The Matters at Mansfield

by Carrie Bebris

  “He died quickly—took his final breath just as I reached him to retrieve the pistol from his hand. Neville called over to me, asking whether Mr. Crawford were dead, and I nodded. ‘Capital,’ he said, bravado once more taking hold of him. ‘I am glad to have this ridiculous affair ended.’ Ridiculous, he called it—when minutes before, he could not stand steady for cowardice.

  “I did not recognize him as my son any longer. He, who had dissipated our family fortune, whose conduct had blackened a name that had stood proud for generations, who held his honor so cheap he would not defend it. I wanted no part of him.

  “I raised the undischarged pistol and fired.”

  Thirty

  “We met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct.”

  —Colonel Brandon, Sense and Sensibility

  The viscount’s chaise, horses still harnessed, sat outside the same Gretna Green inn where Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam had found Anne after her first elopement. The viscount’s post-boy attempted to stop them from entering, but backed off when he saw the colonel remove a pistol from one of his bucket holsters.

  Darcy dismounted, never more grateful to have reached the end of a journey. They had ridden so hard and so long, stopping only when absolutely necessary to change horses or indulge in brief rests, that he was beyond exhausted. Colonel Fitzwilliam, whose military life better prepared him for tests of endurance, also showed signs of extreme fatigue.

  “Is the viscount inside?” the colonel asked.

  The post-boy took in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s red coat, then the pistol, and nodded. Though the pistol was untrained and but half-cocked, his gaze stayed upon it.

  “Does he have two ladies with him?” Darcy asked.

  “He does, sir. Not sure which of them he was in such a hurry to get here with. Just arrived a few minutes ago.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam removed his other pistol from its holster and handed it to Darcy. “I hope we are not too late.”

  They entered to hear the opening words of the wedding ceremony, interrupted by their sudden entrance. Darcy had no sooner laid eyes on Elizabeth and saw to his relief that she appeared unharmed than the viscount grabbed Anne and thrust the muzzle of a pistol under her chin.

  “The wedding will continue.”

  The unanticipated movement startled Darcy but he quickly recovered. “No, my lord, it will not.” He trained his own pistol on the viscount, as did Colonel Fitzwilliam.

  From behind them came the sound of a hammer being cocked. A tall, dark-haired man in servant’s livery held a pistol that looked very similar to the empty Mortimer gun Darcy still carried in the pocket of his greatcoat.

  Lord Sennex addressed the astonished innkeeper-turned-parson. “Do continue with the nuptials.”

  “Surely your lordship would not harm a lady?” Darcy asked.

  “Not if she cooperates.”

  “She does not appear inclined toward this marriage.”

  The viscount’s expression shifted from civilized to sinister.

  “Then she should not have signed the betrothal agreement when her mother put it in front of her. I, on the other hand, am very inclined toward the marriage, for I need her fortune to restore the family honor my son worked so hard to tarnish.”

  “Lord Sennex, is it honorable to force a lady into marriage?” Darcy asked. “To threaten her life?”

  “She signed the agreement herself. It is she who acts dishonorably by refusing to fulfill that obligation—after committing the same offense against my son by running off with Mr. Crawford.”

  Lord Sennex trembled. The journey which had worn Darcy out had utterly drained the older man, who was now so overwrought that he was in danger of accidentally discharging the weapon. “Is anybody governed by honor these days? Miss de Bourgh is not. My son was not. Mr. Crawford certainly was not. The world has become a place where disgraceful conduct is not only tolerated but encouraged.” He shook his head forcefully. “No! Miss de Bourgh made a commitment to me, and she will see it through.”

  “Miss de Bourgh has the right to break an engagement.”

  “Miss de Bourgh made a promise! Now she retracts, and you encourage her! No one understands honor anymore, let alone values it. No one stands up to defend it!”

  “I will defend it,” Colonel Fitzwilliam calmly declared. “And just how, Colonel, do you intend to do that?”

  “In abducting Miss de Bourgh, your lordship has committed a grave offense against my cousin, a lady under my protection.” He lowered his weapon. “Let us resolve this as gentlemen.”

  Lord Sennex regarded the colonel with surprise. Followed by respect.

  “I should have known a military man would yet understand.” A smile of satisfaction twisted the corners of his mouth. “We passed a field along the road, just before entering the village, with enough surrounding trees to afford privacy. We can conduct our business there.”

  “Pistols or swords?”

  The viscount cackled. “Does my preference not go without saying?”

  “Very well, then. Pistols. At fifteen paces.”

  Fitzwilliam drew Darcy aside. His visage—nay, his entire carriage—held grim determination. This was not James Fitzwilliam, the cousin with whom Darcy had grown up, the dependent younger son who had been born into privilege without any responsibilities to justify it. This was Colonel Fitzwilliam, the commander who had entered battle unflinchingly to champion Crown and country. And now to champion Anne.

  “Will you serve as my second?”

  “You need not even ask,” Darcy said. “Of course I shall. But you realize that my first order of business will be to attempt a peaceful reconciliation?”

  “There is no other way to resolve this—he is half mad with desperation and rage, and talks of nothing but restoring the family honor. And even were his lordship to apologize, words are insufficient atonement for his crimes against Anne.” He looked toward her. The viscount’s hold on Anne had relaxed, but she nevertheless appeared frightened—now as much for Colonel Fitzwilliam as for herself. Remorse clouded his expression. “She has been surrounded by scoundrels trying to use her for their own gain—from the Sennexes to her own mother. I should have stepped forward to defend her long before now.”

  Darcy approached Lord Sennex. “Colonel Fitzwilliam has appointed me as his second. Who will serve as yours?” He glanced at the servant. That would not do.

  “I shall act as my own.”

  “Your lordship cannot do that.”

  “I can and I will! I heard what the colonel said just now. I might be old, but I am not mad, and I am not incapable. I have felled more opponents than you have ever faced, including two this very week. No one here is qualified to serve as my second—no one shares my rank in society. So I shall take on that role myself.”

  “A second’s role is chiefly to mediate arrangements with a cooler head than the primary participants are likely to possess. Your lordship cannot possibly discharge that portion of the second’s duty.”

  “I will act as my own second.”

  As there was no dissuading him on the matter, Darcy moved on to the next point of negotiation. “At what time do you want to meet?”

  “Immediately.”

  “My lord, you know that is not advisable. We are all of us exhausted from traveling here, and the Code discourages hot-headed proceedings.”

  “The honor of the Sennex name has waited long enough to be restored. I want to resolve this business without further delay.”

  Apparently, there was no reasoning with the viscount on any particular. “I shall convey your wishes to Colonel Fitzwilliam. And the terms of firing?”

  “Two shots each. And as the challenged party,” he said loudly enough for the colonel to hear him, “I demand the first shot.”

  Alternate fire was an outmoded practice, replaced in current dueling protocol by simultaneous fire at signal or at pleasure. But it was the method the viscount had likely used in his younger days.

  “You may have
it,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said.

  Darcy strode back to his cousin and looked at him sharply. “By consenting to alternate fire, you might never have an opportunity to take your own shot.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you intend to let him use his own pistols? Recall that his weapons are rifled.”

  “I have not forgotten.” His gaze was on the viscount, who was becoming increasingly agitated. “However, if we demand to inspect the barrels, he will consider that an insult to his honor, and he will then call me out, or you, or perhaps us both, and there will never be an end to this until all of us end up like Henry Crawford.” He shook his head. “No—let him use his pistols, and take the first shot, and let us proceed directly to the field as he has asked. He is so distraught that perhaps his aim will be hindered, and we can end this affair with no one getting injured.”

  “No one? Do you intend to delope?”

  “If his shot misses, I will. My purpose is justice for Anne, not the slaying of an old man.”

  The arrangements were settled. As there was no presiding officer, Darcy took on that role as well, insofar as asking the innkeeper to send the village surgeon, or quack, or whatever passed for a medical man there, to attend them at the field.

  At long last he found an opportunity to embrace Elizabeth and determine with certainty that she was well. The strength of his hold expressed more than he had words to say. When he finally released her, the pistol in the pocket of his greatcoat swung forward, striking against her.

  “Ouch,” she said with surprise. “What is that?”

  “The viscount’s fourth pistol,” he said in a voice low enough so that others would not hear. “I am still carrying it since going to London. It is of no use to me, as it is unloaded, but I am certainly not going to return it to him.”

  “He seems to have quite enough weaponry as it is.”

  They all proceeded to the field. The ladies and the viscount’s servant stood to one side. They were soon joined by the village surgeon. As Edinburgh boasted a Royal College of Surgeons superior to London’s, Darcy hoped for his cousin’s sake that Gretna Green’s medical man knew what he was about should the need for his services arise.

  The gentlemen removed their greatcoats; Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lord Sennex also stripped down to their shirtsleeves to prove that neither wore any manner of concealed armor. Darcy handed his greatcoat to Elizabeth, pressed her hand, and went to dispatch his duties.

  Before the duel could commence, the weapons needed to be loaded by the seconds in each other’s presence to ensure they were charged smooth and single. Though Darcy and the colonel knew perfectly well that the viscount’s bores were not smooth, protocol must nonetheless be followed. Colonel Fitzwilliam handed Darcy his pistol, along with two powder flasks, the powder measure, a pouch of balls, and a patch tin.

  Under the supervision of Lord Sennex, Darcy took one of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s military pistols and dumped the existing charge by firing it into the ground. He then removed the ramrod from the underside of the barrel, half-cocked the hammer, and poured black powder from the larger flask into the measure. Thirty grains would propel the ball with sufficient force at the agreed-upon firing range. He sent the powder down the barrel.

  He next withdrew a lead ball from the pouch and opened the tin. Instead of the linen patches he expected to find, the tin held circles of silk. He regarded his cousin in question.

  The colonel shrugged. “I visited Hardwick’s shop while you were in London.”

  Darcy took one of the oiled patches and centered it on the end of the muzzle. He placed the ball over it, then rammed the load down the bore, firmly seating the patch and ball atop the powder. He secured the ramrod back onto the pistol.

  One step remained.

  From the other flask, he poured a small amount of fine priming powder into the pan. He then snapped the frizzen into place and presented the pistol to Lord Sennex for inspection.

  The viscount took the weapon, looked into the bore, and returned it to Darcy.

  “I am satisfied that the bore is smooth and the charge fairly loaded.”

  Darcy handed the pistol to Colonel Fitzwilliam, then emptied and reloaded his cousin’s other pistol.

  Lord Sennex next discharged and loaded his weapons, following the same process as had Darcy. When he presented the large pistols for inspection, Darcy looked into the bores. From this angle, the tops of the bores indeed appeared smooth, but he knew better. He met his cousin’s gaze.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam remained resolute. “We are satisfied,” he said.

  Once the viscount finished charging his two primary pistols, he reloaded the second-sized gun, though no one anticipated its use. Darcy watched him place the priming powder into the pan and close the frizzen.

  With all the pistols charged, Colonel Fitzwilliam took the field with one while Darcy held the other in reserve to give to his cousin after the first round of fire. Lord Sennex retained one of his large pistols, placing the other and the smaller pistol in the open case off to the side of the field, near the spectators.

  The principals met in the center of the field, fully cocked their pistols, and pointed them skyward. At Darcy’s word, they counted their paces.

  Lord Sennex moved slowly, the ordeal of the past several days having taken an obvious toll. Though Colonel Fitzwilliam carried himself with military bearing, Darcy knew that he, too, was not at his best.

  They turned and faced each other. Colonel Fitzwilliam stood steady as Lord Sennex lowered his weapon and took his shot.

  It hit.

  The ball struck Colonel Fitzwilliam’s right arm, causing him to nearly drop his weapon. He gripped his elbow. Blood seeped past his fingers.

  Thankfully, the viscount’s aim was not as accurate as it had been when he had settled the duel between Mr. Crawford and Neville. Darcy moved toward his cousin, but the colonel motioned him away. He refused the surgeon’s attention, as well.

  After a minute or two, he recovered himself. Though his arm trembled, Colonel Fitzwilliam stood firm. He raised his weapon.

  And fired into the air.

  Lord Sennex released an outraged cry. “You insult me by deloping? Do you think that because I am old, I cannot submit to your fire like a man?”

  Now that the colonel had fired, Darcy approached his cousin. His left hand was slick with blood. His shirtsleeve was ripped, the fabric stained crimson.

  “The wound is not serious,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said. “The ball passed straight through the flesh and did not hit bone. But my hand shakes so much that even had I not planned to delope, I would have been unable to hit him.”

  “Then that ends the business for today.”

  The viscount strode over to them. “Is the colonel injured or is he not?”

  “He is injured enough that his hand shakes,” Darcy said. “We will have to continue this on the morrow.”

  “Why?” he barked. “What difference makes impaired aim if he is only going to shoot into the air?”

  “We all know the rules of the Code. A wound sufficient to make the hand shake postpones completion of the duel.”

  “The Code also forbids firing into the air. If Colonel Fitzwilliam is not courageous enough to kill me, he should not have issued the challenge.”

  “Deloping is common practice, despite that prohibition.”

  “If the colonel will not acknowledge that rule, I do not acknowledge the other. We will finish this today.”

  “Yes,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Let us.”

  Lord Sennex stormed off to exchange his used pistol for the loaded one. Colonel Fitzwilliam handed Darcy his discharged weapon. His hand trembled so badly that he could hardly raise it.

  Darcy took the weapon from him, but did not give him the reserve pistol. “You cannot face him in this condition. If his shot does not hit you, your own might.”

  “The viscount insists on settling the matter this day.”

  “It will end today. I shall stand in for you.
”

  “No,” he said vehemently. “I am the one who issued the challenge.”

  “And I agreed to serve as your second knowing full well that I might be required to take your place.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam looked over at Anne. Her face was pale, her expression grave. “This is my fight.”

  “You have fought it bravely and honorably. Now stand down.”

  After some minutes’ further argument, the colonel finally agreed. Darcy deliberately avoided looking in Elizabeth’s direction. Likely she was so displeased by this turn of events that if the viscount did not kill him, she might. Colonel Fitzwilliam remained on the field but out of firing range.

  Darcy stripped to his shirtsleeves and met the viscount in the center of the field to count new paces. Lord Sennex nearly spat with rage. “Now the colonel will not face me at all? Very well. We shall see whether his second is more manly than he is.”

  Darcy cocked his pistol and counted his paces.

  And turned to face the viscount’s fire.

  Thirty-one

  “I could meet him in no other way.”

  —Colonel Brandon, Sense and Sensibility

  Lord Sennex’s shot missed.

  Darcy heard the ball whistle past. Then he lowered his pistol, pointing it at the ground.

  The viscount stared at him, at first uncomprehending. Then he exploded.

  “You refuse to fire at all? What is the meaning of this? You call this a duel? This is a farce! I command you to fire!”

  Darcy stood still. “My lord, I decline.”

  “I said fire, damn you!”