Page 24 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Darcy moved to the desk. He placed a hand on his friend's shaking shoulder.

"You must be brave, George." He squeezed hard. "For your father. For the name."

George looked up. His eyes were red, rimmed with soot.

"Will you be there?" he asked. "Will you watch?"

"We will all be there," Darcy promised. "We will not leave you."

"Dawn approaches," Robert announced, checking the clock. "The carriage is ready. Gentlemen... let us go to the slaughter."

George stood up. He smoothed the skirt of his wool dress and adjusted his corset. He looked ridiculous. And for the first time in his life, the arrogance was gone.

"I am ready," he lied.

"Good." Richard clapped him on the back. "Because the French do not wait for breakfast."

Chapter Eight: The Duel at Dawn

Hampstead Heath at Thursday's dawn was less a landscape and more a study in grey. A thick, wet mist clung to the gorse, swallowing the trees and muffling the sound of the waking city. It was the sort of morning poets described as "melancholy" and soldiers described as "perfect for an ambush."

A carriage emerged from the fog, its wheels cutting deep ruts into the damp earth. It rolled to a halt near a cluster of ancient oaks.

The door opened.

Captain Fitzwilliam stepped out first. He wore his regimentals, buttoned high against the chill, and carried a mahogany box under his arm. He scanned the perimeter with professional grimness.

"Clear," he announced. "For now."

Fitzwilliam Darcy descended next, pale and weary. The previous night's energy had evaporated, leaving behind a cold residue of nausea. He adjusted his collar, his eyes darting nervously towards the treeline.

Finally, George Wickham emerged.

He was a tragic figure. He still wore the grey wool dress of the laundry maid, though Richard had thrown a heavy military greatcoat over his shoulders to preserve some shred of dignity, and provide warmth. The coat trailed in the mud. The mob cap had been discarded, leaving his curls damp and flattened against his forehead.

George stood on the grass, his boots sinking into the mire. He shivered, his teeth chattering a staccato beat worthy of hail on a slate roof.

"Where is Robert?" George asked, his voice a thin reed. "Why did he not come with us? He said he would be here. He said he would watch."

"He is scouting the northern ridge," Richard lied smoothly, checking the priming on the pistols in the box. "He wanted to ensure the Butcher did not bring reinforcements. If you hear a whistle, run."

"I cannot run," George whispered, clutching the greatcoat. "I will rip my skirts. I shall simply dissolve."

"Dissolving is not an option." Darcy stepped forward, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. The wool of the greatcoat was damp and smelled foul. "You must stand, George. You must face this."

"Why?" George wailed softly. "Why must I face it? I am twenty years of age! I have not even finished my degree! I have not kissed the baker's daughter in Cambridge yet! I promised her a ribbon!"

"Focus," Richard barked. He opened the mahogany box. Two pistols lay nestled in green velvet, gleaming with oil and menace. "Choose your weapon."

George stared at the guns. He reached out a trembling hand. He withdrew his fingers. He tried again. Finally, he grasped the handle of the nearest pistol. He lifted it. The barrel wavered wildly, pointing first at the ground, then at the sky, then dangerously close to Darcy's ear.

"Watch the muzzle!" Richard snapped, batting the barrel down. "Point it at the enemy, George. Not the heir of Pemberley."

"I am sorry," George sniffled. "I am not a soldier. I am a lover. I am a poet."

"Today, you are a target." Richard closed the box. "Come. The mist is clearing. The appointment is for dawn."

They walked towards the flat expanse of grass known as the Duelling Ground. The fog swirled around their ankles. Darcy walked beside George, feeling every step as a betrayal. This was cruel. It was monstrous.