Page 11 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE PRICE OF HONOR

Elizabeth had always found peace in early morning walks.

Amid the suffocating shame that had enveloped her these past weeks, the solitude of dawn offered brief respite from pitying glances and whispered gossip.

This morning, she convinced Jane to accompany her to Oakham Mount, desperate for exercise and distraction.

“The air seems particularly fine today,” Jane remarked as they followed the familiar path up the gentle slope. Her pretty face was turned toward the sunrise, its golden light softening the shadows that recent events had etched beneath her eyes.

“A fitting reward for rising so early,” Elizabeth agreed, though in truth, sleep had become increasingly elusive. Guilt and regret made poor bedfellows. “Besides, the view from the summit is particularly fine at this hour.”

The morning was indeed uncommonly lovely. July dew sparkled on the grass, and mist clung to the distant valleys, creating the illusion that Oakham Mount was an island floating above a sea of clouds.

“Mr. Bingley seemed quite pleased with your improved spirits yesterday,” Jane ventured, her cheeks coloring prettily at the mention of his name.

“And you seemed quite pleased with Mr. Bingley’s attention,” Elizabeth replied with the first genuine warmth she had felt in days. “Although he seemed a fair bit reserved last night?”

“I’m sure he did not like to exclude our family from his garden party,” Jane explained. “And it pains his kind heart. Given our circumstances, his continued friendship is more than we might have expected.”

“This censure from polite society is my doing,” Elizabeth said. “You should not have to suffer for it. I pray Mr. Bingley can see past my errors to appreciate your innocence.”

“I know you regret your indiscretion.” Jane reached over and took Elizabeth’s hand. “And Bingley knows it too. Did you notice his solicitous inquiries about your health? How you were feeling?”

“I did not realize my health required such frequent inquiries from a gentleman,” Elizabeth let out a laugh. “You’d think I was on my deathbed of regret and social isolation.”

“Bingley has been very kind, considering everything.” Jane picked a flower and tucked it into Elizabeth’s hair. “There, my healthy, lively sister.”

“Yes, Bingley is either uncommonly loyal to you or uncommonly disloyal to his friend,” Elizabeth observed, more sharply than she intended. “He understands I regretted my indiscretion, but as an honorable gentleman, he would never speak of it to Darcy.”

“No, I don’t suppose he would,” Jane said gently. “He knows Darcy’s pride and how his words wounded you and our family.”

She broke off, her head turning toward the summit. “Do you hear that?”

Elizabeth paused, listening. The distant murmur of male voices carried on the still morning air. Not laborers—the voices were too cultured, the words indistinct, but the cadence unmistakably that of gentlemen.

“Who would be at Oakham Mount at this hour?” Jane wondered.

“Evidently, we are not the only early risers in Hertfordshire,” Elizabeth replied. “Shall we see who else appreciates the beauty of dawn?”

“Lizzy, we should not intrude?—”

The voices grew clearer as they approached, and Elizabeth’s blood turned to ice as she recognized the speakers. Through the screen of leaves and morning mist, she could see four figures arranged in a rough circle on the flat expanse of ground that topped the mount.

“The ground is prepared,” a crisp voice announced—Captain Denny, Elizabeth realized with surprise. “Ten paces, as agreed.”

“And the weapons?” Mr. Darcy stood with his back rigid, his face thunderous.

“Inspected and loaded by both seconds,” Captain Denny replied. “Mr. Bingley has examined Lieutenant Wickham’s pistol, and I have examined yours. All is in order.”

“Dear God,” Elizabeth breathed, her hand flying to her throat as the terrible reality crashed over her. “Jane, they mean to duel.”

“Lizzy?” Jane whispered, her hand clutching Elizabeth’s arm. “We should leave immediately. This is no place for ladies.”

But Elizabeth could not move. As if in a nightmare, she drew closer, slipping behind the broad trunk of an ancient oak where she could glimpse the clearing beyond without being seen.

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.”

The white square fluttered in the morning breeze. Elizabeth found herself unable to breathe, her entire being focused on that small scrap of fabric.

The handkerchief began its descent, floating downward with agonizing slowness.

The crack of a pistol shattered the morning stillness.

For a heartbeat, Elizabeth thought she had imagined it—the handkerchief was still falling, had not yet touched the ground.

But Darcy staggered backward, dropping his pistol and clutching his chest. Crimson bloomed across the white of his shirt, spreading with horrifying speed.

“No!” Elizabeth cried out as Darcy fell to the ground.

Jane’s hand clamped over her mouth, but Elizabeth was already moving, bursting from their hiding place into the clearing.

Later, she would wonder at her own actions—the impropriety, the danger, the sheer recklessness of inserting herself into a duel.

In that moment, she knew only that Darcy was wounded, perhaps dying, and she could not stand by and watch.

“Stop!” she shouted, racing toward Darcy’s crumpled form. “For God’s sake, stop this madness!”

Bingley moved to intercept her. “Miss Elizabeth! You cannot be here.”

But she evaded his grasp, falling to her knees beside Darcy. Blood soaked his shirt, staining her hands as she pressed them against the wound in a desperate attempt to stem the flow.

“You shot before the signal,” she accused, glaring at Wickham. “You cheated!”

Wickham’s face showed a fleeting expression of calculation before settling into wounded innocence. “The handkerchief must have touched the ground. It was a trick of the light.”

“Liar!” Elizabeth spat, shifting her body to shield Darcy from any further threat. “You aimed before Captain Denny even dropped the handkerchief. I saw you.”

Darcy stirred beneath her hands. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy with pain. “Elizabeth?” The word was barely a breath, spoken with such bewilderment that it made her chest ache.

“Yes, I am here,” she said, though she could not say why she felt compelled to comfort the man who had called her a liar before all of Hertfordshire. “You must not try to speak.”

“Why… why did you come?” The words came in broken whispers, punctuated by shallow gasps. “You hate me… said so yourself…”

Elizabeth’s throat closed with unexpected emotion. Even dying, he remembered her cruel words and her rejection. “That does not matter now.”

Jane emerged from behind the trees. “Bingley, we must get him to a physician.”

Darcy’s hand closed weakly around Elizabeth’s wrist. “Liz… for…,” he murmured again. Whatever words he meant to say faded as his eyes closed and his head fell against the blood-soaked grass.

Elizabeth felt tears she could not explain streaming down her cheeks. She had despised him, had rejoiced in his humiliation, had felt vindicated by Wickham’s sympathy. Yet seeing him bleeding into the earth, hearing the broken confusion in his voice, she felt only a terrible, gnawing guilt.

“We must move him now,” Bingley said urgently. “Captain Denny, your help, if you please. Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth—this is no place for ladies. You should return home immediately.”

“I will not leave him,” Elizabeth declared, her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her throat. “Not until I know he will live.”

Something in her tone must have conveyed her determination, for Bingley did not argue further. “Very well. But we must hurry.”

Between them, Mr. Bingley and Captain Denny managed to lift Darcy’s unconscious form. Elizabeth kept pace beside them, her blood-stained hands pressed against his wound, her gaze fixed on his pale face for any sign of returning consciousness.

“I did this to you,” she whispered, though she knew he could no longer hear her. “I am the reason you are dying.”

Behind them, Jane paused to address Wickham. “Lieutenant Wickham, if Mr. Darcy dies, his blood will be on your hands. And I promise you, the truth of what happened here will be known to all of Hertfordshire before nightfall.”