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Chapter Fifteen

The meadow was cold, clear and still, and Edward felt a thrill rising in him at the prospect of game. He wore his duelling shirt; black silk fastened high to his neck, with no buttons or pockets. He was an excellent shot, but there was no point in taking unnecessary risks. 

He loaded both his guns, the twin pair he had decided to christen the ‘Forthenby Ladies’, checked them, and handed them back to Stevens. Peaches was a little distance away, under some trees, sulking.

“Suspect I’ll have to lend old Upright a gun, eh? In the name of fair play, and all of that.”

“I could damp his powder,” Jackson suggested.

Edward stared at him, appalled.

Jackson laughed “Upright broke my arm with his zeal, once. Always swore I’d be revenged for that.”

“It’s called fair play for a reason. Some things are sacred.”

“Says Teddy Valance. Ha. The stars stood still and all of heaven gaped.”

“My Lord,” said Stevens, a little nervously. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider this?” He was Edward’s brother’s age, and the most sensible of the friends Edward had kept in his exile from grace and favour. 

He was a good sort, though. 

“Thornton couldn’t hit a cow at six paces. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“That isn’t my concern, my Lord. It’s just that there are formalities we have not observed. You shouldn’t duel the morning after a quarrel. And besides, Jackson and I should have tried to bring about a peace. This isn’t a thing one should be entering into lightly. The Irish Code states -”

“Books, my dear fellow, are all very well, but some of us have an instinctual understanding of such matters. Dickie and I can manage this between ourselves.”

“Well, yes, my Lord, I’m sure that you can. But proceeding properly is so much more important when there’s the honour of a lady involved -”

“Sweet Serafina? Why I hardly even named the baggage.”

“And besides, should it come to a prosecution...”

Edward waved this nonsense away. 

“That aside, my Lord, Thornton is a dangerous enemy to have. Can you trust him?”

Teddy clipped Stevens around the ear, affectionately. “Haunted by the beloved old school, Stevens? Yes, our dear Head Boy had his perils, I’ll grant you, but Mr Thornton of the Treasury-”

“Once closed all the doors in London to you.”

Damn the fellow for remembering it. 

“When I was impecunious Teddy, dear heart. But I’m Lord Forthenby now. What can he do, really? Write my steward a stern note? I could have cut him, earlier, and no-one would have thought less of me for it. I could have horsewhipped him for his challenge on account of him being such a damned cadet.”

“Then why didn’t you, my Lord?”

“And have people say that Teddy still danced to Upright’s tune?” He laughed, and felt the wonder of it: the cool, damp morning air, the stillness in his hand where there soon would be the weight and chill of a loaded gun. The smell of powder, the loud report. The whole thing was almost as sweet to him as Bannerworth’s mouth, as Peaches’ hands. “We’ll send the blighter off with his tail between his legs.”

“If you don’t kill him,” said Jackson, coldly.

“Steady on, old chap. No need for that.”

“You need to settle him, Teddy, or he’ll always be there, coming back at you. He’s vindictive. I know the type.”

I'll bloody wager you do. 

“Now, now, sir. You’re supposed to be the blighter’s second. Speak more fairly or I’ll make you and Stevens swap.”

Jackson bowed, exaggerated, “As you say, my Lord Forthenby.”

Edward nodded in the way he’d been practicing back at the estate. “Quite enough of that.”

Jackson laughed, “Careful Forthenby, or you won’t know where to aim. You even looked like Upright a moment there.”

“Hush,” said Stevens, “I think that’s him.”

The sky was beginning to pale and walking slowly, dressed all in sober black, came the tall, handsome shape of Mr Richard Thornton. As he drew closer, Edward saw that Thornton looked dreadful. His always pale face was white as bleached bone, and there was a sheen of sweat upon it. He had never been a duellist, not even in their hot, wild days, leaving Edward to clean up his messes, and settle any questions of honour for him. 

Edward had done it gladly, of course - thinking of just how gladly would be what added the keenness to his sight, would keep his hands steady. Otherwise he might have started to feel sorry for the blighter. 

“Good morning, sir,” Stevens called.

Thornton nodded, as though he did not trust himself to speak. Then, with admirable firmness, “I assume that you will wish to inspect my arms, Mr Jackson, Mr Stevens.” With a solemn face, he handed Jackson a pair of pistols in a box.

After a cursory glance, Jackson said, “Look fine to me, Thornton.”

Stevens held out his hand, and, with a grimace, Jackson passed them over. The lad weighed the guns in his hands, turning them, and looking blessedly solemn. He said, “I do not believe there can be fair play with these guns."

Edward spared them a glance. “Well, hardly. That one’s going to throw to the left. And the other...” Much as he knew Dickie had fallen in the world, Valance had not expected this. Of course, the man had never had much of a sporting nature, but his old guns had been like everything else he owned - of solid, practical quality. These were worse than the Doxies. 

“Well,” Edward said, brusque, knowing that the rules really prohibited him from speaking, “as the challenged, I elect we split my pistols. If they meet your satisfaction, Thornton?” He nodded to Stevens, who returned Thornton’s guns and opened the lacquered box in which Edward kept his own. There they were, his brace of Ladies – percussion caps, not flintlocks - all black polished wood and gleaming silver, with the Forthenby arms picked out on the side. He had spent… well, rather more than Hedge was entirely happy about on them, and they shot as sweetly as any that he had ever owned. “You may, of course, have first choice sir.”

“As the challenged, sir, I believe etiquette dictates that the choice is yours.”

“And have Miss Tooting say I left you a dud gun? Come now, Dickie, I’ll pot you fair and square.” He gestured to the box, “May I introduce the Forthenby Ladies. Quite the beauties. You’re welcome to either.”

Without even looking, Thornton picked a gun from the box. It wouldn’t have mattered. The Ladies were equally matched, and had not been used enough yet for either gun to display a character distinct from its twin. If Hedge had anything to do with it, they never would be - but they would see use this morning.

“Does this satisfy you, Jackson?” said Thornton, pale and stiff.
Jackson shrugged, but did not examine it, “I doubt you’ve ever held so fine a gun, Thornton. Personally, I wouldn’t let your Cit hands near it.”

Edward pressed his lips together to prevent his anger from spoiling this moment. “Let’s not be ungenerous, gentlemen.” He looked at Thornton, directly into those jade green eyes and he felt neither a touch of tenderness or regret. There was no longer any need to jest, to provoke. Soon, soon now, this would be over. 

Soon, he would be free. 

“Does the weapon meet your approval, sir?”

“I’m a poor judge of such things.”

“Well, she’s the finest I have, old man. Shall we?”

The seconds, or mostly Stevens, established the ground and the rules. He and Dickie would stand back to back and take fifteen careful paces apart, then, upon Steven’s signal, they would turn and fire. If neither party fell, there would be a second exchange of fire before an apology might be communicated. 

That was good. It seemed that everyone there was taking it seriously.

So, with every nerve of him singing at the prospect of it, Edward took slow steps through the long grass, dew soaking the leather of his boots, his pistol primed and ready in his hand. 

One, two… he counted his steps, as he had once counted the sharp impacts of Thornton’s birch. The memory of that pain fell away from him as he walked. Soon, he would turn, would see the signal and there would be a report. His own, loud in his ears, Thornton’s a split-second later, and then the moment in which Edward would not know whether he was about to fall. 

He would not fall, not against Thornton, but he might. The whole thing was meaningless if he did not consider that he might.

...four, five, six…

And, knowing himself unharmed, or only grazed, he would hear Thornton’s cry of pain, and Dickie Upright would not be able to claim that honour any longer. Still deafened by the blast of the gun, his hand stinging, Edward would see Thornton fall.

...nine, ten…

Or he would not. 

It was always important to keep that possibility in his mind. He might perhaps scramble to reload and cock his pistol, and ready to bring it up at the next signal. There might be another exchange of fire, that the sweet dance of sharp cordite and sounding guns might continue indefinitely. 

Behind him, there were cries, the sound of someone shouting out. 

Twelve, he stepped, thirteen, fourteen...

A loud curse - Thornton’s voice - a strangely muffled sound, the thud of a body striking the earth.

Valance took the final step, then turned.

Dickie was lying on the ground with a pair of men Edward did not know trying to pin him. There was blood running down that magnificent face of his and he was blazing with a fury Edward had only seen in him a couple of times before. Stevens, although not Jackson, was standing beside them, talking angrily, as Dickie struggled out of the mens’ grasp and snatched Edward’s very own Forthenby Lady from where it lay upon the ground. 

Some distance away, standing firm and implacable, there was a grey faced man in a suit of sober black.

“I say,” said Edward Valance. “What the bloody hell is going on?”