by Nina Mason
In the room, he gave her a set of his clothes to put on. “If I survive without serious injury, we will need to get away in a hurry, which will be easier if you ride astride.”
She agreed and, as she changed behind the modesty screen, he did the same unshielded. When they were both dressed, he withdrew from his luggage the inlaid wooden case containing the dueling pistols he’d hidden from the bailiffs.
Removing one from the case, he inspected the barrel as he said to Penelope, “Do you still carry that little pistol you used to have?”
“Normally, I do,” she said. “But it was lost with my muff when I fell through the ice.”
He reached into his trunk and, from under a stack of shirts, he withdrew another gun—the New Land Cavalry Pistol he’d brought back with him from Canada. Walking to the chair she now occupied beside the cast-iron fireplace, he handed her the weapon. “Do you think you can handle a firearm of this caliber?”
She looked it over and ran her fingers over the curved rosewood butt before aiming it at the wall. “Is it loaded?”
“Not yet.”
She cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger. “Yes. I believe this will work rather well for me.”
He returned to the case, where, with the confident hands of experience, he began the painstaking process of cleaning the dueling pistols.
Penelope cocked the frizzen again. “What would you have me do with this?”
“Nothing, as long as Frank abides by the Code Duello.”
He felt her eyes on him when she said, “Do you honestly think he will try something underhanded?”
“There is no telling to what depths he will sink to get me out of the way,” he said as he swabbed out the barrels. “But better to be prepared for any contingency, I say, than to be caught unaware.”
“So … you want me to shoot him if he tries to break the rules?”
“That would be the general idea.” He licked his lips and picked up the polishing cloth he kept with the set. “Do you think you can muster the courage?”
“I am sure the knowledge he kept your letters from me will go a long way toward boosting my mettle.”
“Good. Now bring the pistol here so I can load it and get to the dueling ground before sunrise.”
She did as he bade and, as he inserted the cloth-encased bullet and powder, she said, “You seem remarkably … composed. If I were in your shoes right now, I would be a nervous wreck.”
“I was a soldier, Sweet Pea,” he reminded her while ramrodding the barrel. “If I did not learn to remain unflappable under fire, I would be long in my grave by now.”
She set her hand on the sleeve of his coat. “Why do you never talk of your experiences in the army?”
Images flashed behind his eyes. Horrors no man should have to endure—or ever fully got over. Sometimes, he could still smell the noxious odor of the battlefield. Black powder, blood, and leaking bowels all mixed together in the foulest bouquet imaginable.
“Because I’d rather forget the carnage I witnessed in Canada,” he said with a swallow. “It was barbarism, Penelope. Sheer barbarism that turned civilized men into savages and uncivilized men into monsters.”
As he handed her the gun, he saw moisture in her eyes. He pulled her into his arms and held her tight. “Please be brave, for I can bear bloodshed with far more ease than I can bear your tears.”
She sniffed against his shoulder. “I will be brave, darling. I promise.”
At length, he let her go, put on his greatcoat, and took up the case containing his pistols. The loaded flintlock he gave to her before leading the way down the dark staircase and through the outer door into the street. The air was cold, a light snow was falling from the midnight-blue sky, and the horses were saddled and waiting. Rollo gave Penelope a leg up on the smaller of the pair before mounting the larger.
As they rode through the village and along the main road, snow gathered like dandruff on their heads and shoulders. As their horses climbed the hill toward the meeting place, the snowfall suddenly ceased.
At the top, Rollo could see no one in the dawning light, and, for the five minutes they sat there while the horses’ nostrils steamed in the stillness, Rollo began to hope Frank had thought better of his challenge. Then, amidst the clop of hooves and the snorts of uneasy horses, three mounted figures emerged from the trees surrounding the clearing.
The trio came over and Frank fixed Rollo with a venomous glare. “With God as my witness, I was sure you would run away again.”
“I did not run away, you buffoon,” Rollo retorted with equal poison. “I joined the army after we were evicted by the bailiffs.”
“Due to your father’s degenerate ways,” Frank put in with a spiteful sneer. “And now you’ve bought back your wreckage of a house and, before it is even habitable, you have used it for improper purposes.” With a scoff, he turned a heated gaze on Penelope. “And this is the man you would choose over me? A common rake who would ruin you to secure his claim?” With a bitter laugh, he added, “Though I cannot imagine he had to work very hard to convince you to spread your legs.”
“He’s a better man than you will ever be,” she returned with vitriol. “And, furthermore, a victory today will gain you nothing, for I would not marry you now if you were the last man on earth.”
“We’ll see what your parents have to say about that,” Frank replied with flint in his voice.
Before more spleen could be vented, Frank and his companions rode off toward the opposite edge of the field. Since Frank had denied them the courtesy of an introduction, Rollo could only assume the man carrying a pistol case under his arm was Frank’s second, while the man with the black physician’s satchel was the surgeon he’d engaged to tend any injuries that might occur.
Rollo and Penelope promptly dismounted and he pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Let us walk. My hands are cold and walking will help warm the blood in my trigger finger.”
With her beside him, he paced slowly around the edge of the clearing, hands clasped behind his back, filling his lungs with frosty air and his ears with cheerful birdsong. They walked in silence, a hundred yards in one direction and a hundred yards back again. Rollo welcomed the exercise, which tempered his anxiety whilst also warming his extremities.
After they’d crossed the field a couple of times, Frank’s second shouted across the clearing, “Come, gentlemen, we are wasting time. To avoid arrest, the affair should be over before sun-up.”
Rollo took off his greatcoat and hung it over the split-rail fence to which he’d tied the horses. Then, he did the same with his tailcoat. Shivering in his shirtsleeves, he went to meet Frank in the center of the clearing with his pistol case under his arm and Penelope hard on his heels.
Day was dawning and, in the pale gray light, he could see the lines and crags a decade had etched on his opponent’s formerly smooth face. Frank’s short, sandy hair was slicked backed from his hairline, which had crept higher with age.
When memories rose of them romping together as children, Rollo blinked them away. He would rather not think about the friend he knew then. If he was going to shoot this man in cold blood, he must think of him only as the foe standing between him and happiness.
In accordance with the Code Duello, they exchanged sporting pleasantries, chose sides, and marked off the paces while Frank’s second loaded all four pistols. Acting as Rollo’s second, Penelope watched over the task to ensure he prepared the weapons fairly.
The opponents then returned to their marks, collected their weapons, and stood back to back, both primed to do bodily harm to the other. Compassion went by the wayside. So did fear. They would each get two shots, and the first to draw blood would be declared the winner.
Heart pounding, hands steady, and senses alert, Rollo awaited the order to start. It came the next moment, when Frank’s second said, “Ten paces, gentlemen. I shall count them off now. One … two … three …”
The paces were as slow as the count. Each step through the snow s
eemed to last a lifetime—and perhaps they did, if his was to end in the next few moments.
At the count of ten, Rollo turned to face his rival across the distance between them. When the second gave the order to fire, the two men discharged their weapons simultaneously. To his tremendous relief, Rollo heard the bullet meant for him whizz past his ear.
He dropped the empty pistol and, after changing hands, raised the other while Frank did the same. Just as he cocked the hammer, searing pain shot up his arm. To his astonishment, the force of the impact had turned him around so that he stood with his back to Frank. The pistol previously in his hand had been blown out of reach.
Clutching his injured forearm, Rollo heard two more shots ring out in quick succession. His soldier’s instincts compelled him to drop to the ground.
Penelope was at his side in an instant. “Speak to me, dear heart. Tell me you are all right.”
“I’m perfectly well,” he said, even as blood gushed from his arm. “But who fired those shots I just heard?”
“Frank fired one—from a gun hidden in his boot … and I fired the other.”
“For what purpose?”
“Frank’s was to shoot you in the back … and mine was to stop him.”
Rollo, grimacing in pain, lifted his head to look at her. “Did you kill him?”
“I don’t think so … but I did manage to hit him.”
Rollo looked through the lingering gun smoke for Frank. He was about thirty paces away, lying on the ground with his second and the surgeon hunched over him.
Though proud of her, he was also afraid. If Frank died of his wounds, she could hang for murder. “If he does not survive,” he said, “I will take the blame.”
“The devil you will,” she said with vigor. “Firstly, I shot him to save the man I love, which is well within my rights. Secondly, I want people to know I’m no longer a submissive little mouse they can threaten to get their way. And thirdly, you have already paid the price for being blamed for the misdeeds of another.”
When he tried to argue, she silenced him by saying, “We’d better get something around your arm before you bleed to death.”
She helped him get up and then led him to a nearby stump, where he sat while she pulled out his shirttail and tore a few strip from the hem. “I would use the one you loaned me,” she said, her eyes swimming with fear and concern. “But since yours is already ruined, I thought it the better choice.”
“I agree.”
He looked at his arm. His shirtsleeve was torn and soaked in blood and his forearm hurt like the dickens. He could not ascertain if the ball had hit bone, though he seemed unable to move his fingers. He also felt dizzy and nauseated. As the trees swayed strangely around him, he did his best not to keel over into the dappled pink snow.
As she used one of the strips to form a tourniquet, he looked across the field toward Frank. He was sitting up now. That was good. That meant he was alive and there was no chance Penelope would face a murder charge. He was too unfamiliar with the laws governing homicide to know if she was accurate about being within her rights.
When the tourniquet was in place, she tore open his blood-soaked sleeve and examined the wound. “You will need to see a surgeon,” she told him while wrapping a strip of cloth around his arm, “but that should staunch the bleeding for now.”
He looked at her and cupped her cheek with his left hand. “You’re wonderful. Do you know that?”
She blushed and gave him a bashful smile. “I only did what needed doing.”
Gritting his teeth, he got up. Though his arm still bled, it no longer gushed. He started toward Frank and, when Penelope tried to follow, he told her to wait where she was.
The twenty paces between them seemed like twenty miles. The doctor had cut away Frank’s clothes and was holding a pad of gauze to his right shoulder. As he approached, Rollo asked, “Is he going to be all right?”
“There’s no telling.”
Frank’s eyes fluttered. “That little bitch shot me. Can you believe her cheek?”
Rollo glowered down at him. “What did you expect her to do when you tried to shoot me in the back?”
Frank licked his lips, which were as colorless as his face. “I didn’t expect her to shoot me, I daresay.”
The surgeon interrupted them. “If you can hold this pad on Mr. Blackmore’s shoulder with your left hand,” he said to Rollo, “I can examine your arm.”
“I can hold the pad myself,” Frank said. “You get off, Gillingham. Before the constables come. Dueling is unlawful, in case you haven’t heard.”
Rollo shook his head. “What happened, Frank? We used to be so close. Was it jealousy, or something else, that turned you against me?”
“Let us just say I believed myself to be in The Three Musketeers, and then found myself quite unexpectedly in Romeo and Juliet—as the third wheel. Now, it seems, I am Paris, the unwanted betrothed—or worse, Tybalt, the slain brother.” He took a shuddering breath. “So, go. Leave me and this place, dear Romeo, before you are arrested. And take your Juliet with you; for I would not marry that ungrateful, cuckolding whore now for all the money in the world.”
Rollo fought the urge to defend Penelope’s honor, as punching a wounded man in the nose seemed rather unsportsmanlike. “I will go just as soon as the doctor takes a look at my arm.”
Rollo squatted in the snow and, while Frank held his own gauze, the surgeon unbound and examined his arm. After a few minutes, he said, “Though it would benefit from a few sutures, it appears to be little more than a flesh wound.”
The surgeon pulled a spool of wide gauze from his bag and proceeded to wrap Rollo’s forearm. After a few minutes, he was able to slacken the tourniquet Penelope had put in place.
The first shafts of sunlight were illuminating the tops of the barren trees. It was light enough to see now, but still cold and gray. As Rollo walked back to Penelope, nose frozen and toes numb in his boots, he thought ahead to their wedding. With Frank out of the picture, there was no need to go all the way to Gretna Green. If, that was, Dr. Twigworth could be persuaded to preside over the ceremony.
Penelope, looking rather forlorn, was seated on the stump he’d vacated to check on Frank. When he came within hearing distance, she looked up. “How is he?”
“He’s not in mortal danger, I daresay,” he told her. “Nor are you at risk of being hanged.”
“I’m relieved to hear it—on both counts.” She paused a long moment before adding, “Did he say anything about … me?”
“He did, most of which I shall not repeat,” Rollo replied. “But he also relinquished all claim on you, so there are no more impediments to our marrying.”
“Well, that, at least, is good news,” she said with a sigh. “Though we still have to face my parents … and apply to Dr. Twigworth for a license.” She paused a moment before adding, “Unless you still want to elope.”
He got down on one knee in the snow and took her right hand in his left. Then, gazing at her earnestly, he said, “Not if you don’t. And we do have a license, dearest. A special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury himself, which excludes the reading of the banns.”
She looked at him queerly. “How long have you had this license?”
“All the while I’ve been in Stow-on-the-Wold.”
“And you only thought to mention it now?”
“There seemed little point in mentioning the license while you were rejecting my suit.”
She set her free hand on the side of his stubbled face and gazed at him in a way that made his heart melt. “Shall we go and see the good reverend together?”
“Certainly,” he said, “just as soon as we speak to your parents.”
“Oh, Rollo. What if they forbid us to marry?”
“We will tell them we intend to be married with or without their blessing—and then leave it to them to give or withhold their consent.”
“That is an excellent plan … but I’m still uneasy about facing them. We spen
t the night together, Rollo, which makes me a fallen woman in their eyes. Surely, they will scold and abuse me—scold and abuse the both of us—for our shameful behavior.”
“Let them say what they will.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly. “For scoldings, however severe, are only words. And think, dear one, you will never have to set eyes on them again once we are settled at Hartwell Hall.”
After a moment’s consideration, she gave him a small smile. “Yes, you are right. Indeed you are. And there is always the chance they will be perfectly pleasant and give us their blessing with no trouble at all. It is Christmas, after all. And is not Christmas the season of miracles?”
Chapter Eleven
When the anxious couple arrived at Winterberry Park, there was no light in the windows, no fire in the parlor, and no sound to be heard apart from the loud tick-tocking of the tall case clock in the entry hall. Everybody, it seemed, was still asleep.
Rather than rouse the Pembrokes, they decided to wait until they awoke on their own. So, after lighting some candles, Penelope went upstairs to change her clothes, leaving her beloved in the parlor to wait. Only when her foot hit the first stair did she remember Anna’s role in Frank’s plot to keep Rollo’s letters from her.
Fury raged within her as she climbed toward her bedchamber. But more than angry, she felt betrayed. In return for her friendship and trust, she had gotten nothing except double-dealing. Had everyone at Winterberry Park conspired against her happiness?
All evidence suggested that was indeed the case.
She reached her bedchamber and held her breath as she opened the door. The room was dark, freezing cold, and eerily quiet—as it would be from this day forward. The thought provoked a pang of regret. She took a breath to loosen her chest. Though she would much rather leave her lifelong home on good terms with her parents, there seemed little she could do to make them see reason.
She dressed as quickly and quietly as she could in a dark-green riding habit of medium-weight wool. When finished, she gathered up the articles she’d borrowed from Rollo and crept toward the stairs, acutely aware of every creak of the floorboards.
