Carrie Bebris - The Matters at Mansfield

“I did not recognize him as my son any longer. He, who had dissipated our family fortune, whose conduct had blackened a name that had stood proud for generations, who held his honor so cheap he would not defend it. I wanted no part of him.

“I raised the undischarged pistol and fired.”

The viscount’s chaise, horses still harnessed, sat outside the same Gretna Green inn where Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam had found Anne after her first elopement. The viscount’s post-boy attempted to stop them from entering, but backed off when he saw the colonel remove a pistol from one of his bucket holsters.

Darcy dismounted, never more grateful to have reached the end of a journey. They had ridden so hard and so long, stopping only when absolutely necessary to change horses or indulge in brief rests, that he was beyond exhausted. Colonel Fitzwilliam, whose military life better prepared him for tests of endurance, also showed signs of extreme fatigue.

“Is the viscount inside?” the colonel asked.

The post-boy took in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s red coat, then the pistol, and nodded. Though the pistol was untrained and but half-cocked, his gaze stayed upon it.

“Does he have two ladies with him?” Darcy asked.

“He does, sir. Not sure which of them he was in such a hurry to get here with. Just arrived a few minutes ago.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam removed his other pistol from its holster and handed it to Darcy. “I hope we are not too late.”

They entered to hear the opening words of the wedding ceremony, interrupted by their sudden entrance. Darcy had no sooner laid eyes on Elizabeth and saw to his relief that she appeared unharmed than the viscount grabbed Anne and thrust the muzzle of a pistol under her chin.

“The wedding will continue.”

The unanticipated movement startled Darcy but he quickly recovered. “No, my lord, it will not.” He trained his own pistol on the viscount, as did Colonel Fitzwilliam.

From behind them came the sound of a hammer being cocked. A tall, dark-haired man in servant’s livery held a pistol that looked very similar to the empty Mortimer gun Darcy still carried in the pocket of his greatcoat.

Lord Sennex addressed the astonished innkeeper-turned-parson. “Do continue with the nuptials.”

“Surely your lordship would not harm a lady?” Darcy asked.

“Not if she cooperates.”

“She does not appear inclined toward this marriage.”

The viscount’s expression shifted from civilized to sinister.

“Then she should not have signed the betrothal agreement when her mother put it in front of her. I, on the other hand, am very inclined toward the marriage, for I need her fortune to restore the family honor my son worked so hard to tarnish.”

“Lord Sennex, is it honorable to force a lady into marriage?” Darcy asked. “To threaten her life?”

“She signed the agreement herself. It is she who acts dishonorably by refusing to fulfill that obligation — after committing the same offense against my son by running off with Mr. Crawford.”

Lord Sennex trembled. The journey which had worn Darcy out had utterly drained the older man, who was now so overwrought that he was in danger of accidentally discharging the weapon. “Is anybody governed by honor these days? Miss de Bourgh is not. My son was not. Mr. Crawford certainly was not. The world has become a place where disgraceful conduct is not only tolerated but encouraged.” He shook his head forcefully. “No! Miss de Bourgh made a commitment to me, and she will see it through.”

“Miss de Bourgh has the right to break an engagement.”

“Miss de Bourgh made a promise! Now she retracts, and you encourage her! No one understands honor anymore, let alone values it. No one stands up to defend it!”

“I will defend it,” Colonel Fitzwilliam calmly declared. “And just how, Colonel, do you intend to do that?”

“In abducting Miss de Bourgh, your lordship has committed a grave offense against my cousin, a lady under my protection.” He lowered his weapon. “Let us resolve this as gentlemen.”

Lord Sennex regarded the colonel with surprise. Followed by respect.

“I should have known a military man would yet understand.” A smile of satisfaction twisted the corners of his mouth. “We passed a field along the road, just before entering the village, with enough surrounding trees to afford privacy. We can conduct our business there.”

“Pistols or swords?”

The viscount cackled. “Does my preference not go without saying?”

“Very well, then. Pistols. At fifteen paces.”

Fitzwilliam drew Darcy aside. His visage — nay, his entire carriage — held grim determination. This was not James Fitzwilliam, the cousin with whom Darcy had grown up, the dependent younger son who had been born into privilege without any responsibilities to justify it. This was Colonel Fitzwilliam, the commander who had entered battle unflinchingly to champion Crown and country. And now to champion Anne.

“Will you serve as my second?”

“You need not even ask,” Darcy said. “Of course I shall. But you realize that my first order of business will be to attempt a peaceful reconciliation?”

“There is no other way to resolve this — he is half mad with desperation and rage, and talks of nothing but restoring the family honor. And even were his lordship to apologize, words are insufficient atonement for his crimes against Anne.” He looked toward her. The viscount’s hold on Anne had relaxed, but she nevertheless appeared frightened — now as much for Colonel Fitzwilliam as for herself. Remorse clouded his expression. “She has been surrounded by scoundrels trying to use her for their own gain — from the Sennexes to her own mother. I should have stepped forward to defend her long before now.”

Darcy approached Lord Sennex. “Colonel Fitzwilliam has appointed me as his second. Who will serve as yours?” He glanced at the servant. That would not do.

“I shall act as my own.”

“Your lordship cannot do that.”

“I can and I will! I heard what the colonel said just now. I might be old, but I am not mad, and I am not incapable. I have felled more opponents than you have ever faced, including two this very week. No one here is qualified to serve as my second — no one shares my rank in society. So I shall take on that role myself.”

“A second’s role is chiefly to mediate arrangements with a cooler head than the primary participants are likely to possess. Your lordship cannot possibly discharge that portion of the second’s duty.”

“I will act as my own second.”

As there was no dissuading him on the matter, Darcy moved on to the next point of negotiation. “At what time do you want to meet?”

“Immediately.”

“My lord, you know that is not advisable. We are all of us exhausted from traveling here, and the Code discourages hot-headed proceedings.”

“The honor of the Sennex name has waited long enough to be restored. I want to resolve this business without further delay.”

Apparently, there was no reasoning with the viscount on any particular. “I shall convey your wishes to Colonel Fitzwilliam. And the terms of firing?”

“Two shots each. And as the challenged party,” he said loudly enough for the colonel to hear him, “I demand the first shot.”

Alternate fire was an outmoded practice, replaced in current dueling protocol by simultaneous fire at signal or at pleasure. But it was the method the viscount had likely used in his younger days.