It seemed nothing I could say would dissuade him, and, unable to unleash his pique anymore on me, he rose abruptly and strode into the house, slamming the door behind him. I remained on the veranda, giving him time to cool down, but within a few minutes he returned, a box under his arm. I could hardly believe what he was proposing. Surely even Richard was not that foolish. Or stupid.
He made a great show of opening the box, displaying inside the two dueling pistols.
“Richard,” I said.
“Now,” he said. “Now we will settle it.”
“Have you ever in your life fought a duel before?” I asked.
“Have you?”
“This is foolish,” I said.
“Foolish?Foolish?You think I am a fool to demand my own rights?”
“Where did you get those?” I asked.
That stopped him for a moment. He had not expected to be interrogated. “They were my father’s,” he said in a voice suddenly less agitated.
“Have you ever fought a duel?” I asked again. “Do you know how to load and cock them?” I knew, but only in theory, for Mr. Lincoln had drilled us on all kinds of weapons, but I had never used the knowledge, for in the mounted militia we had only sabers.
He shoved the box toward me. “Take your choice,” he said.
“I will not fight a duel with you.”
“Coward!”
“Richard. If you should kill me, who will look after your sister? Will you take care of her from now on?”
“She isyour wife.”
“If you kill me,” I repeated, “she will be my widow. You will be her only relative. Are you ready for that responsibility?” I remembered that he had tried to claim that custodianship before, but I did not think he would have ever been actually willing to do such a thing.
But, in response, he boasted: “I would take it gladly.”
“But don’t we need seconds?” I asked. “Don’t we need to make arrangements to meet at dawn?” That was what always happened in books.
He stood there in silence until I understood that he was trying to figure out how to get out of such a rash act, and I took a step toward him. “It does neither of us any good to kill the other,” I said. “No one gains by that, Bertha least of all. Your father would not have wanted us to end up this way.”
“My father,” he said, nearly mournfully. “My father. He gave me up for you.”
“Your father loved you. As he loved Bertha. He wanted only to see the two of you provided for.”
He stared at me.
“Is that not right?” I pushed. I could have said more. I could have asked if that was not why Jonas and my father had conspired to bring me to Jamaica, why I was sent at the age of thirteen to apprentice in a manufactory, for even in those days, Jonas had known that his son would never truly want to be a planter, that he would always rather someone else do the work.
“It was…,” he started, but then he paused, and I could not tell what was in his eyes. “My father thought I was worthless,” he said at last.
“Your father loved you. That is why he tried to make sure you and Bertha would still have Valley View for the rest of your lives.”
The opened box was still in his arms. “He came to love you more,” he said petulantly.
“He gave me the responsibility; he gave you the living, because you were his son. Without ties, simply because he loved you.”
I saw the resignation come into his face then, and I pitied him. And envied him.
Chapter 12
