Mr Bennet Takes Charge

by Jann Rowland

  “Is not love enough?”

  The girl’s voice was subdued, and for perhaps the first time, Elizabeth hoped she was persuading her sister to listen. Now was perhaps the best opportunity she might ever have to impress the truth on her—she must deliver the lesson with firmness of purpose.

  “Love is, indeed, desirable in a marriage, Lydia,” said Elizabeth. “You have heard me speak on it enough to know I very much wish for love in marriage. But prudence must also have a place. All the love in the world will not be enough to fill your belly if you marry a man who cannot afford to support you. And respect is desirable as well. Do you think Mr. Wickham respects you?”

  Lydia opened her mouth to speak and thought better. A tremulous smile of a wry quality came to her lips. “He does not, does he? Not after what he said.”

  “I am glad you see that,” replied Elizabeth. “Mr. Wickham respects no one, so you are not alone. I would also put forward that he only loves himself, for he is perhaps the most selfish man I have ever had the misfortune to meet.”

  “Miss Elizabeth?” Both sisters turned to see Mr. Darcy standing nearby, and given the way he was looking at her, Elizabeth suspected he had overheard something of what she had said to Lydia. “Miss Lydia,” said he, a kind expression bestowed on Elizabeth’s sister, “I believe we are about to move to a nearby field, as the sky is growing lighter.”

  Though Elizabeth had possessed no ability to see such things, she noted at once that Mr. Darcy was correct. The eastern horizon had grown considerably lighter in the time since they had arrived at the inn, the undersides of the clouds pinked by the imminent rising of the sun, the air streaked with rays which stretched forth, bringing a new day and new life. Elizabeth only hoped it would not bring tragedy as well.

  “Shall we repair to the carriage?” asked Mr. Darcy.

  “Of course,” said Elizabeth.

  Mr. Darcy offered an arm to both Elizabeth and Lydia—Elizabeth accepted while Lydia sniffed and stalked toward the carriage on her own. Shaking her head, Elizabeth followed the girl, keeping a careful eye on her as she walked. A glance around showed that Mr. Wickham was being led under close guard by Mr. Darcy’s two footmen, accompanied by Colonel Fitzwilliam, while Mr. Bennet was waiting for them close to the carriage. Elizabeth cast a flinty look at her father. While her father might be committed to this insanity, she was not about to allow him to get away without hearing her opinion!

  They entered the carriage, Elizabeth sitting beside her sister, across from her father and Mr. Darcy. When the carriage had pitched into motion, Mr. Bennet sat forward and looked his youngest daughter in the eye—or it would have been in the eye had her daughter been able to meet his gaze.

  “Do you understand why this is happening, Lydia?”

  A frown came over Lydia’s face. “To protect me from Mr. Wickham?”

  “We have already secured you from anything that scoundrel might attempt. No, it is because no man wishes to hear his family insulted, especially when the man disparaging them is not worthy of wiping their boots. When I have proved my point upon Wickham’s lack of principle, he is bound for prison, which is the only place he belongs.”

  “Mr. Bennet,” said Mr. Darcy. “I wish you would reconsider. Wickham has no honor. There is little to gain from pushing this farce any further.”

  “It means something to me, Mr. Darcy,” replied Mr. Bennet shortly. “I have not always fulfilled my responsibilities as I should, and I am keenly aware of my culpability.” Elizabeth noted her father’s quick glance in her direction and knew he was referring to their previous conversation. “This is, in my own mind at the very least, a signal that I will not allow the situation to continue, to myself and anyone else who may care to see. It is also a message to Mr. Wickham that his life of dissipation has caught up to him.”

  “But to put yourself in such danger . . .”

  A smirk raised the corners of Mr. Bennet’s mouth. “I do not believe I am in as much danger as you suspect, sir.”

  Though Mr. Darcy appeared dubious, there seemed to be little point in continuing to argue, and he fell silent. The carriage moved slowly, carrying them outside the town and to a field. Elizabeth neither knew nor cared how they knew of this particular spot, but she thought rather morosely that it was as good—or poor—a place as any to lose one’s father. The sun, which had just peaked over the horizon, bathed the small meadow in a golden glow, casting long shadows from the surrounding trees. The grass waved in a light breeze, creating the effect of being very much alive. How utterly ironic this may soon become a place of death.

  When the carriage stopped next to the meadow, the occupants disembarked, and there was a brief discussion about whether the ladies should accompany them. Elizabeth put that argument to rest without delay.

  “If you think I am about to wait somewhere safe to learn of my father’s fate, you must be bound for Bedlam.” Lydia, standing by Elizabeth’s side, nodded in vigorous agreement.

  Mr. Bennet looked at her with some amusement for a moment before he nodded. “I suppose there is little I can do to deter you, except to place you in the carriage and have the driver leave.”

  The comment did not even merit a response. Mr. Bennet turned away and instructed the driver to remove a trunk from the carriage. It was the long case Elizabeth had noticed just before they left Longbourn, and she could only conjecture it was the swords Mr. Bennet had boasted to owning. Soon he held it in his hands and turned to walk toward where Mr. Wickham stood with his guards. Elizabeth, knowing she would not have another chance, motioned to Mr. Darcy to escort her sister while she hurried to catch her father.

  “Father, are you out of your senses?” demanded she as she drew alongside him. “I cannot imagine what has come over you.”

  “You heard my reasons, Lizzy,” said Mr. Bennet, unruffled by Elizabeth’s words. “I shall not back down when confronted by such a useless wastrel as Mr. Wickham.”

  “I beg you would reconsider, Papa. What would Mama say if she knew you were contemplating such madness?”

  For the first time, Mr. Bennet appeared a little uncomfortable. “Your mother need not know. In fact, I think if asked, she would inform you of that herself.”

  “If I must escort my father’s body back to Longbourn, it will be unmistakable.”

  The caustic quality in Elizabeth’s voice brought her father to a halt, and he turned to look at her. “I promise you, Lizzy, I shall not succumb to the likes of Mr. Wickham.”

  “You cannot know that.”

  “Trust me, my dear.” Mr. Bennet reached out and patted Elizabeth’s hand. “All shall be well. You will see.”

  Then he turned and began to walk again. Elizabeth glanced back and saw her sister and Mr. Darcy watching her, Lydia with awe, while Mr. Darcy sported a stony countenance—a statue might have appeared more animated than the gentleman at that moment.

  “Will Papa be well?” asked Lydia in a small voice.

  “I hope so,” muttered Elizabeth, though she was not at all certain. “For I do not know what we shall do if he is not.”

  The words spoken by Miss Elizabeth rolled around in Darcy’s head, and he had an overpowering urge to tell her everything would end well. Bingley, he believed, was now committed to Miss Bennet, and if Miss Elizabeth would have him, her future was secure. But the words stuck in his throat, knowing they would be cold comfort in the event something could go wrong in this insane duel Mr. Bennet had provoked.

  “Please walk with your sister, Miss Bennet,” said Darcy as he compelled himself not to say the words he longed to. “I wish to speak with your father.”

  Miss Elizabeth nodded, taking Miss Lydia’s arm and turning to walk after them. Darcy hurried and caught the man after a few steps, and while Mr. Bennet glanced at him, he said nothing.

  “I know you do not wish to hear further pleas,” said Darcy without preamble. “So, I will not make any. I have never fought in a duel, Mr. Bennet, but I know they are a chancy business. No one can predict whe
n a miscalculation is made, a lunge carried through an inch too far or a slash made at the exact moment when a foot slips under a bit of loose turf. I would urge you to take great care, sir. Your family cannot afford to lose you.”

  “Hmm, I dare say they cannot.” Mr. Bennet’s eyes once again found Darcy’s countenance, and he grinned. “There are matters I must make right as the head of my family. But as to their physical care, I doubt I need to worry. With your friend Bingley mooning around my eldest daughter and you attempting to devour my second daughter with your eyes every time you look at her, I have no doubt they, and their sisters, will be well looked after.”

  “I beg you do not make a jest of this, Mr. Bennet. Please take as much care as you can.”

  “Do not worry, Darcy. I have no intention of dying on this field today.”

  With that, Darcy was forced to be content. They approached the waiting men, Fitzwilliam and the footmen looking grim, while Wickham only seemed smug. Darcy attempted to warn the man with a glare, but Wickham sneered and looked away. If Mr. Bennet was confident, it appeared Wickham was doubly so. For his part, Darcy could not quite decide who had the upper hand. Though he had received instruction with Darcy, Wickham had never been any more than an indifferent swordsman, but Mr. Bennet was a complete unknown. That he even possessed a sword was an encouraging thought, as were the comments he had made concerning its use. But Darcy still did not know.

  “I shall serve as the master of the field,” said Fitzwilliam. “Though I have never participated in a duel myself, I have served as second for two, so I know what must be done. Is this acceptable?”

  “It is,” replied Mr. Bennet.

  Wickham growled at Fitzwilliam and said: “It seems I have no choice, as I have no allies here.”

  “No, you do not,” replied Fitzwilliam, his look boring through Wickham’s skull. “And you had best remember it. You also have no second, as I am certain neither of these fine gentleman wishes to serve in such a capacity.”

  Thompson gave Wickham such a look as would chill a man’s blood, while Rogers shook his head. When no one spoke, Fitzwilliam nodded grimly to himself.

  “As I suspected. As there is much about the morning’s activities which is beyond protocol for such doings, I think we can dispense with seconds. Wickham, you have the choice of weapon. You have chosen swords?”

  “I have,” replied Wickham. “Mr. Bennet is about to receive a lesson he shall never forget.”

  “Your bravado is positively breathtaking,” said Fitzwilliam, sarcasm oozing from his lips. “Mr. Bennet, if you please?”

  Mr. Bennet passed the case he was carrying to Fitzwilliam, who set it on the ground and opened it, revealing a pair of light, double edged swords. They were clearly the possession of a man who knew his weapons, for they bore ornately carved hilts, and the blades gleamed as if they had been forged only the day before. Fitzwilliam grasped the handle of one and hefted it experimentally in one hand, his eyes opening wide in surprise.

  “These are quality blades, Mr. Bennet.”

  “A gift from my father when I graduated university,” replied Mr. Bennet. “They have never seen serious business, though I am certain they will be adequate to the task at hand.”

  “Indeed,” was all Fitzwilliam said as he lay the blade back down in the case.

  Taking it in his hands, Fitzwilliam lifted the case and presented it to Mr. Wickham and Mr. Bennet. “As the challenged, I believe the choice of weapon is yours, Wickham.”

  Mr. Wickham looked at Mr. Bennet, and then back at the swords, regarding them as if they were live snakes. Then with a hesitant and shaking hand he reached out and took the sword Fitzwilliam had held, pulling it from the case and holding it carefully, inspecting it with increasingly wide eyes. His eyes darted once again to Mr. Bennet, and he scowled.

  “Do not even consider it, Wickham,” snarled Fitzwilliam as Mr. Bennet reached for the other sword.

  “I am not stupid,” spat Wickham as he turned away with his sword in his hand.

  “He will attempt to goad you to anger, Mr. Bennet,” said Fitzwilliam. “Do not allow yourself to become angry, or you will play into his hands.”

  A slight smile was Mr. Bennet’s response. “Do not concern yourself, Colonel. I am quite in control of my emotions.”

  Fitzwilliam nodded and stepped back, allowing both men the space to test out their swords. From Wickham’s movements, it seemed to Darcy that he had not practiced, despite his profession. Then Darcy turned back to Mr. Bennet, and his eyes widened.

  “Have you ever seen your father with a sword, Miss Bennet?” asked Darcy, sidling closer to the woman’s side.

  “No,” replied she, her eyes following her father’s movements. “Why? Is there something amiss?”

  “Quite the contrary, I assure you,” said Darcy, his own gaze following Mr. Bennet’s every move. “In fact, your father seems much more familiar with the weapon than I ever expected.”

  A particularly vicious swipe was followed by a lightening quick jab, which proved Darcy’s words. He noted that Fitzwilliam was watching the gentleman also, confusion clear on his own brow. But at the same time he was loosening his own sword arm, Bennet was also watching Wickham, who was testing his own sword. Darcy noted that Wickham was not watching Mr. Bennet, making no attempt to measure his opponent’s skill or tendencies.

  “I did not know my father ever held a sword in his life,” said Miss Bennet, drawing Darcy’s attention back to her.

  “He displays a familiarity with it I would not have expected,” said Darcy, a little in awe of the gentleman. “Though I have spent a lifetime learning to fence, honing my abilities in gentleman’s clubs or engaged with my cousin, I doubt I could handle a blade any better. If I am not very much mistaken, even Fitzwilliam is impressed, and he has spent almost a decade in the regulars.”

  The color of Miss Bennet’s face seemed to improve a little, though it was difficult to see with the bright sunlight illuminating her face, making it appear more luminous than ever. Then Fitzwilliam, deciding enough time had elapsed, called the combatants back to him.

  “The duel will commence upon my mark. Remember, gentlemen,” said Fitzwilliam, directing a glare at Wickham, “this is not a duel to the death. The cleanest victory is one which marks the other combatant without damaging him permanently. Should any fatalities happen, it will be my duty to ensure the perpetrator meets the full penalty of the law, despite whatever has been promised. Am I clear?”

  Wickham, to whom his final statement had been delivered, did not deign to acknowledge Fitzwilliam’s words, while Mr. Bennet gave him a sardonic salute.

  “As Mr. Wickham’s comments have precipitated these proceedings, he will have the opportunity to withdraw them. Do you so rescind your words, Wickham?”

  “Of course not,” spat Wickham. “The man’s progeny are a reflection on him. I have no need to apologize to a man who has raised such examples of feminine comportment as these.”

  “I will assume you will not yield, Mr. Bennet,” said Fitzwilliam dryly.

  “No,” was Mr. Bennet’s only response.

  “Then let us proceed.”

  The two men were then directed to separate about an equal distance away from Fitzwilliam, and when they were in place, Fitzwilliam gave the signal. With raised swords and flashes of light, the duel began.

  It was evident to Bennet that Wickham was more bluster than skill, at least when it came to his use of the sword. His form showed some instruction, as he directed an overhand swing at Bennet’s head, an attack which was easily evaded. While there was some measure of skill, it was clear the man had not been the most apt pupil, nor was his timing at all well-formed. He was akin to a hinge on a door, left to the mercy of the elements, caked with rust, creaking as it swayed in the breeze.

  As Wickham again moved to the attack, Bennet gave him a sardonic smile which caught Wickham off guard. He faltered for a moment, his attack coming short, and when he next approached Bennet, his movements were
more tentative, as if expecting a trap. Bennet almost laughed in the whelp’s face.

  “Come, Mr. Wickham,” said he as he feinted and flashed his blade to the right, attacking from an unexpected angle. “Are you not to teach me a lesson? Or perhaps the lessons you mean to teach are ones you have not learned yourself?”

  The taunt had the desired effect as Wickham’s movement again became more aggressive. But the younger man had a few insults up his own sleeve, it appeared.

  “I would not have thought you so overconfident, Bennet. Especially when you have little reason.”

  Wickham beat back an attack which Bennet made intentionally slow, and he could almost see the other man’s arrogance growing with every swing. “If you will betroth your second daughter to me, I will promise not to maim you.”

  “Why would I do that?” asked Bennet with a mocking laugh.

  “Because you are destined to lose.” Wickham’s eyes darted to where Elizabeth stood, and he licked his lips. “She is a pretty little piece, is she not? Give her to me and I will end this quickly.”

  “You only wish to hurt Darcy.”

  “Given your distance from your family, I am surprised you even know of his feelings.” A most unpleasant smile came over his face. “Yes, anything to damage my dearest Darcy. Taking the woman he loves away from him and having my way with her is almost as delicious a revenge as my seduction of his sister would have been.”

  “Mr. Wickham,” said Bennet as he shifted to attack, “you talk too much.”

  Then with a flurry of moves, Bennet beat back the younger Mr. Wickham. While he might not have credited it, it seemed Mr. Wickham had spent much more time in carousing and debauchery, for he was quickly overmatched, his breath coming in gasps. Then, when Bennet had him set up properly, his sword flicked out and batted Wickham’s away. Almost negligently, the backstroke flashed across Wickham’s midsection, slicing through his shirt and leaving a thin furrow of marred flesh across the middle of his stomach.