Chapter Eight The Duel at Dawn
Hampstead Heath at Thursday's dawn was less a landscape and more a study in grey. A thick, wet mist clung to the gorse, swallowing the trees and muffling the sound of the waking city. It was the sort of morning poets described as "melancholy" and soldiers described as "perfect for an ambush."
A carriage emerged from the fog, its wheels cutting deep ruts into the damp earth. It rolled to a halt near a cluster of ancient oaks.
The door opened.
Captain Fitzwilliam stepped out first. He wore his regimentals, buttoned high against the chill, and carried a mahogany box under his arm. He scanned the perimeter with professional grimness.
"Clear," he announced. "For now."
Fitzwilliam Darcy descended next, pale and weary. The previous night's energy had evaporated, leaving behind a cold residue of nausea. He adjusted his collar, his eyes darting nervously towards the treeline.
Finally, George Wickham emerged.
He was a tragic figure. He still wore the grey wool dress of the laundry maid, though Richard had thrown a heavy military greatcoat over his shoulders to preserve some shred of dignity, and provide warmth.
The coat trailed in the mud. The mob cap had been discarded, leaving his curls damp and flattened against his forehead.
George stood on the grass, his boots sinking into the mire. He shivered, his teeth chattering a staccato beat worthy of hail on a slate roof.
"Where is Robert?" George asked, his voice a thin reed. "Why did he not come with us? He said he would be here. He said he would watch."
"He is scouting the northern ridge," Richard lied smoothly, checking the priming on the pistols in the box. "He wanted to ensure the Butcher did not bring reinforcements. If you hear a whistle, run."
"I cannot run," George whispered, clutching the greatcoat. "I will rip my skirts. I shall simply dissolve."
"Dissolving is not an option." Darcy stepped forward, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. The wool of the greatcoat was damp and smelled foul. "You must stand, George. You must face this."
"Why?" George wailed softly. "Why must I face it? I am twenty years of age! I have not even finished my degree! I have not kissed the baker's daughter in Cambridge yet! I promised her a ribbon!"
"Focus," Richard barked. He opened the mahogany box. Two pistols lay nestled in green velvet, gleaming with oil and menace. "Choose your weapon."
George stared at the guns. He reached out a trembling hand. He withdrew his fingers. He tried again. Finally, he grasped the handle of the nearest pistol. He lifted it. The barrel wavered wildly, pointing first at the ground, then at the sky, then dangerously close to Darcy's ear.
"Watch the muzzle!" Richard snapped, batting the barrel down. "Point it at the enemy, George. Not the heir of Pemberley."
"I am sorry," George sniffled. "I am not a soldier. I am a lover. I am a poet."
"Today, you are a target." Richard closed the box. "Come. The mist is clearing. The appointment is for dawn."
They walked towards the flat expanse of grass known as the Duelling Ground. The fog swirled around their ankles. Darcy walked beside George, feeling every step as a betrayal. This was cruel. It was monstrous.
But then he remembered the Emerald Snuffbox sitting safely in the strongbox back in Darcy House. He remembered the five hundred guineas. He remembered his father's trust, and he kept walking.
The mist parted.
Fifty yards away, a figure stood beneath the twisted branches of a dead oak.
He was tall, draped in a black cloak that reached the ground. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face, and a scarf of dark silk obscured his features, leaving only his cold eyes visible.
He stood perfectly still, a silhouette cut from the fabric of a nightmare.
"The Spy," George breathed. He stopped dead. He tried to back up, but his boots stuck in the mud. "He is huge, Fitz. He looks like death."
"He is simply a man with a grievance," Richard shrugged.
"Where is his Second?" Darcy asked.
"He refused one," Richard replied grimly. "Said he prefers to do his own dirty work. It is highly irregular, but I did not argue with a man holding a hand-cannon." He turned to George. "Stand tall, George. Do not show fear. Predators smell it."
"I am reeking of it," George moaned.
The figure raised a hand. A single, gloved finger beckoned.
"He calls you." Darcy's own heart hammered against his ribs. Robert was playing the part too well. The stillness was unnerving.
Richard marched George forward. They stopped twenty paces from the figure.
"Sir!" Richard called out, his voice booming across the heath. "I present Mr George Wickham! Ready to give satisfaction for the insult offered!"
The Spy did not speak. He merely nodded. He reached into his cloak and produced a pistol. It was long-barrelled and terrifyingly functional.
"He is using his own?" George's eyes went wide like saucers.
"He insisted. Claimed English pistols shoot crooked. Ignore it. Yours is better." Richard raised his voice. "The terms are standard, gentlemen. Ten paces. Turn. Fire. One shot to satisfy honour."
The Spy nodded again.
"George," Richard turned to the trembling man. "Take your mark."
George looked at Darcy. His eyes were wide, wet, and filled with a despair that nearly broke Darcy's resolve.
"If I fall," George whispered, gripping Darcy's sleeve, "tell my father... tell him I died defending a lady. Do not tell him I died in a washerwoman's dress over a gambling debt."
"I will tell him you were brave," Darcy promised, his throat tight. "Now go."
George stepped to the mark. He stood back-to-back with the towering figure in black. He barely reached the Spy's shoulder. The contrast was absurd—the quaking man in the oversized coat and the silent, imposing avenger.
"Gentlemen," Richard boomed, raising a handkerchief. "Prepare."
George squeezed his eyes shut. A tear leaked out.
"I repent," George muttered to the grass. "I repent everything. The cards. The wine. The time I stole Mrs Reynolds' cooling pie."
"On my count!" Richard continued. "One!"
George took a step. He stumbled, righted himself.
"Two!"
Another step.
"Three!"
The Spy moved with fluid grace. George moved like a man walking through treacle.
"Four! Five! Six!"
Darcy watched, holding his breath. The silence of the heath was absolute, save for the squelch of boots and George's whimpering.
"Seven! Eight! Nine!"
George stopped. He was shaking so hard the pistol rattled in his grip.
"Ten!" Richard roared. "Turn and fire!"
George spun around. Or rather, he flailed around, his feet slipping on the wet grass. He squeezed his eyes shut. He raised the pistol blindly towards the grey sky.
He pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing happened. A misfire.
George opened one eye. "Oh."
Across the grass, the Spy turned. He raised his weapon. He took a careful, deliberate aim at George's chest.
George screamed. A high, thin sound of pure terror. He dropped his pistol. He threw his hands up in front of his face.
"Don't shoot! I yield! I yield!"
BOOM.
The sound of the Spy's pistol shattered the morning. A cloud of white smoke erupted from the barrel. Pigeons scattered from the trees.
George dropped.
He fell backward as if struck by a cannonball. He hit the mud with a wet slap and lay perfectly still, his arms flung out, the greatcoat fanning around him forming a shroud.
"George!" Darcy yelled. The scream was real. For a horrifying second, he forgot the plan. He forgot the blanks. He just saw his friend down. He sprinted across the grass. Richard was already moving, reaching the body first.
"Man down!" he shouted, kneeling in the mud.
Darcy skid to a halt beside them. George lay on his back, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open in a silent scream.
"Am I dead?" he whispered. "Is this hell? It is very wet."
Richard patted George's chest theatrically, checking for blood. There was none. Only mud and the rough wool of the dress.
"Missed," Richard announced, his voice filled with feigned amazement. "By an inch. The wind took it."
George opened his eyes. He patted his own chest. He felt his ribs. He wiggled his toes.
"Alive?" George breathed. "I am... intact?"
"You fainted, you swooning maiden," Richard hissed, hauling him up to a sitting position. "Stand up. You are embarrassing us."
Across the field, the Spy lowered his smoking pistol. He stood watching them.
Darcy stood up. He walked towards the figure in black. He stopped five paces away.
"Is honour satisfied?" Darcy demanded, pitching his voice to carry.
The Spy holstered his weapon. He stared at the shivering form of Wickham, and reached into his cloak. He withdrew a piece of parchment and let it drop to the grass.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the mist as silently as he had arrived.
Darcy picked up the parchment. He walked back to George and Richard.
"He is gone," he told them.
"What is that?" George asked, clutching Richard's arm for support. "A death warrant?"
Darcy unfolded the paper. It was blank, save for a single word scrawled in charcoal: ABSORBED.
"It says the debt is absorbed. He considers the terror payment enough."
George let out a sob. He collapsed against Richard, weeping into the soldier's coat.
"It is over," George cried. "I survived. I faced the Reaper and I lived!"
"You faced a Frenchman and you fell over," Richard corrected, shoving him upright. "But yes. You lived."
"I shall never gamble again," George vowed, tears streaming down his face. "I shall never touch a card. I shall donate my allowance to the poor. I shall learn to knit."
"Let us start with getting you out of that dress," Darcy suggested, feeling the exhaustion crash over him.
From the edge of the woods, a low whistle sounded.
Darcy lifted his head. Through the thinning mist, he saw a figure leaning against a tree, holding a beaver hat. Robert waved. Darcy let out a long breath. He regarded the weeping man, the stoic soldier, and the vanishing spy.
"Let us go home. Father arrives tomorrow."