lay in that meadow, his hand pressed to his side, thinking only of breathing as though he now needed to recall how to inhale and exhale or his lungs would no longer work. Darcy thought he heard the slight sounds of rain, yet none reached him there on the ground. He looked up at the canopy over him, the great arms of that old, gnarled tree shaded the lightly falling rain from him. Darcy felt the pain cramp and tighten. And then, though he did not think it possible, the pain intensified.
“Darcy!” he felt Bingley’s hand on his knee, another laid gently on his hip. Then fingers peeled his own hand away as his friend looked at the hole in his side. “It looks bad,” said his friend.
“Feels…bad,” croaked Darcy. His voice did not sound like his own.
“The surgeon is coming. Why he couldn’t bother to run I don’t know!” lamented Bingley.
Darcy appreciated the flash of anger in his friend’s voice as his friend leaned over and pushed one hand against the wound. Darcy’s eyesight was blurred, and the figures were indistinct as the pain attempted to pull him from consciousness.
“Darcy,” called another voice. It was all emotion and barely recognizable as his cousin’s. “Darcy…you should have let me fight him as I suggested.”
“Fitzwilliam…my…fight,” croaked Darcy, before he coughed.
There was a flash of red, and Darcy thought that the surgeon must have finally made his appearance. Darcy heard the sound of ripping, indistinct sounds as though voices, hands, and instruments were poking and prodding at him. He realized that the voices sounded muffled. His eyesight was hazy and dimmed as Darcy looked up at the canopy over him. All he could truly see was a single branch which jutted over him, stretched out over the spot where he lay. Darcy saw movement and thought there must be a bird up there. He wondered if it was a vulture, a carrion-eater come to feast on a corpse.
He had a thought then that he was dying.
“Fitzwilliam,” Darcy beckoned, his voice raspy as he reached out. He could no longer use or command his left arm, so Darcy reached out with his right. There was movement, and his cousin was there to clasp that hand. “Tell Elizabeth I love her.”
“I will,” Fitzwilliam promised him.
Darcy could conjure up an image, her laughing smile, and those beautiful dark eyes. He thought, as he hovered just on this side of consciousness, that his last thoughts—the last image in his mind was to be of Elizabeth Bennet—his true love. That was a small comfort, to think of her loveliness as he passed from this world.
There were sounds which interrupted his thoughts. Barking thought Darcy, and he wondered why there would be a dog with them in the meadow, but he saw red, a redcoat. He then considered that the surgeon was still attempting to save his life. The pain was so exquisite and horrible that his eyes sharpened back into focus.
First, Darcy saw that branch above him again, and there were three crows sitting on it now. Then his eyes focused downward, and Wickham was hovering over him with an evil smile on his face, and that barking was Wickham’s laughter. His hands were on his hips as he leaned over his opponent.
“I think this proves,” Wickham proclaimed, “that it is I who am in the right here, and your Miss Bennet is a whore, Darcy!”
Anger flared in Darcy which intensified the pain and made him cry out. The man’s arrogance to be mocking him seconds before he succumbed to his wounds, to be goading him before he died!
“You are…evil…George,” was all he could say before Darcy’s eyes rolled back up to look at that gnarled, ancient branch. The crows had even more companions sitting there. Darcy thought, I am done. You may feast on my body as he felt the cold creeping up from his legs…and as he felt the strength leaving his fingers, so he could no longer hold Fitzwilliam’s hand.
That anger had given him a modicum of warmth, but he did not wish to die in anger. Darcy only wished to have Elizabeth’s face as his last dying thought. He wondered if he wasn’t crying. There was feeling still left in his face, and Darcy could feel tears leak from his eyes. Or perhaps the rain which had begun to fall from those heavy dark clouds had made its way through the canopy of limbs and branches and leaves on that great oak to finally land on his face. It did not matter if they were rain or tears. Darcy had only a small modicum of feeling left in his body, and he thought only of his love for Elizabeth. He would not turn his eyes back towards Wickham, but stared up at that branch and recalled a pair of beautiful, dark, and enchanting eyes before his own clouded over.
Wickham continued to bark with laughter even though Darcy’s eyes stared up at nothing.
Fitzwilliam cried out, “Darcy!” as he felt his cousin’s fingers slip away. Bingley turned to look at the surgeon, Captain Miller, whose hands stopped working on his friend. The surgeon stood and stepped away, shaking his head. Wickham’s barking continued to resound, and Bingley stood up, ready to throw down the gauntlet and issue another challenge to the man. Fitzwilliam still knelt beside Darcy looking down at his cousin, handsome even in death.