The roar of the pistol blasts finally dimmed in his ears and allowed Darcy to hear the string of curses coming from Wickham’s mouth. The man was flat on his back in the grass, his left hand up at the side of his head, and his neckcloth soaked in bright red blood. Wickham’s head rolled from side to side as he spat invectives against Darcy’s character and lineage in between hisses of pain.
“Doctor!” Darcy called when he finally found his voice. Mr Lockwood continued to watch Wickham suffer. “Your services are required, Mr Lockwood.” This provoked him, and with a heavy sigh and shake of his head, he took up his bag of instruments and knelt next to Wickham.
The whole of the morning’s events seemed too fantastic to be real, and Darcy was not yet master of himself enough to reflect on them. He tried to regulate his breathing as his cousin and Mr Kenneth conferred. Fitzwilliam spoke animatedly and gestured at Wickham while the other man only nodded. The doctor was attempting to dress Wickham’s wound. The sight of so much blood caused Darcy to feel ill.What have I done?Fitzwilliam talked briefly with the surgeon and then trotted back to his side.
“You can leave the ground with your honour, Darcy. I congratulate you!” Fitzwilliam gave an unrestrained grin. “Wickham is not in a position to retract and apologise at present, but his second has done so on his behalf. One certainly could not argue after seeing your shot.”
“How is Wickham?” Darcy asked in a strangled voice as he stared across the field at his adversary.
“There is always the risk of infection, but the poor excuse for a man ought to recover.” Darcy’s stomach turned at the sight of the blood-soaked bandages, and he looked at his cousin in disbelief. “Mr Lockwood says the bullet tore off most of Wickham’s left ear. He will carry the proof of today’s punishment for the rest of his life. A brilliant shot, Darcy!” Fitzwilliam was positively beaming.
“You will not wish to know for what I was aiming,” he muttered dryly.
Fitzwilliam’s jovial countenance fell. “Donotruin this for me. I shall proceed in the belief that you intended to inflict such a precise, non-fatal injury.”
Darcy could just acknowledge within himself the possibility of ending the life of George Wickham. That truth made him shudder at the idea of the guilt at taking another’s life that must have followed. He would have been plagued for the rest of his life by both the memories of their shared childhood and the sight of Wickham, as undeserving as he was, dying at his feet. Had he killed him, he would never have forgiven himself.
“Let me speak one last time with Wickham and settle this. I wish to leave for Hertfordshire within the hour.”
Mr Lockwood had slowed the bleeding, and Wickham now waved the surgeon off and attempted to rise. He managed so far as to sit upright until his eyes rolled and he tipped backward. Mr Kenneth was still holding the unnecessary second pistol and hovering uselessly. Wickham glared as Darcy approached. He might have cursed him more had the attempt to lift his head again not caused him to grimace.
“Can you not give him something to ease his pain?” Darcy asked.
“He is not suffering exceedingly,” Mr Lockwood muttered coolly while he replaced the blood-soaked bandages with new ones.
“We are both fortunate that flint-lock pistols are not terribly accurate.” Darcy leant over where Wickham lay.
Wickham’s eyes blazed with hatred as he tried unsuccessfully once again to rise. “I ought to have aimed for your stomach instead of your heart! I might have had the pleasure of watching you die slowly and painfully.”
Darcy could no longer be surprised to hear such vitriol from George Wickham. “To do the best only for yourself no longer passes as duty. I will be in contact with you regarding your duty of maintenance to Miss Lydia Bennet and your child. You will retract and apologise for your slander about Miss Lydia and Miss Elizabeth Bennet. You cannot deny in front of these witnesses that this matter is settled.”
He touched his hat and walked toward his landau, his steps swift and determined until Fitzwilliam caught up to him.
“You ought to speak to your valet, Darcy. He should not let you out with loose threads dangling from your coat.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed in confusion as he followed his cousin’s gaze to the tear on the left side of his dark green coat. With a shrug, he carried on, but he was stopped short when Fitzwilliam suddenly grabbed his lapel and spun him around. His cousin patted at his side and held him still while he frantically tore at his open cutaway coat and attempted to tug it off.
Darcy tried to step away. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Damn it, Darcy! Take off the coat!”
He stood stunned as his coachman ran forward and helped to pull away the coat from his shoulders. Darcy’s protests were ignored while Fitzwilliam’s fingers fumbled on his striped waistcoat’s single-breasted buttons. That, too, was ripped from his body.
“Unhand me!” No one paid him any heed. He had just shot off a piece of a man’s ear, and now he was stripped down to his shirt on Kingsmead Field by his cousin and his servant. His cousin then swiftly exhaled and stepped away, muttering a quiet “thank God” under his breath.
Darcy’s eyes darted between the coachman, who had retreated to his horses, and his cousin, who was now bent at the waist with his hands at his sides, cursing to himself. He was about to harangue Fitzwilliam for his crazed behaviour when he moved his arm and cringed at the motion. Darcy looked down and saw a red stain contrasting sharply against the crisp white shirt. There was a ragged tear in the shirt along his left side, and Darcy flinched when he ran his finger across the shallow wound where Wickham’s bullet had grazed him three inches below his heart.
Fitzwilliam had controlled his own countenance and handed Darcy his waistcoat. Then he offered him the handkerchief he pulled from his pocket.
Darcy focused all of his attention on inhaling and then exhaling. He was light-headed and nauseous, and if he stopped to think about how Wickham had nearly killed him, he might collapse. After several more breaths, it once again became natural. He set his jaw as he took the offered handkerchief to blot the trickle of blood at his side. Methodically, he put his arms through the waistcoat and slowly put each button through its hole before managing to put on his own coat. It was only then that Darcy could meet Fitzwilliam’s eye.
“’Tis only a scratch.” His voice was filled with false bravado.
Darcy righted his hat atop his head, and when he spoke, his tone was grim. “Let us leave.”
Darcy adjusted his coat sleeve so he could see the sleeve buttons Elizabeth had given him. He did not regret doing all he could to defend the honour of his future wife and sister, but what he wanted now was to marry Elizabeth and never think of this terrible affair again. He could not tolerate a moment longer on this field. Every sight and sound reminded him of how close he had been to death. Darcy squared his shoulders and moved with a hurried air that showed his impatience to be gone. He would never set foot in Bath again.
They were near to the surgeon’s carriage when Darcy saw the curtain flicker and knew more people had witnessed this morning’s events than he would have preferred. The knowledge that he had bested Wickham in an affair of honour would be to the benefit of the Bennets’ reputation, but that hardly meant that he was not mortified to have spectators circulate their first-hand accounts.
