Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham faced each other with expressions of cold hostility. Nearby, Mr. Bingley and Captain Denny conferred in low voices, their faces grave.
A duel. These men had come to Oakham Mount at dawn to engage in illegal, potentially deadly combat. And given Wickham’s presence opposite Darcy, she had little doubt as to the cause.
“Jane,” she whispered, her voice strangled with horror, “they mean to kill each other.”
Jane’s face had gone as pale as her white morning dress. “We must fetch help,” she urged, tugging at Elizabeth’s sleeve. “Papa, or Sir William?—”
“There is no time,” Elizabeth replied, her eyes fixed on the tableau before them. Captain Denny was now addressing both men, his military bearing lending gravity to his words.
“Gentlemen, I remind you that it is not too late to resolve this matter with words rather than weapons. Mr. Darcy, Lieutenant Wickham, will either of you reconsider?”
“I will not,” Darcy stated flatly. “Not until Lieutenant Wickham retracts his slander.”
“I merely stated the truth,” Wickham replied, his usual charm hardening into something colder. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s condition is not of my creation.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. Why would Wickham mention her melancholy to Darcy? No wonder he was so incensed.
“You dare speak her name again?” Darcy took a step forward, his face darkening with fury, only to be restrained by Bingley’s hand on his arm.
“I speak only in defense of a lady’s honor,” Wickham insisted, his expression one of wounded nobility. “A lady you have cruelly abandoned to face society’s judgment alone.”
“You know nothing of honor,” Darcy replied. “You have forced me to put Miss Bennet under my protection, and for that, you shall answer to a higher authority.”
Elizabeth watched in growing desperation as the ritual proceeded.
“The weapons are prepared.” Bingley approached Darcy, handing him the loaded pistol. “Fitzwilliam, it is not too late to reconsider. A simple apology?—”
“No apology will serve,” Darcy said firmly, accepting the weapon with steady hands. “Some insults cannot be overlooked.”
“Godspeed, my friend,” Bingley bleated, looking for all the world as if he would lose his best friend.
Captain Denny presented the second pistol to Wickham, who took it with disturbing nonchalance. “Gentlemen, you understand the conditions. Ten paces, turn, and fire when the handkerchief touches the ground. May God have mercy on your souls.”
Elizabeth watched in numb horror as Darcy and Wickham moved to stand back to back in the center of the clearing. Jane trembled at her side, making mewing sounds of distress and indecision. Ladies were not supposed to watch duels, and Jane likely wanted to hide her face, but could not turn away.
“One,” Captain Denny called out, his voice echoing across the mount.
Both men stepped forward in perfect synchronization. Elizabeth could see the tension in Darcy’s shoulders, the careful control he maintained even in this moment of deadly extremity.
“Two. Three. Four. Five.”
Elizabeth counted silently with them, each step carrying the men further apart and closer to the moment of violence.
“Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.”
Jane’s fingers dug into Elizabeth’s arm as they watched the ritual unfold. Even the morning mist seemed to hold its breath.
“Ten.”
The men stopped, their backs still to each other.
“Turn,” Captain Denny commanded.
They pivoted in unison. Elizabeth’s breath caught as she saw Darcy’s face—pale but composed, his dark eyes fixed on Wickham with unwavering focus. His pistol was pointed downward, as befitted a gentleman awaiting the signal to fire.
Wickham’s pistol, she noted with sudden alarm, was already leveled at Darcy’s chest.
Captain Denny raised the handkerchief high. “Gentlemen, when this handkerchief touches the ground, you may fire.”
