As she tucked the page away, Mr. Wickham sauntered up to the table. He had a large red mark on his jaw where Mr. Darcy’s fist had collided with it, but he was grinning. “Now that you’ve finished your bookkeeping, Darcy, let’s get to it before the light fades. I don’t want you to have any excuse.”
“I’m not looking for an excuse, George.” Mr. Darcy stood. “I’m looking forward to acquainting you with my outrage. For once, you will pay for your behavior.”
Chapter Seven – Duel Fought
Darcy didn’t expect to die, but if he did, he wanted to help Miss Bennet. He glanced toward where she’d tucked the page, wondering if he’d been generous enough. She certainly deserved every penny, and more. Few gentlewomen would have stepped in to rescue his sister, especially in peril of their own reputation. In truth, he didn’t believe he’d met another who possessed the combination of selflessness, intelligence and bravery required.
Luminous, worried eyes regarded him as she stood. Darcy had been traveling for several days, Georgiana’s drawing of Miss Bennet his constant companion as he sought for her to put things right. His sister had captured the beauty of Miss Bennet’s eyes, and the intelligence in their depths. She’d portrayed to perfection Miss Bennet’s elegant neck, bow-like lips and even, somehow, the faultlessness of her complexion.
What Georgiana hadn’t been able to transfer to the page was Miss Bennet’s spiritedness. Perhaps his sister yet lacked the skill, or maybe Georgiana was so lacking in spirt herself that she failed to recognize it in another. Meeting Miss Bennet, after studying her portrait minutely, Darcy was struck by the vivacity of her. In spite of Wickham’s attack and her obvious worry over the duel, her spirit remained unquelled. It called to him in a nearly irresistible manner.
He turned to follow Wickham and the townsmen out. It wasn’t until he realized Miss Bennet was remaining behind that the full consequence of his actions came to him. He was about to duel a man. Since Darcy had no intention ruining Georgiana’s reputation by stating that she was his sister, it would appear to the world at large as if they dueled solely over Miss Bennet.
In truth, she was much of the reason. When he’d entered the Sleeping Cat and finally set eyes on her, Darcy had been entranced. Then, to see George Wickham strike her . . . He’d fallen into such a blind rage, he didn’t recall crossing the room to prevent the second blow. Only his breeding had prevented him pounding the consciousness from Wickham in that moment. Darcy hardly knew what words left his mouth. He’d been nearly gleeful when Wickham persisted, providing the opportunity for a clean punch.
Darcy squared his shoulders. There was no help for it now. The damage was done. If he fell, she would be provided for by what he’d left her. Hopefully, that would mitigate the situation she would undoubtedly find herself in. If he was victorious, he would have to set things right in a different way. Was honor bound to, in fact, and didn’t find it to be that disagreeable a proposition. A man had to marry someday, after all, and Miss Bennet possessed many outward charms, as well as intelligence and a generous heart. In addition, the Muirs had made it plain Miss Bennet was a gentleman’s daughter. It bothered Darcy slightly that they apparently thought he would be less inclined to rescue her if she came from a family in trade, as the Muirs were.
Outside, Wickham stopped and turned to face him. “I think this will do well enough.”
Darcy looked about the large innyard, taking in the surrounding mass of villagers. A glance showed Miss Bennet, along with several other women, standing at the open windows of the inn. Obviously, Wickham didn’t wish for a private location. He wanted them to face off before half the town. “If this is your choice, then so be it.”
Mr. Gregory appeared at Wickham’s side. “Are you sure I can’t talk you out of this?” he asked Mr. Wickham.
“Perfectly. It’s time Darcy finally gets what’s coming to him.”
Darcy raised his eyebrows. “One of us will.”
Mr. Buchanan approached Darcy, holding two swords. “You’re going to put him in his place, aren’t you? For Miss Bennet.” He shot a glare at Wickham.
Darcy didn’t know if he should be amused his second argued in favor of the duel, or further dismayed at the damage he was doing to Miss Bennet’s reputation. He sought her eyes. She offered a nod, but not a smile. “Putting George Wickham in his place is something I should have done years ago. Had I, some recent unpleasant acts may have been prevented.”
“And swords are good for you, sir?” Mr. Buchanan asked.
Darcy nodded. “They are, but it isn’t my place to decide as I, apparently, issued the challenge.”
Mr. Buchanan turned to Wickham. “You select swords?”
“I do.” Wickham’s expression was calculating. “Furthermore, I’m not having any of this first blood business. Darcy already drew some when he challenged me. I expect this duel to go on until one or the other of us is well-bloodied.”
This drew a murmur from the crowd. Mr. Matthews looked worried, as well a magistrate might. It was obvious Wickham thought he would win. He was likely basing that assumption on the times he and Darcy had squared off in their youths. Darcy wouldn’t be sorry to disappoint him.
“Well-bloodied it is,” he agreed. He would take satisfaction in spilling Wickham’s blood. Part of him craved a fight to the death. He clamped down on that impulse. The local magistrate might look the other way when it came to a duel, but death by dueling was altogether different.
Nor did Darcy truly want to kill Wickham. It would dishonor the memory of his father, who’d loved Wickham like a son, and there was too much between them. Wickham was a part of Darcy’s boyhood. If he thought back to his early youth, Wickham was a pleasant companion.
When had things gone wrong between them? At Cambridge, perhaps, where Wickham began to fully recognize the consequences of his never having what Darcy was born to.
“Pick your sword, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Buchanan said, offering Darcy the choice of blades.
“Thank you,” Darcy said, picking the nearest one. The swords looked identical.
Darcy took several practice swings and lunges to get a feel for the blade and footing. Mr. Matthew’s sword was a well enough crafted weapon, though not quite what Darcy was accustomed to. The footing was good and provided few obstacles. The innyard offered more than adequate space, most of it even with little slope. The ground was dusty except for a slick patch the crowd avoided, runoff from the stable. Wickham would avoid that as well.
Darcy watched with mild disdain as Wickham made a show of stretching and warming up. He also paced the yard, studying it with apparent care. The spot he finally selected was slightly higher than the surrounding areas, which was laughable. Darcy could counter that meager advantage by taking a few steps back. From the look on Wickham’s face, he was out for Darcy’s blood. He was certain Wickham would follow him.
“You said you wanted to have this out before dark,” Darcy finally said in a bored tone he knew would aggravate Wickham.
Mr. Matthews, who was apparently officiating, looked at Darcy and gestured him to get into position. When the two men were in place, with Darcy on slightly lower ground, Mr. Matthews said, “Begin.”
Wickham lunged forward. The attack was furious and quick. Darcy defended and backed up a couple of paces until they were on even ground. As he suspected was the case, Wickham had not improved since they last fenced. Darcy fenced for sport and took pride in doing it well. When in London, he took advantage of going to the best teachers. The teachers attracted other serious fencers to pit himself against. Unlike in his youth, Darcy’s skills were honed and he regularly practiced a variety of styles.
He started out by using only what Wickham knew. Darcy was now better at it. He circled, seeing the worry mounting in Wickham’s eyes. Then, Darcy executed a sequence he suspected Wickham wouldn’t be familiar with, but backed off before striking.
“Why?” Wickham demanded. He was already breathing heavily. “You could have hit me.”
�
�Ah, but that attack wouldn’t have resulted in an ugly scar on your pretty face,” Darcy said. Even as he taunted, he realized he wouldn’t do it. “I don’t want you well-bloodied enough to end the match before I accomplish that goal. By the time we’re through here, one look at you will warn away any woman.”
Wickham lunged, then darted back. He lowered his guard, but Darcy didn’t fall for the trap. Again and again, Darcy demonstrated he had control over the match, but did not draw blood. Methodically, he maneuvered Wickham toward the muddy ground. With bad footing, Wickham was less able to defend himself. He was gasping for air by that point, not having kept himself in as good of physical condition as Darcy.
Wickham slipped on the mug, dropping to one knee. Darcy swung his blade low, aimed at Wickham’s face. Instead of attempting what would be an awkward and likely fruitless parry, Wickham flung his sword down and covered his face with his forearms.
“Don’t,” he pleaded. “Not my face. For God’s sake, Darcy, don’t maim me.”
Darcy had already stopped the blow, had never intended for it to land.
“I think he should be on both knees before you heed that plea,” one of the onlookers shouted.
Wickham dropped his second knee to the mud. “Please, don’t do it.”
Darcy stared down at his onetime friend. Wickham still had his arms up, his head bowed. He knelt in the muddy runoff from the stable, practically shaking. His borrowed sword gleamed dully where it lay in the muck, tossed away.
“Do you yield?” Darcy asked.
“Yes, yes I yield.”
“He must pay a forfeit,” someone shouted.
The crowd took it up as a chant. The word forfeit tolled through the innyard like a death knell.
“Mr. Wickham,” Darcy said forcefully. He could feel the anger in the crowd, their lust for blood. By now, everyone would know Wickham had struck Miss Bennet. If the initial reaction in the inn was any indication, they would be happy to take the matter of chastisement into their own hands. Wickham might not know it, but at this point, whatever punishment Darcy could think to apply was really meant to save him. “I want you to write that you will never harm or insult any woman, ever again, on pain of exile from England. Sign your name and date it.”
“Two hundred times,” someone shouted. “Two hundred and we’ll give one to every stage that passes through for months.”
“Fifty times,” Darcy said. “Do you agree?”
Wickham peered up through his arms. “Yes.”
“Get up.”
Wickham scrambled to his feet. He looked about at the angry crowd and grimaced. He didn’t meet Darcy’s eyes.
Mr. Matthews came forward. “I proclaim Mr. Darcy the winner by forfeit.”
The crowd cheered, though there was some grumbling and evil glances cast Wickham’s way. Darcy hoped glances were all it came to. He didn’t wish his actions to result in a lynching.
“I’ll see he’s supplied with pen and paper,” Mr. Matthews said, but his assessing gaze was on the dispersing populace as he spoke. “Do you want all the copies?”
“Five of them,” Darcy said, catching sight of Miss Bennet in the window of the inn. “Keep one yourself and distribute the rest as you wish.” He reversed the sword he held, offering it to Mr. Matthews. “Thank you for the loan. If you’ll excuse me?”
Darcy strode back to the inn, Mr. Buchanan on his heels. Inside, Miss Bennet tuned from the window, gently bathed in the rosy afternoon light. Around her, the other women melted away, scurrying off to whatever duties awaited them. Miss Bennet didn’t cross to meet him, as he half expected, but stayed where she was, watching him from afar, arms folded and expression inscrutable.
Darcy turned to Mr. Buchanan. “I would like to speak to Miss Bennet alone.”
Mr. Buchanan’s expression became mutinous. “You may speak where you won’t be overheard, Mr. Darcy, but I didn’t guard her reputation to have it ruined now. I kept her with my daughter Jenny all the time she wasn’t in the taproom.”
He nodded. “I understand, and applaud your care of Miss Bennet.” He turned fully to the innkeeper, scrutinizing him. “Regarding reputations, as we spoke of earlier, I should like to keep Georgiana’s as in place as possible.”
“We’ll do our best, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Buchanan said in a low voice, glancing around to ensure no one was near. “People have already been talking, though, about her arrival here, and her departure. Still, it’s new enough we may be able to shape what’s being repeated.”
“And the events of today?” Darcy asked, trying not to grimace at the idea they should modify the truth.
“As we spoke of, there’s no linking you to Miss Georgiana. That duel was fought over the insult to Miss Bennet, and we here have no way of knowing Miss Georgiana’s last name. I’ll let everyone know as much.”
“Thank you,” Darcy said.
Across the room, Miss Bennet’s frown deepened. Although not within earshot, it was obvious she had some inkling of what they spoke on. Finally leaving the window, she started toward them. Would she be willing to once again sully her reputation for his sister, by permitting everyone to believe the duel was over her alone? As soon as they were in private, Darcy would explain to her that she didn’t need to. As was his duty, he would set things right by her. Marriage to him would expunge many a sin.
“Miss Bennet,” he greeted when she reached them. “We were discussing how best to handle Georgiana’s reputation.”
“I’m sure you already realize, the whole town’s been talking,” Mr. Buchanan said to Miss Bennet. “Still, I think we may be able to shape the story, as it were.”
“So you realize it’s impossible to keep the story of her being here a secret?” she asked, her voice even quieter than Mr. Buchanan’s had been.
Mr. Buchanan nodded. “What’s needed is an explanation, as they’re already being invented.”
“I’ve already given it some thought, actually,” Miss Bennet said.
“And what explanation has that led you to?” Darcy asked, curious. He was not one for prevarication, but in the name of protecting Georgiana from Wickham’s treachery, there was little he wouldn’t force himself to do.
“I thought perhaps Miss Georgiana’s governess had gotten word a relative was dying. An uncle, perhaps? Maybe a grandfather would be better.” She smiled impishly. “Unable to leave Miss Georgiana alone, she packed them both up for the journey. Mr. Wickham--” Miss Bennet grimaced as she said his name, as if biting into something distasteful. “That is, an old family friend happened to be nearby, so she imposed on him to escort them. When this governess realized her grandfather died and she’d come into money, she left with the servants. Ignoring her duty, she abandoned Miss Georgiana to the care of Mr. Wickham. He tricked Miss Georgiana into getting on the northbound stage and tried to persuade her to elope, but she resolutely refused. She threw herself at the mercy of the Muirs, who agreed to take her with them. Georgiana was sufficiently afraid of Mr. Wickham so she didn’t want to stay here, and was too young to stay alone in the inn. I agreed to remain here and wait for an escort, since there was no room in the Muirs’ carriage. Anyone who saw the Muirs will understand that. Will that do? It has just enough scandal to satisfy people and not enough to do Miss Georgiana much harm.”
“I’d say that will do,” Mr. Buchanan said. “I don’t believe I know anything that occurred here to counter it.” He looked to Darcy for confirmation. “I will get Mr. Gregory and Mr. Matthews to help me. Can you give a description of the governess?”
Darcy gave a brief description, realizing that meant he had agreed to the deception. He doubted anyone would check, but it didn’t hurt to be accurate. The whole story came rather near the truth, as far as Darcy had been able to put together from Georgiana’s babbled, tearful explanation. Mrs. Young had come into money and then left Georgiana to Wickham’s machinations. The order of events was skewed and the money had come from Wickham, not a dying relative, but it was less of a lie than he’d feared.
There was but one problem, his actions. “It’s an excellent cover, but I’m afraid I may already have ruined it. I was chasing all over the country looking for them, more concerned about getting her back safely and unmarried than guarding her reputation.”
“You found her missing and heard she was with Mr. Wickham.” Miss Bennet shrugged. “You suspected he had designs on her dowry and wanted to find her and protect her.”
“I don’t care to lie,” Darcy admitted, but realized that statement was true enough for his conscience to stomach.
“You won’t have to lie. You can just refuse to answer. Everyone else can lie. Even Miss Georgiana can stay silent on the matter. I suspect she will blush very prettily when asked,” Miss Bennet said.
“I can see the story is spread,” Mr. Buchanan said. “I think it will work. Even if there are other versions, enough people will say this one is the truth for Miss Georgiana to go on as if it is.”
Darcy looked back and forth between them. Both appeared worried and earnest. He was grateful Georgiana inspired such care. “Then that is the story we shall go with. Thank you both.” He didn’t know if it would work to protect his sister’s reputation, but it was likely the best that could be done.
Mr. Buchanan nodded, looking pleased. “Do you still wish to speak with Miss Bennet, sir?”
“I do.”
Miss Bennet looked at Darcy with questioning eyes.
“There’s a room that I use for a private parlor,” Mr. Buchanan said. “If the door is kept open, the two of you can be seen. If you sit in the far corner of the room and talk quietly, you won’t be overheard, even through the windows.”
“Thank you,” Darcy said. He turned to Miss Bennet. “If you would accompany me to the parlor?”
Beguiling eyes alight with curiosity, she nodded. People had been filing into the common room while they spoke, though they’d left a polite ring of space about the three. Darcy realized many more curious eyes were on him than just Miss Bennet’s.
Foiled Elopement: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 6
