“And fine gentlemen you are, too,” said Mrs Bennet.
“We are open books, Murden, ripe for reading,” said Mr Wickham.
“But,” said Lizzy. “Will we find you shelved as military history? Or mixed in with the worst of the novels?”
“Any book that a young lady would wish to consume, Miss Elizabeth,” said Mr Murden. “And what about you, Mr Barton?” He twisted to look at my young friend. “We have entertained you with our stories, as officers must do. You are a painter. Will you not paint something for us, this very moment?”
“I am no master,” said John. “Besides, I have no tools to hand.”
Mr Murden flicked his hand dismissively. “A typical artist, then. In my experience, most of them are charlatans and wastrels.”
Lizzy and Miss Hayter exchanged glances. Even Mrs Bennet seemed uncertain how to react.
“Steady on, Murden,” said Mr Denny.
“Oh, I am only ragging you, Mr Barton. You are no doubt a splendid fellow. The exception that proves the rule.”
“John,” said Lizzy. “You are so quiet. Are you not provoked by Mr Murden’s dreadful teasing?”
“Is that what it is?” said John. “No, I see no threat from Mr Murden. We do not play the same game.”
“Ah, there you are mistaken,” said Mr Murden. “All conversation is but a game, no? And ladies are present. Where there are ladies, there is competition. Will you leave the field clear for the military men?”
“I place my trust in those ladies, sir. They know the true worth of a man.”
“Then you risk a brutal defeat. Take Miss Hayter.” Everyone looked at our guest from Bath. “I wager she prefers a soldier. A man of strength and authority, more skilled with a sword than a paintbrush.”
Miss Hayter seemed unperturbed. “You ask me to choose between brushes and blades, Mr Murden, when I have seen neither in action.”
“You would like my blade, I think.”
“Mr Murden, we edge away from respectable conversation,” I said. “We soldiers forget ourselves sometimes. Let us talk of other things.”
“Perhaps what you need from me, Mr Murden, is proof of my skill with a blade?” Once he had our attention, John picked up a knife and flourished it theatrically. “Do not be alarmed, ladies.” He turned to my wife. “If I might have some flour, Mrs Bennet?” She nodded, sending Kitty to fetch some.
John pushed his plate and glass to one side. “I am a maker of pictures. If I use paint, they call me a painter. If stone, then a sculptor. If words, then a writer.” All the time he was talking he collected items from around the table. “We all make pictures, Mr Murden. You, for example. Every story, every quip, every witticism builds a picture of how you would like us to see you. The amiable officer. Is the picture real? That is not for me to say.”
“John?” I said, but fell silent at his look.
He unfolded a large, green napkin and, after Kitty’s return, began placing small piles of flour on it, smoothing them out into shapes with his thumb. Everyone was silent, seemingly hypnotised by the rhythmic movements of his hands.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he continued. “Now, she uses words to build a picture of others. She examines character like the carver tests the grain of the wood, noting its strength and direction. I envy her intelligence.” He began placing dried leaves and fruits from the table centrepiece on the napkin, crushing some beneath his fingers, then spreading out the results with the flat of his knife. “Miss Hayter, she already has a picture in her mind and judges everything she sees in comparison. It is a beautiful picture, a masterpiece, and I fear the likes of myself appear dull and foolish beside it.”
He stopped for a moment, and it seemed as if we all held our breath, wary of any noise breaking his spell. “One more thing.” He reached over to pluck a handful of dried flower stalks, looking at Miss Hayter as he did so. “Lavender.” He crushed the blossoms to release the faded purple florets. These he spread along one edge of the napkin. Finally, he used the end of his knife to make a few indentations.
“You wished me to paint, Mr Murden? I have done so as well as I can with the tools available to me.” He turned the napkin around to face my end of the table.
“An autumn meadow,” murmured Lizzy. I looked at Miss Hayter and saw her, perhaps for the first time, as unguarded as she might be when alone. Her fork hung loosely in one hand, her other hand clasped to her chest, her breathing fast.
The bottle did not break when it hit the table, but it released a stream of red wine that flowed into the meadow, plucking flowers from the soil and turning clouds of flour into a single, sticky mess.
“Oh, Mr Murden,” said Kitty. “We have not had a proper look yet and now it is ruined.”
“An unfortunate accident,” said Mr Wickham, using his own napkin to contain the spreading scarlet stain.
“Most unfortunate,” said John looking at Mr Murden.
“I say, Murden, have a care,” said Mr Denny.
“It was just a picture. No harm done, eh, Mr Barton?” said Mr Murden, his tone affable enough.
John stood up. “Mr Murden, you may sneer at a man who wields a paintbrush, rather than a sword. But painting teaches many things. How the light betrays our vision, how colours change and how our eyes may deceive us. So I see you for what you really are.”
“And what am I, Mr Barton?”
“A bully.”
Everyone froze, except Mr Murden, who rose to his feet, though his hands remained by his sides.
“Withdraw your comment and we will say no more.”
“You insult me beneath your veil of amiability. That I can forgive.” John gave a slight shake to his head. “But you insulted Miss Hayter, too…”
“No,” cried Miss Hayter, “No grand gestures, Mr Barton. Not on my behalf.” She looked to me and Lizzy.
“Gentlemen,” I said. “This is most improper. Will you not shake hands and be done with it? John?”
“I will not. I see your fear, Mr Murden. The fear of discovery. It hangs on you like a badly-fitting cloak.”
Mr Murden shoved his chair back and strode over to John. “You know what I see, Mr Barton? Your bloodied face on the ground.”
“Mr Bennet!” cried my wife.
“Not in my home, gentlemen. There will be no fighting. John, you will apologise at once. I insist. You are a guest in my house. As is Mr Murden.” I half raised myself from my seat.
The two held each other’s gaze for a moment, before John lowered himself back into his seat. “My apologies, Mr Murden.” The soldier nodded. “And to you, Mr Bennet. To you all. I overstepped the mark.”
The officers left quickly, Mr Wickham and Mr Denny making conciliatory noises on behalf of their hot-headed colleague. Miss Hayter fled the room, chest heaving, tears tracing ugly lines down her face. She was pursued by Lizzy, my other girls, and Mrs Bennet.
“John?” I said. “What on earth were you thinking?”
He shook like a new-born lamb, but his lips formed a tight line across his face.
A drink of convenience
Lizzy’s urgent knocking woke me the next morning and brought me to my chamber door.
“John is gone,” she said. “He has taken his horse. The commotion in the stables woke me.”
I blinked away the confusion of an early morning. “You saw him leave?”
“Yes.”
“Did he have any bags with him?”
Lizzy thought for a moment. “No, he did not.”
“There, Lizzy.” I took her hands in mine. “He means to return. Young men are prone to windswept rides when agitated. There is no harm in the news.”
“But he was so changed last night, so angry. I fear he may do something impetuous, something foolish. Can you not search for him?”
“If it will reassure you.” I took a deep breath. “The Society meets this afternoon, so I will spend the intervening time looking for him between here and Meryton. If he returns in my absence, send word immediately.” She no
dded, then turned to go, but I did not release her hands. “Lizzy, how is Miss Hayter?”
“Not yet risen. She was most distressed last night. She does not like men to behave like peacocks.”
“Nor do I, but what else can they do when the room is full of peahens?”
~ ~ ~
I found no sign of John, though I was less than diligent in my efforts to search for him. When a fire rages inside a man, it is better to let it burn out in quiet isolation. News of his return to Longbourn reached me at the end of the committee meeting. Only Jackson and Fielding remained and the candles had already burned low.
Lizzy’s handwriting lacked its usual precision. “Whatever is the matter, Bennet?” asked Jackson, as I finished her note.
“My friend John, who left precipitously this morning. It appears he has got himself in some trouble with that officer.” My finger traced over three particular words on the paper: please prevent this.
“The Murden fellow from last night?” said Jackson. I nodded. “You said Mr Barton apologised.”
“It seems John renewed the argument this morning at Mr Murden’s quarters. They are to fight at dawn tomorrow.”
“Fight? I thought your friend more sensible,” said Fielding.
“Pride and love can conquer sense.” I slapped the note on the table. “He likely believes himself duty bound to impress Miss Hayter with a grand gesture.”
“That may be so,” said Fielding. “But what use is a grand gesture if he perishes in its making? I do not know this Mr Murden well, but his scar and manner suggest he is no stranger to such confrontations. You must stop your friend.”
“I do not think that will be possible.” I stood in one flowing movement, preparing to leave. “Gentlemen, I must seek out his opponent and encourage him to call this off. Perhaps conflict can yet be avoided.”
“You will not go alone.” Fielding was already rising from his seat.
“I do not intend to fight the man, Fielding, only reason with him.”
“Nevertheless, the force of numbers cannot harm your cause.” My old friend put on his coat. “We shall accompany you.”
“I may not be the brightest fellow in England,” said Jackson, pulling on his jacket. “But I know such soldiers. Mr Murden is the kind to prey on easy pickings. Let us deny him his pleasure.”
~ ~ ~
As I had hoped, Mr Murden was dining below in the inn’s front room. We paused at a distance to watch him laughing garrulously, clearly enjoying his meat and wine in the company of Mr Denny. His insouciance sharpened my resolve, but also sent a brief shiver coursing along my spine.
“Nervous, Bennet?” said Jackson.
“A little.”
“Let me offer you a drop of fortitude.” He pulled out a small bottle from his jacket and removed the cork. “To Mr Barton.” Now it was his turn to shudder. “Puts fire in your loins, this. A little something I got from Sir William.”
“Madmaidens, by any chance?” He nodded and held out the bottle. My stomach tightened. “Not for a thousand pounds. Let us go to battle.”
~ ~ ~
“Ah, Mr Bennet, come to dissuade me from embarrassing your young friend, Barton?”
“I worry less for his feelings and more for his life. A duel is foolhardy, Mr Murden, and you know it. Not least because your commanding officer would find it unacceptable.”
“Sit down, Mr Bennet.” Mr Murden motioned to some chairs. “And your friends, too. Now, who spoke of a duel? There will be no blades or pistols. Just fists.” The hands he held up were bigger than I remembered. “It is merely the settlement of a dispute between two gentlemen. As long as there is no public affray, Colonel Forster will care not a jot.”
“May I ask, then, as one gentleman to another, if you might go easy on the boy? Leave no lasting damage?”
“Why should I?” Mr Murden slammed his palm on the table. “He insulted me. He sought me out this morning. He deserves a thrashing for his insolence.”
“Let us not concern ourselves with who insulted whom, Mr Murden. I would consider it a particular favour if this could all end amicably.”
“Oh, go on, Murden,” said Mr Denny. “No need to damage the poor man. People might think you truly are a bully.”
Mr Murden tapped out an impatient rhythm on the rim of an empty wine glass. “Damned expensive business, fights. I will need new breeches afterwards.” His eyes slipped down to my purse. “And if Forster does not turn a blind eye, he may fine me for breaking some army regulation or other.”
“I am sure we could arrange to share some of your financial burden, Mr Murden.” He sniffed and continued to drum on his glass. “All of your financial burden?”
“Most generous of you, Mr Bennet.” He smiled. “I shall, perhaps, only break a bone or two.”
“You will hold back?”
“I will. Spare his fingers, too, so he can keep painting. I am nothing if not a patron of the arts.”
I looked at Mr Denny, who held my eye and shook his head slightly. A warning?
“Let us drink to our arrangement.” Mr Murden reached over, only to find the wine bottle empty. He held it up to me. “Perhaps you might call for more, Mr Bennet?”
“No need,” I said. “I have just the thing for a toast of this nature. Jackson, dear friend, be a good chap and pass me your bottle.”
Into the field
Some sixth sense woke me before dawn. I would have had trouble finding my clothes had I not fallen asleep in them. Clawing my way down the stairs, I stumbled from the last steps into John. He steadied me with his free arm; the other held a candle. He was fully dressed.
“I can do this alone, sir.”
“Perhaps. But I cannot. Help me into my boots. Let us get this dark deed over with. Try not to wake anyone.”
Outside, a cloaked form waited for us, still as a grave.
“You are going to pursue this foolish undertaking?”
“Good morning, Miss Hayter,” I ventured. “If you will excuse me.” I propped myself up against a wall to still the effects of last night’s Madmaidens.
“Mr Barton,” she said. “Only fools fight over such slights, and I did not mark you for a fool. I have suffered enough of such men to know of what I speak.”
“Miss Hayter—” said John.
“I do not enjoy the sight of men fighting to prove who has more strength or honour. I am impressed by the thrust of conversation, not of a sword, by the accuracy of a drawing, not that of a duelling pistol.”
John stood motionless, perhaps caught between honour and hope.
A sliver of light cracked the horizon. “Come John, we will be late.” Miss Hayter turned from us and began to walk back into the house, lifting a hand to wipe something away. A stray hair? A tear? A speck of dust?
“Fear not,” I called after her. “Mr Murden is not the beast many believe. We may find him unable to live up to his reputation.”
“That is beside the point,” she called back, without turning.
~ ~ ~
The sun picked its way carefully through the empty branches of the beech trees surrounding the field chosen as the fighting ring. We tethered the horses, then crossed on foot, the white crust of night withering below our boots. Ahead of us were two figures. As one moved toward us, I recognised Mr Denny’s gait, and raised my cane in acknowledgement.
“Gentlemen, I beseech you to abandon this folly.” Mr Denny kept his voice low. “Let us apologise and recognise a misunderstanding. I would not speak ill of a fellow officer, but Murden is in an ugly mood. He has a fearsome hangover. I cannot vouch for his behaving honourably today.”
“Only today?” I said.
“Mr Bennet, you know this can only end one way, whatever was said last ni…” He looked over at John. “I have no wish to witness injury to a guest of yours. Can you not convince your friend to withdraw?”
“Mr Denny,” I said. “Your wish for a peaceful resolution does you credit but I fear it is too late for such sentiments.” John
said nothing.
~ ~ ~
Mr Murden wiped his face with a sleeve, rocking slightly. “Let us get this over with, Barton.” He spat, then began to strip. Arms and shoulders bulged either side of a blacksmith’s chest.
John stood there, skin pale, breath heavy, lips thin, fists held up like a parody of some London boxing pamphlet.
Mr Murden’s charge came without warning, artistry or grace, but also without speed. All John had to do was wait and pick his moment. He stood his ground, then swung all too wildly at the officer’s head. The punch missed and John slipped, pulling his assailant down on top of him.
To my relief, my friend squirmed out from under Mr Murden, mud and grass stuck to his back. He stood, apparently unharmed, then backed away with fists raised.
His opponent remained still a moment longer before rising to his feet. John ran at him, pulling up at the last to plant a blow on the swaying man’s scarred cheek. Mr Murden’s head jerked to one side, but his feet moved not one inch. John took a step back, perhaps shocked at the violence of the moment.
This was Mr Murden’s cue to advance, burly arms seeking a throat. John lifted his knee and half turned, hands rising to protect his face. Whether deliberate or not, the movement had the required effect. Mr Murden clutched his midriff, curled over, rocked gently, then crumpled to the ground. John stared at him, fists balled by his sides, his face shrouded in misty breath.
Mr Denny stepped forward to shake his colleague gently. “Well, it seems Mr Murden has conceded the fight. If we can call it that. The hangover—and Mr Barton—has won.”
I let out a breath before hurrying over to John as best I could. “Are you hurt?”
“Just a few scratches.” He rubbed the knuckles of his right hand.
“Good, then let us put this ridiculous business behind us and return to Longbourn before anyone else is up. I have a feeling the day’s battles are not over yet.”
He may have been uninjured, but John’s breath still came in ragged surges. All at once he leant on me for support.
Cake and Courtship (Mr Bennet's Memoirs #1) Page 20
