True Born

by Lara Blunte

  For one thing, as a high ranking and very rich nobleman, there was no occasion for him to exhibit remarkable physical courage.

  He was very fond of riding, did it better than many other men, and kept one of the best stables in England, because he could afford it. He shot competently, enough to go hunting a few times a year, as people like him did.

  He was not a highly talented swordsman because he didn't have to be: a man of his station would hardly ever need to fence, unless it were for his own amusement, and fencing did not amuse him. He had learned to do it, as idle young men learned these things.

  Neither did he have to know how to use his fists because what gentleman, what Earl, would need to descend to the level of boxing or street fighting? Ned had seen the back of his hand a few times when they had been boys, and there had been a scuffle or another against some friend of his childhood, and that had been it.

  He had been afraid for his life when John had invaded his house the night before, and he hadn't been the only person who had felt fear. Gentlemen did not behave the way that John had behaved: he had been given some breeding, but he had acted with the freedom of a bastard.

  Hugh could refuse to fight him on the grounds that it was John who had behaved disgracefully, that it was he who had acted like a brigand. A gentleman could refuse to fight such a man, as was set out in the dueling code. It was widely accepted that to be called out in a rough, ill-bred way violated the point of a duel, which was honor.

  And yet Hugh knew that John had cut the better figure the night before. He had seen it in everyone's faces: pity or disdain for him, admiration for the bastard.

  If he used an excuse which was normally accepted to avoid fighting John, he would never be seen as a man again. At thirty years of age he would be the laughingstock of the country, the man whose face had been slapped in his home, in front of a hundred people. He would be the man who then had avoided getting satisfaction out of fear.

  He knew that he did not have any chance to win a duel against John. He doubted that he would even be able to cross swords with his half brother before his was wrenched from his hand. John was a superior swordsman, an excellent shot, he was the hero of several battles in India, a man rising so fast in the ranks of the army that he might make colonel before the age of thirty.

  And so, Hugh reflected, by accepting the duel he would redeem himself, and John would be the coward, the man who used his brutal skills to bully his half brother.

  Hugh was frightened, but he didn't believe that John would kill him. He would be wounded, and that would ruin John's stellar career, without him having to do anything. John wanted to kill him, but he wouldn't, because he wouldn't kill a man whom he could so easily beat.

  He was going to humiliate Hugh as much as possible, to make him seem so weak and helpless that what the Earl had done by stealing his inheritance, throwing his mother out of her home as she was dying, and marrying the girl whom John loved would be seen by all as acts of poltroonery.

  And Mad Jack, as they were already calling him, might be a dangerous enemy to have, but he would always be straightforward in his attacks. Halford could be the more relentless man, if he put his mind to it. He had inestimable wealth, great influence and, above all, he had Georgiana.

  There had been a supremely interesting moment for Hugh the night before, a moment when he had stood deeply humiliated and still remarked on the look that John had thrown at his wife. It had not been a look of hatred. No, it had been a look of violent passion, and of disappointed love.

  Therefore Hugh seemed calm as he selected his seconds, Sir Henry Mowbray and Lord Erskine, as he ignored their advice to refuse the duel, and as he asked them to go to John and determine weapon, time and place.

  Hugh had instructed them to choose rapiers. They had been shocked, thinking that pistols, which were not usual, were yet the best chance Hugh had against John. But Hugh had thought that there was much more likelihood of an accident with a pistol, whereas John would control how much damage he wanted to inflict with a rapier.

  He ought to stay calm, and concentrate on what was to come the next morning; he ought to stay away from conflict. But that night at dinner he scanned the faces around the table, reading their expression by candlelight: Ned looked as worried as he ever did, which was not a great deal, and Bess only stared at her plate without eating. The younger girls, Dorothea and Cecily, kept silence. The strange new arrival, Hester, ate quietly, her idle hand on her lap.

  Georgiana sat, barely touching her soup or her wine.

  Anger began to grip him, though he had told himself to have the calmest evening he could. When dinner was finished, he couldn't help following Georgiana down the corridor to her room.

  She had played her part and had asked him to consider not dueling, she had even shown concern for him. Yet his anger kept increasing as he walked behind her. Everyone else had stayed in the dining room, sensing that something was amiss. Bess had hissed, "What are you going to do?" Hugh had ignored her.

  He followed Georgiana, and he could see by the set of her shoulders and head that she knew that he was behind her. Her step quickened, and so did his. When she reached her room she rushed inside and tried to shut him out, but he pushed the door open and walked in, closing it behind him.

  "What do you want?" she asked him almost with defiance.

  "What do you mean, what do I want? This is my house, and you are my wife. Why should I not be in your bedroom?"

  She was quiet, and waited for what he had to say.

  "Are you hoping that bastard will kill me tomorrow?"

  Her eyes were lowered. "He won't kill you."

  Her words infuriated him, because she meant that John would not stoop to kill a man so much weaker than him. The insult from his own wife was the drop that suddenly made him lose his head: he grabbed her by the hair, bending her head backwards, but there was still no fear in her eyes.

  "He won't kill you," she repeated.

  He slapped her. It was the first time he had ever hit her, the first time he had hit any woman. She stood with a glowing red cheek in the light of the candelabra, and her expression didn't change; it was the same expression that she had had on her face when she had watched John the night before.

  "How dare you look at me like that?" he asked in a low voice.

  "How am I looking at you?" she asked with her head thrown back, almost in abandon.

  "I will strike you again!"

  "You may strike me a thousand times. Am I not your wife?"

  "I wouldn't give you the satisfaction!"

  "Nothing you can do would give me satisfaction!"

  This new insult only made him rush at her and knock her against the wall. Before he could stop himself he was tearing at her dress, and dragging her to the bed, where he threw her.

  She didn't struggle as he lifted her skirt and placed himself between her legs, opening his breeches and entering her with force.

  But the look he could not tolerate never left her face, even as she submitted to him without struggling. It was the look of a woman who loved a man whom she thought superior to her husband in every way. It was a look of disdain and triumph at the same time.

  After he had finished the act which brought him no pleasure, and did not seem to sufficiently punish his wife, he sneered at her.

  "There is something, Georgiana, that you don't seem to have considered, and it is this: there is little point in your admiration for John and his animal behavior. If he kills me, he will hang. If he doesn't kill me, I will still be your husband. I shall never give you a divorce. You shall always be mine. I can have you imprisoned in a madhouse where even he would never manage to find you. And if, in any case, you wish to run away with him, your sisters will be disgraced: no man shall marry them, no man would dare - not even, I think, a peasant in some cold wet mountain of Scotland. I would make sure of it."

  He reached out and pushed a lock of hair away from her face, as if to inspect his property, and the damage he might have done to
it. "So you see, my dear, if John is to have you, he will have to destroy you first. And what kind of love would that be?"

  He stood up at his leisure, pleased that his wife now found nothing to say, and that her eyes were quite dead, with no defiance, no triumph, and no hope in them.

  Ten. The Duelists

  Fog hovered over the snowy fields, and the duelists were asked to wait for there to be more visibility and less danger to them.

  A duel wasn't meant to result in death, but in satisfaction for the injured party, though in this case it was hard to know who the injured party was. John Crawford had been called a bastard, and he was one. He had forced the Earl of Halford to seek satisfaction by treating him like a coward in his own house.

  Though the invasion of a nobleman's house and the scene which had taken place had been most unseemly, Halford's treatment of Crawford's mother had been very cruel, and some people of the Earl's acquaintance privately admired John for the passion and daring he displayed in avenging her. But no one said so, as one was meant to show solidarity to one's own class.

  Now Hugh stood inside an abandoned mill, wrapped in a fur coat, wearing his wig and a hat, and trying not to seem as though he were cold. The snow worried him, since it would make the ground slippery, a disadvantage that he did not need.

  "How do you feel?" Lord Erskine asked him as they stood together.

  "I am well," Hugh replied curtly.

  On the other side of the field John stood in his boots, wearing no coat, only his jacket and breeches.

  The fog was rolling out and the sun was climbing higher, and Hugh watched his half brother as he looked out onto the field, almost as if he were taking a moment to appreciate the beauty of the land, of the snow on the trees and the blue of the sky. John's profile, with its fine aquiline nose and square jaw, had more nobility in it than Hugh's, or Ned's for that matter. It had taken Mrs. Crawford's low blood to create the handsome bastard, while the hundreds of years of intermarriage between a few Catholic families of great pedigree had produced Hugh's less sharp features and faded complexion.

  Hugh hated John with all his might, hated his looks, his valor, his calm. He hated the love that Georgiana had for him: he would have loved his wife, had she liked him a little. He had thought that he would make her forget John with his attentions and his patience, but she hadn't forgotten him for one second.

  Of course she had not, Hugh thought in the silent corner of the mind where one could admit anything. Women would not forget a man like John.

  Suddenly the bastard turned to stare at him with his wolf eyes, and Hugh realized with a start that it was time. His heart began to beat hard.

  He removed his coat and hat, trying not to shiver as he handed them to the groom. John was already waiting for him in his shirtsleeves, a black cravat around his neck, and black gloves covering his hands. Hugh stripped down to the same garments and walked towards him. He could hear the snow crunching beneath his feet, as loudly as if each of his steps were causing an explosion. He could see the clouds his breath made around his face.

  John didn't even seem to be breathing: he had the look of a man who was about to administer the lesson of a lifetime to another. Yet Hugh knew that the lesson wouldn't be enough for John, that nothing would now be enough for him, that nothing would diminish the fury he felt over the way his mother had been treated. That thought made Hugh smile.

  There was then something like a sneer on his face when he reached John, and it made him seem more courageous than he was. But there was no change in John's eyes. Standing before him, Hugh hated him so much that he almost wished John would kill him, or hurt him so badly that he would hang for it.

  He didn't pay attention as the seconds did their job of asking whether there was no other way to resolve their dispute. John's second was an officer, a lieutenant, and Irish by his accent. Hugh did not pay attention to his name.

  The rapiers were now being shown inside their long boxes, and offered. John motioned so that Hugh should take his pick, which he did. Hugh moved the rapier in the air as if to test it. John took his weapon and did nothing at all.

  More things were being said by the seconds about the rules, and how to proceed.

  Finally, Lord Erskine said, "En garde!"

  The two men assumed the fencing position while the seconds left the field.

  John didn't attack; he waited, and Hugh was forced to thrust first. The thrust was easily parried, as if Hugh were a child playing with sticks. After a couple more thrusts Hugh's blood was up and he began attacking more efficiently. There was a small smile in John's face, as if he had been waiting for just that, but still he did not attack with any virulence.

  They moved over the snow, back and forth, and Hugh felt almost warm now. He became a little more confident and after a good exchange he went forward with conviction. John suddenly answered with such a swift attack that Hugh started to walk backwards at high speed, parrying as he could, and feeling that he could fall down at any moment.

  John stopped, smiled again and turned his back on Hugh, walking away. It was an insult that he should do this, as if Hugh were so incompetent that John need not fear him, even with a rapier in his hand.

  I could run him through now, Hugh thought, except that, of course, he couldn't. There were witnesses, and he wouldn't put it past John to be doing this on purpose, to be capable of somehow stopping any attack even against his back.

  Yet Hugh still used his supposed advantage and went forward again. John turned in time to parry and again he drove Hugh backward with speed and skill. This time, when John had Hugh at a disadvantage, he delicately flicked the point of his weapon over the Earl's cravat and cut it open. Hugh's neck was now exposed, but there had been no blood.

  At the end of the next exchange, a more desperate one from Hugh, John again touched his clothing with the point of his rapier, this time his sleeve, and slashed it without drawing blood.

  He did it again and again, with ease, until Hugh was almost in tatters, exhausted and so unnerved by the suspense of wondering when he would actually be hurt that he almost wanted to fall on John's rapier to end the duel.

  Just do it! he wanted to cry, but he didn't.

  The bastard kept playing with him, and Hugh's rapier never went near him.

  Finally John said, not at all out of breath, " I have heard that you said you would throw me out on my arse, if I should go to your house?"

  He didn't wait for an answer: he walked behind Hugh, who was panting, to deliver a thumping whack to his buttocks with the side of the rapier.

  "Well?" John asked.

  He walked away, again giving his back to Hugh, and this time the Earl would have run him through, if he weren't so tired that he was almost unable to move.

  "I have heard," John continued, "that you were going to call me a whoreson to my face?"

  He turned and with the precision of a surgeon he reached out and nicked the side of Hugh's face. Hugh hissed in pain and his hand flew up to his cheek. His seconds took a step forward. There was a lot of blood flowing, for such a small cut.

  "Well?" John asked again, standing before his opponent, holding the rapier with both gloved hands horizontally across his body, as if he knew that the duel was over.

  The seconds walked towards them quickly. "Blood has been drawn!" Sir Henry exclaimed. "Do you consider yourself satisfied?"

  John walked towards Hugh and snatched the wig, which was now covered in blood, from his head. Hugh could not help wincing as he did so.

  "You are my father's son," John said. "That's why I won't kill you."

  There was shock on the other men's faces, but not on the Irish lieutenant's. He seemed to be trying not to smile.

  "I am satisfied," John finally said, though it was not true.

  He turned once more and walked away, leaving Hugh to the surgeon on attendance, who was motioned over by his seconds. John shrugged into his jacket, patted his fellow officer on the back in thanks and, reaching his horse, he mounted in an eas
y motion and rode off, holding the bloody wig.

  The morning's business was not yet done.

  Eleven. Lashes

  "Everything will be all right."

  Cecily said this with her face against Georgiana's neck as she sat next to her sister, her arm around her waist. Dotty sat on the other side, her cheek against the Countess’ shoulder, and caressed the back of her hand. "Yes, Giana, everything will be all right, you will see!"

  Georgiana wondered again what she would do without these two girls. She knew that Cecily was outgrowing her childishness to become a soulful, romantic girl, and that she was telling her that John would be all right, because she knew how much Georgiana adored him, in spite of being married to Hugh.

  Bess, however, who was standing by the window on constant lookout, turned to look at them with hard red eyes, "If that madman kills Hugh, it will be your fault!"

  It was a source of deep hurt to Georgiana that Bess never said a word to her that was not harsh. Georgiana still loved Bess, deep down, and had thought that their sisterly rivalry and irritation would end as they grew older, and that Bess would stop envying her. However, everything had only become much worse since her marriage. It was clear that Bess was truly in love with Hugh, and had not only wanted his money when she had expected him to switch his affections to her.

  Georgiana had tired of fighting against her malice a while ago, but when Bess added, "I hope Hugh kills him!" she couldn't help a laugh.

  Bess walked two paces towards her, "You laugh? Your husband is in danger of death, and you laugh?"

  "I laugh at your idiocy. How could Hugh ever hurt him?"

  "A madman always encounters his match one day," Bess warned.

  "Hugh is no match for John!"

  "How can you be so brazen?" Bess motioned outside angrily, "Your husband is out there, perhaps hurt, and you sit rooting for your lover!"

  Georgiana stood up, "He is not my lover!" she cried, and managed not to add, I wish with all my being that he were!