William raised his palms to the madman before him. “Think what you are saying, Foyle. I have nothing to lose. My life is as pointless as yours. But leave Westbridge out of it.”
“No,” Foyle responded, looking at his blade that now swung free from its scabbard. “I don’t think I will.”
“Look,” said William, rather more desperately now, “I’ll withdraw the report. It’s not worth a man’s life. This is between you and me.”
“You should have said that earlier,” came Foyle’s sinister answer, “before the doctor heard everything. What happens now isyourdoing, Cole.”
Before William could say another word or think to act, Foyle pulled back his sword arm and thrust it forcefully away from him to the right where Dr. Westbridge stood. He did it without looking, without hesitation, without a tinge of conscience.
The sword scarcely made a sound. Westbridge, too, did little more than exhale a plosive “UH!” before the blood began to seep through his shirt.
Foyle slid the blade out smoothly, keeping his eyes on William, then lunged forward to repeat his fatal strike.
William grabbed the blade instinctively. It sliced through the flesh of his palm and fingers, mingling his blood with the doctor’s. He twisted his body to the side, pulling the sword farther forward so that Richard Foyle was jerked off-balance and fell forward, his face planting into the mud at William’s feet, his sword hilt bouncing once as it touched the ground.
“Murder!” shouted William. And then again, a sob rising in his chest as Westbridge sank to the same muddy courtyard floor as his killer, “Murder!”
Boots clattered as those well enough to run came from the stables and kitchen, stopping in their tracks as they beheld the scene. A young woman with greater presence of mind knelt by the doctor, looking for the wound under his shirt. Upon seeing the extent of the damage, she lifted his head to her lap to offer compassion in his dying moments. Two of the men grabbed Foyle and wrenched his arms behind his back, forcing the struggling, swearing wastrel to his knees while another fetched rope to bind him.
“You’re bleeding, sir,” said one of the kitchen maids. Come with me. We will wash and bind your hand.”
But William barely heard her. He threw himself down next to the form of Westbridge, whose face had grown pale, his breath raspy. William grabbed his hand. There was nothing else he could do.
“This is my fault,” William said through hot tears. “It should have been me. You have so much more to live for.” He dropped his forehead against the almost lifeless hand of Westbridge. “Miss Lockhart will never forgive me,” he said in whispered torment. William felt the mildest of pressure as the failing doctor tried to squeeze his hand.
“You are…” Westbridge struggled against death. “…a…good man.” He closed his eyes, as if the energy of keeping them open robbed him of speech. “You must…marry…her.” His head sagged as his last breath left him.
“No, no, no,no!” William cried with rising panic. “This is all wrong!” He looked about him, seeking help where none could be found. Instead, his gaze fell upon Foyle, still held between two men, though he no longer struggled against them.
William launched across the small space between them, his fist flying at Richard Foyle’s jaw. “You bastard!” he almost screamed. “You selfish, murderous bastard!” And then he was raining blows upon the man’s head and body, the sight of Foyle’s bloodied nose and cheek not even registering in his rage. Several men had to pull William off him, but he kept shouting and flailing until eventually, they found it easier to remove Foyle from his sight and thus calm the distraught William a little.
He stood hunched, panting heavily, the entire scene burnt into his mind with more ferocity than the horrors of Waterloo. Someone placed a chair behind him and gently guided him to sit. Another figure brought a basin of water and began to tend to his wound. They moved about him like ghosts, for he was barely conscious of their presence.
Eventually, William’s hand was bound with clean linen. But not by Westbridge. Never again would he give of his time and skill as he had always done with such devotion. A good man had been lost. And a bride waited for his return.
“Marry her.”The last words of Arthur Westbridge. Always he had thought of the wellbeing of others. But how could William honor such a wish? Miss Lockhart was not a commodity to be passed along from one man to another. Besides, he had nothing left to offer her.
William sat in the courtyard, far from home, and wept.
