Elizabeth in the New World Read online

  “I do think that some accord can be reached without resorting to violence,” he said.

  Elizabeth ceased crying at once and turned toward him. “Oh, do you think so?”

  “I have made some arrangements.” He stopped. She looked at him expectantly. When she saw that he was not forthcoming, she pressed the matter further.

  “You are very vexing. You shall not leave this room until you have revealed all your plans to me. My father’s life, nay, all our lives, hang in the balance today. If you are to be our savior, you must tell me what you propose to do. If not, I think I shall go mad.” Tears sprang to her eyes again, and she turned from him. She was angry at herself for crying so much. But my dear father, her dear, dear papa.

  Darcy crossed the room and stood so close to Elizabeth that she could hear him breathing. “Miss Bennet. Please. Do not cry. I will tell you,” he said softly. His words acted on Elizabeth almost like a caress. She turned to look at him. His dark eyes bored into her. She audibly caught her breath. He offered his hand to her and she obediently took it. He led her to the sofa, where they sat facing each other.

  “I was going to reveal all once everything was accomplished. I see now that that is impossible.” His intent look suddenly softened into sympathy Did he understand her torment? Perhaps all was not lost between them.

  “Please. There is so little time,” she said.

  “I considered all the facts and was led to one conclusion. Wickham will want money in order to make things right with your sister. I am prepared to offer a generous endowment to him for the rest of his life, and with provisions for your sister and any children they may have.”

  “Oh, Mr. Darcy. I do not know how any of us will ever repay you.”

  “Rest assured that I do not do any of this for your family. I do it only for you.”

  His words struck her like a blow. He does still care for her. Oh, why does all this have to happen now? They have no time. She forced herself to think.

  “But the duel? Surely Mr. Wickham will have to go through with it. He will be attended, I presume, by at least one man from his regiment. He will have to go through with it to preserve his reputation.”

  “I expect so,” said Darcy. Elizabeth’s face fell. Wickham could still kill her beloved papa.

  Darcy, gingerly covering her hand with his, continued. “I am his second. It is in my prerogative to finish the duel if your father is unable. I can and will insist on that point. If anything happens to your father, Wickham will have me to deal with, and he knows that I am a very good shot.”

  He got up to take his leave. “I must be going now. Do not worry. Wickham is a coward. He will not go so far as to fire even one shot. You can rely on it.”

  Elizabeth looked up into his face and smiled for the first time. He smiled in return.

  She was grateful for all he was doing for her, and for her family despite its low connections and its unseemly behavior. Gratitude, however, was not her overwhelming emotion at that moment. She wanted him to take her in his arms. She wanted to kiss him good-bye, again and again. He turned to look at her once more.

  She swallowed hard. His eyes. They bore into her like a dagger. It was now or never. What if he were killed? What if he lay in his grave never knowing that she loved him? He was prepared to sacrifice everything for her, his position, his reputation, his wealth, and now he was prepared to sacrifice his life. Could she hold her reputation above that?

  He turned away from her and headed to the door. She could not let him go without telling him of her feelings. What if he was mistaken? What if Wickham killed her father and killed him too?

  As he opened the door and exited, she said in a barely audible tone, “I love you.” She waited for the click of the door. It did not come.

  The door opened again, and Darcy entered the room once more.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  She faltered for a moment, then repeated, “I love you,” louder this time. It all happened in an instant. She did not move and yet she was in his arms. He strode across the room with such force that he lifted her off the ground. The touch of his body was intoxicating. Suddenly, a dark cloud crossed his face, and he let her down. He still had not kissed her.

  “Perhaps you are only grateful to me,” he said, pulling away slightly, but not letting go of her. Oh no, no, he would know. She reached up and caressed his cheek.

  “How can you doubt me?” she said. “Do you think I do not know my own mind?”

  She watched his face. His eyes searched hers as if he would find in them the truth he wanted to know. She touched his face again. He kissed her.

  It was not the polite kiss she had seen exchanged so many times among the married people she had known. No, this was something more. His mouth touched hers, parted her lips, embraced her. She felt her body yield to him. He kissed her again and again and then began to kiss her beneath her ear and down her neck. Pulses of a heretofore undiscovered energy radiated from her heart throughout her body. She felt urges from her nether regions that both excited and alarmed her.

  When he reached her mouth again, she opened it to his and felt him enter her there with his tongue. She became weak with desire and he held her to him, whispering her name, “Elizabeth.”

  A knock at the door parted them suddenly. She tried her best to recover herself and called out, “Come in.”

  By the time the door opened, Darcy had turned from her and was standing at the window, his back to them. Her father entered.

  “It is time, Mr. Darcy.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. She bit her lip to control herself. “Papa,” she said, and rushed to embrace him.

  “Now, now, Lizzy. Everything will be fine. You will see,” he said cajolingly, although Elizabeth could feel the tension in him. Mr. Bennet planted a kiss on his daughter’s cheek. “Be brave. I am counting on you.”

  “Yes, Papa,” she said, using everything in her power to gain control of herself. Her father left the room, and Darcy followed. He turned to look at her, and she tried to speak to him with only a glance: please come back to me. The front door closed, and the sound of carriage wheels drifted up from the street below.

  ***

  The secluded glen at Hyde Park had been a favorite of Darcy’s. His tastes did not run to London society, but to the green and growing land of Pemberley. When he was forced to be in London, he sought refuge in the parks. This particular place granted the duelists some seclusion from passersby and from the authorities.

  As Mr. Bennet and Mr. Darcy approached, they saw Wickham had already arrived with his second. The lad looked about eighteen years of age and was in uniform. Darcy gingerly carried the dueling pistols under his arm. His father had given him the set before he died. He had hoped they would never be used but instilled in young Fitzwilliam the overwhelming importance of honor. As the dewy grass wet their boots, Darcy wondered what price honor would demand today.

  Mr. Bennet looked positively grey with anxiety. A small table had been set up to receive the weapons. Wickham’s second and a man Darcy could only guess was a physician stood by. Darcy gently laid the cedar box on the table and opened it. The pistols gleamed in the morning light. Wickham smiled.

  “Since you are providing the weapons, I have the right to choose first,” Wickham said, reaching for the pistol closest to Darcy. Before he laid his hand upon it, Darcy stayed it.

  “Could I have a word, Mr. Wickham?” he asked. With that, Darcy looked around. His solicitor should have been here by now with the papers, but was not. No matter. Wickham would have to take him at his word. After all, Darcy’s word was not to be taken lightly. The two men adjourned out of earshot.

  “Look here, Wickham. My solicitor will be here momentarily. I have papers drawn up and signed by me giving you a generous provision for your lifetime provided you marry Lydia Bennet and take a position with the army elsewhere, out of harm’s way, we shall say. There is no need to do further damage by going through with this ridiculous duel. You will
have what you want. It is more generous even than my father’s ‘bequest’,” Darcy spoke deliberately, trying to impress Wickham with the finality of his offer. Wickham stood silent.

  “I do not see any papers,” he said at last, “and time is a-wasting.” He grinned again at Darcy and began to walk away.

  Darcy raised his voice, “Wickham.” Wickham stopped and turned but stood his ground. Darcy had to come to him. “Wickham, you know I am good as my word.” Wickham snorted and rolled his eyes. It took everything Darcy had not to thrash him on the spot. Wickham turned his back on Darcy.

  “Before you walk away, know this. If any harm comes to Mr. Bennet, you will have me to reckon with.” This time, Wickham stopped and returned to Darcy.

  “What are you saying?” Wickham asked, the smile finally gone from his face.

  “I will finish what Mr. Bennet has started. Since I am his second, you will face me on the field if he cannot carry on.”

  Wickham’s eyes narrowed. “You cannot be serious,” he said.

  “I am deadly serious. Do not try me.”

  The smile returned. Wickham finally spoke. “Perhaps you underestimate me. Perhaps I am a man of honor after all and neither your threats nor your money impresses me in the slightest.” Wickham turned and walked back toward the table where the pistols lay.

  Darcy was in shock. This was the one contingency he had not considered. Had he underestimated Wickham? No, it was impossible. The leopard does not so easily change his spots. What could he be playing at? Whatever it was, it was a deadly game. Darcy was forced to follow. Wickham had chosen his pistol and his second was inspecting it as he arrived at the table. Mr. Bennet was wide eyed and trembling. Darcy could hear his every breath.

  “I can assure you that both weapons are in the peak of condition,” Darcy forced himself to say calmly.

  “I can see that, sir. Thank you,” said Wickham’s second.

  Mr. Bennet stood as if paralyzed. Darcy looked at him and then offered him the box with the remaining pistol. “Your weapon, sir,” Darcy said. He felt as though he were trapped in a flood, unable to gain his footing. Events were taking their own course, and he was powerless to stop them.

  In a moment, both Bennet and Wickham were holding their pistols. They were standing back-to-back in the moist air. Mr. Bennett had a resigned look on his face. Wickham, as usual, was smirking.

  “With my count, you will both take ten paces and turn. Mr. Wickham, you have the first shot. Do you gentlemen understand?”

  With the assent of both, Darcy began the count. He stood with Wickham’s second, counting out the last moments of Mr. Bennet’s life. As the count proceeded, Darcy noticed Wickham glance toward him.

  “Ten,” Darcy shouted, and both men leveled their pistols. Wickham looked at Mr. Bennet. To his credit, although shaking, the old man held his pistol out at arm’s length and did not waver. Wickham suddenly looked at Darcy and began to laugh. Darcy, confused, turned slightly and noticed his solicitor had arrived and was standing behind him.

  With his pistol still pointed at Mr. Bennett, Wickham shouted, “You are right. I have no honor.” And, still laughing, he threw the pistol into the air.

  Darcy watched every moment of that pistol’s slowly revolving descent. It hit the ground, and with a sudden cracking sound, discharged. At first, he was not sure where the shot had landed, until he fell to his knees like a broken marionette and collapsed face first on the ground.

  Chapter 2

  For a few seconds, everyone was paralyzed. For a moment Wickham could not comprehend what had occurred. He thought he must be running toward the fallen Darcy, but around him time expanded, and his movements felt sluggish and dreamlike. At last he reached the prone and bleeding Darcy. A man sprang forward and rushed to Darcy’s side. He turned him over and at that point, everyone heard a horrible, hissing sound. “Get back,” he shouted, and every man took a step backward.

  The man was a doctor, Dr. Harold Castleden, the physician from Wickham’s regiment. His second must have arranged for him to be in attendance. The doctor acted swiftly. Wickham was terrified that those wheezing breaths Darcy was now taking through his chest cavity would be his last. “I need someone to assist me,” he commanded. He looked up at Wickham. “You, second lieutenant.”

  Wickham began to mumble some excuse, but Castleden cut him short. “Now, lieutenant. That is an order.” Wickham obeyed wordlessly, even though it occurred to him that it was unlikely that the doctor actually could give him an order. “Pull off his jacket and open his shirt. I need to look at the wound,” Castleden barked at Wickham. Darcy lay like a rag doll, but he was still conscious, and Wickham felt his eyes boring a hole into him as he pulled at Darcy’s clothing. Darcy winced as Wickham yanked his arm through his jacket and waistcoat. The doctor was looking through his bag and drew out pieces of oil cloth. Disgusted with his clumsy ministrations, he shoved Wickham aside and put the oilcloth over the wound in Darcy’s chest. Darcy was breathing shallowly and rapidly. It seemed to Wickham that he was strangling.

  “The round punctured his lung,” the doctor said to no one in particular. He plugged the hole with gauze and turned Darcy over on his back. Darcy let out a groan. “Sorry, old man,” the doctor said. “I need to see if there is an exit wound.” Wickham made a move to rise and Castleden held his sleeve. “We are not finished here yet,” he said.

  There were copious amounts of blood on the ground and on the doctor’s coat and sleeves. Wickham rubbed his hands together nervously. It was then he noticed that they were tacky with Darcy’s blood. He felt nauseous. “We need to cover this wound but let enough air through so as not to collapse the lung,” he told Wickham. He may as well have been speaking Chinese. Wickham had no idea how to proceed. “Here.” He held out a piece of oil cloth. “Hold it down here and here, and I will hold down the third side.”

  Castleden removed the blood-soaked gauze from the wound and applied the oil cloth. As soon as the cloth was stuck to Darcy’s chest, his breathing eased. The unfastened side vibrated with each of Darcy’s breaths. Wickham fell back onto the grass the minute he heard Darcy take his first easy breath and the realization of what had happened hit him full force. He began to shake, and his stomach churned. It was fortunate that he got to his feet and managed to stagger a few feet away before he vomited. As he stood and recovered himself, he noticed that no one was paying much attention to him anyway.

  As Wickham propped his back against a tree, he watched the entire scene as if it were some sort of macabre play. Mr. Bennet stood behind the doctor wringing his hands. Good, he thought. All of this was your fault, stupid old man. You should never have slapped me.

  The rest of the men were loading Darcy into his carriage, and Wickham watched the doctor climb in after him. Thank God someone in his regiment thought to bring a doctor. It was good to have friends who were concerned with your safety. It was fortunate. Suddenly, it occurred to him that he could have been the one lying bleeding in the field.

  Wickham finally got to his feet and was leaning against a tree, recovering himself, when someone grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. He turned so fast that he lost his footing and fell awkwardly to the ground.

  “On your feet, you vile seducer.” It was Bennet. Wickham stared up at him in amazement. It was almost funny, really. Vile seducer indeed? A smirk must have passed his lips because the next thing he knew, Bennet had hauled him up screaming.

  “This amuses you, eh, Wickham? Funny, is it?” Mr. Bennet shouted as he hauled Wickham unsteadily up the trunk of the tree.

  “Now, see here, Bennet,” Wickham said as he grabbed the tree trunk behind him to steady himself. Mr. Bennett let him go, and then punched him squarely in the nose. Wickham was so surprised and wobbly that the force of the blow knocked him to the ground again. Before he could get to his feet and thrash the living daylights out of Mr. Bennet, two policemen arrived on the scene. After many flying accusations, Wickham found himself in prison, awaiting word of his fate.


  ***

  The carriage arrived at Darcy’s house in town. Darcy, through a haze of weakness and pain, could see the dumbfounded servants part at his entrance on a bloodstained litter. Elsie, the chambermaid, fainted dead away, which led to much confusion. Finally, John, Mr. Darcy’s man, took charge and got his master safely to his room.

  Castleden and John prepared Darcy for bed. John removed his boots and his trousers, but Castleden himself insisted on removing Darcy’s shirt. Darcy was surprised when the doctor began to inspect his bloodied shirt, waistcoat, and jacket. He held them up and shook his head over and over. Finally, Darcy spoke to him. His voice was wheezy.

  “If I may ask, sir, what is it you are looking for?”

  “The piece of material that goes here,” he said, putting his finger through the hole the lead ball made in Darcy’s shirt. If it is not here, which I believe it is not, it is still in your chest, along with the lead round. If that is so, there is danger of a great infection.”

  John blanched. “Is there nothing that can be done?”

  “I need to return to my surgery for more instruments. When I return, I will have to do some surgery and retrieve the round and the piece of clothing if I can.” Darcy moaned from the bed.

  “Do what you will, sir. I am in your hands,” Darcy said weakly.

  “You are not going to leave me, are you, sir?” John asked suddenly.

  Castleden turned and smiled. “I believe Mr. Darcy’s personal physician has been sent for. But in the meantime, give him water if he asks for it and try to keep him comfortable.”

  “But, sir, he is still bleeding,” John said, shaking his head and staring at Darcy.

  “Those liquids flow to clean the wound. There is still blood in them, but no major blood vessels have been breached. So far, he has been lucky. A few more inches and he would have bled to death in the field.” Then, realizing that Darcy was still conscious, he added, “Begging your pardon, sir.”