Page 1 of Such Persuasions as These (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

F itzwilliam Darcy kept his eyes directly ahead as he neared the field atop Ramsgate’s famed chalk cliffs, his cousin Alec Fitzwilliam keeping pace at his side.

Dawn was breaking over the distant blue horizon, casting the sky in muted hues of pink and lavender.

Beneath his boots, the crunch of gravel gave way to a faint slapping noise as he turned into the tall blades of dewy grass.

Darcy cared not for the delicate, low-growing flowers being trampled in his course, nor the majesty of the waves as they crashed against the jagged white walls below him.

He was here for one purpose.

A lone figure appeared far in the distance, standing near the only scrub tall enough to call itself a tree on these barren cliffs. Darcy halted, and Fitzwilliam followed suit, turning to face him with a puzzled expression on his brow.

“Is it not your office to deter me from this course?”

“Strictly speaking, yes,” Fitzwilliam answered, looking to the far-off sunrise. “But, as I would be doing the same had I the opportunity, I cannot bring myself to do so.”

They exchanged a resolute nod and continued towards the gnarled yew—and the blackguard standing beside it.

Darcy was almost shocked to see his old friend; it was not George Wickham’s habit to answer for his transgressions.

He was much more likely to steal away in the middle of the night, leaving a trail of debts and feminine tears behind him.

“I am surprised he presented himself,” Darcy confessed.

“I am not,” his cousin said with half a grin. “I have had two men stationed outside his quarters from the night you called him out until this morning. He has not had a moment of privacy these three days.”

“Where did you find such men amongst a society of strangers?”

“Truly, Cuz. It wounds me that you continue to question the extent of my resourcefulness.”

Darcy grunted a mirthless laugh.

A rogue wind rushed past, causing the tails of his greatcoat to flail behind him and a chill to cut through his riding breeches. The ominous mist that clung to the open field before them lumbered about in a slow swirl.

“Did you engage the surgeon?” Darcy asked, determined to ensure that his second had performed his duties. He would not be accused of behaving dishonourably in this contest of honour.

“Two of them.”

“Two?”

“If you are both shot, it would not be proper to leave Wickham to his wounds while the only surgeon tends to you. And I would not allow that rotter to be saved while you lie grievously injured. So, yes, two. ”

They were close enough now that Darcy could make out the features on Wickham’s despicable face.

Darcy’s blood raced hot through his veins.

A picture of Georgiana appeared before him, her tear-stained cheeks, her inability to meet his eye in the humiliation she felt at having been taken in by Wickham’s claims, promises, and lies.

And the hurt.

She might never recover from the horrific things that had spewed from the dastard’s mouth about her that evening.

Wickham had not attempted to spare her tender feelings, not even after having spent the previous weeks making love to her.

Instead, he had made it clear to Darcy—within Georgiana’s hearing—that he was only interested in her dowry, that he ‘never intended to play house with the chit’, that as soon as he secured her fortune, he planned to deposit her on the doorstep of Pemberley and never look back.

His undying devotion, it seemed, had perished with the prospect of gaining her thirty thousand pounds, and Wickham had taken pains to make that clear.

The tension was becoming a knot in Darcy’s gut as they drew nearer to the traitor.

Wickham was watching them as they approached, his coat unbuttoned and his stance lazy, as if this was nothing more than a morning’s diversion.

The corner of Wickham’s mouth twitched upward, and Darcy wished nothing more than to remove the smirk from Wickham’s face permanently.

He would aim for the heart, but perhaps if he missed and fate was kind, his bullet would tear through that pretty visage. One could only hope.

The pair stopped several yards from their opponent. Wickham swept them a mocking bow.

“Ah, Darcy, you came. I was beginning to think you had changed your mind. ”

“You hoped I would, I dare say. But not this time, Wickham. You have gone too far. Where is your second?”

Wickham shifted on his feet. “I know nobody here, Darcy. Unlike you, I do not have the coin to summon my minions from town at the drop of a hat,” he said with a sneer towards Fitzwilliam.

“What he means is that, though he requested the presence of several of his cronies, none of them felt the least inclination to stand with him. One of them even professed that he was looking forward to reading his death notice.”

“He shall have to get used to disappointment,” spat Wickham, his pretence of nonchalance slipping.

“Enough,” the colonel interrupted in a firm, quiet tone.

“We all know why we are here.” He went on to set the number of paces and remind the men that no shots were to be fired until they had turned fully, that they were each permitted only one shot, and that regardless of the outcome, honour was considered satisfied after this morning’s affair was concluded.

The pistol case was opened, and Fitzwilliam carefully loaded each weapon before their eyes.

Wickham chose first. Darcy took the other.

“At my signal, both parties shall confirm their readiness, and you shall begin taking your ten paces.”

Darcy nodded with a steely glare at his opponent. Wickham’s acknowledgment was less assured, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Fitzwilliam held up his handkerchief, paused for two breaths, then dropped his arm in signal.

Darcy turned, his boots sinking into the damp earth with each deliberate step.

One. Two. Three.

This was for Georgiana. She had been put upon, devastated, dishonoured .

Four. Five.

Darcy had to believe that Wickham deserved to die for these transgressions. He had no doubt he himself would walk away from this field in his own strength; he only hoped Wickham would not.

Six. Seven.

What if Wickham’s bullet finds its mark?

His breath faltered. If Darcy died this day, would his sister not be doubly heartbroken? Who would care for her? Who would protect her from the Wickhams of this world? Could he trust his cousin to carry that mantle? Georgiana might be left alone.

Eight.

No. He could not let that happen. He would not. The panic that threatened to seize him melted away, leaving only an iron resolve in its place.

Nine.

He tightened his grip around his pistol, the weight of the weapon grounding him as he prepared to shoot. There was only one acceptable outcome to this duel.

Ten.

Darcy turned on his heel, raised his arm, steadied his aim, and pulled the trigger.

The force of his bullet sent Wickham’s body toppling to the grass.

Darcy sensed more than saw two figures running towards them, leather satchels in hand, but he could not hear their footfalls.

The shouts of Fitzwilliam as he hurried to meet him did not penetrate the thrum of blood rushing in his ears.

The roaring thinned to a high-pitched whine, and his every movement seemed protracted .

Time itself slowed. Darcy’s limbs released all strength as an inky void gathered in his periphery. The sky above him tilted. The horizon went askew.

Then everything was dark.