Chapter Twenty Back to Previous Chapter In 1795, John "Gentleman" Jackson defeated Daniel Mendoza in less than eleven minutes to become the champion boxer of England. In a sport patronized by the Quality but performed by bare-fisted, uneducated men, Gentleman Jackson was an unusual champion. He fought with a nice science that emphasized footwork and proper positioning, and had a cultured way of speaking that set him apart from his contemporaries. Shortly after he was named champion, he retired undefeated; Harry Angelo, who taught fencing at his Salle d'Armes at 13 Bond-street in London, offered to share his quarters with Jackson on alternating days, considering the manly art of self-defense as a fine counterpart to a fencing in a gentleman's repertoire. Young men of gentle birth flocked to Jackson's door, clamouring to spar with the champion and dreaming of the day that they would pop one in over his guard. A very few of them managed to do so, and usually only because the Gentleman permitted it. Jackson's rooms normally were not open so late in the summer, as most of the gentlemen who patronized them had departed for their country seats or the seaside to escape the heat of the city. Henry suspected that Darcy had been at great pains--and expense--to persuade Jackson to make the rooms available so that Henry and Wickham could meet on a different sort of field of honour. Darcy also had the outcome of the bout entered into the betting book at White's: if Henry won the match, Wickham would marry Lydia, with whatever support the Bennets could give them; if Wickham won, then the complete ruin of Lydia's reputation was assured. "Is it reasonable to expect that Wickham will honour such an obligation?" Henry asked his friend. "It would not be the first time that he failed to honour gaming debts." Darcy smiled grimly. "He shall honour it. I will see to it." Henry watched Wickham across the large main salon at 13 Bond-street. Wickham had stripped to the waist, and one of his attendants--a disreputable-looking half-pay officer whom Darcy had recruited and paid--tied padded gloves, called mufflers, onto his hands. Wickham had scorned the mufflers at first, demanding to fight bare-fisted, as was the style in prizefights of the day; but in Jackson's rooms, the champion informed him loftily, gentlemen did not fight without gloves. Henry certainly had never done so. When he sparred with his friends, they pulled their punches shy of the face and head, and the matches lasted only till the first knockdown. The rules that he and Wickham had agreed upon called for a fight, not to the death, but until one of the combatants could fight no more. Wickham was a well-built man, muscular and strong; once the gloves were on, he sparred a bit with the attendant, and displayed a fighting style based upon overpowering his opponent with brute force. Henry was as tall as Wickham, but much lighter in build, and he could not compete on such a level. However, he had learned to box from older, bigger boys, and to compensate for his lesser size had developed a fleet, agile boxing style. Catherine always admired Henry's dancing, though she never knew that his light-footed grace was learned in such a brutal arena. Darcy brought a pair of mufflers and helped Henry slip them on. "I have sparred with Wickham in the past," Darcy said under his breath. "His boxing has no elegance; it is a half step removed from pothouse brawling. Be on your guard against blows below the waist, and eye gouging." "Wickham agreed to adhere to Broughton's rules," said Henry, referring to the rules of boxing laid down by Jack Broughton half a century earlier. "Such blows are not permitted." "That will not deter Wickham. His native aggression will drive him to win at all cost." Darcy finished tying the gloves and looked Henry in the eye. "Be on your guard." "I will. Thank you, Darcy." Mr. Gardiner separated himself from a group of men standing nearby and approached them. "I have ten pounds on you, Henry," he said, his eyes twinkling. "Mrs. Gardiner mustn't find out, so do me the favour of not losing." This good-humoured raillery had the desired effect; Henry laughed, and the anxiety that had stiffened his neck and made his stomach rebel disappeared. Jackson had measured out and chalked a square, one yard across, and he stood beside it as he beckoned the fighters to approach. Henry took a deep breath and walked up to the square, placing his feet upon one side of the box. Wickham stood on the opposite side, wearing a strange, menacing smile. A small knot of men gathered nearby; they had heard about the bout at White's, or perhaps Tattersall's, and having little other entertainment in town at that season, determined to attend, though there might not be as much sport as in a match featuring a Jack Bartholomew or a Jem Belcher. "Gentlemen, you have agreed to adhere to Broughton's Rules," said the champion. "I will now review the rules in order to avoid any misunderstanding. A round will end when a fighter falls. A man on his knees is reckoned down. The fallen man has half a minute to 'come up to scratch;'"--here the champion cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with using vulgar cant--"or return to his side of the chalked square. If he fails to return, he is deemed a beaten man. If the fighter, or his second, indicates that he cannot continue to fight, he is deemed a beaten man. No fighter is to strike his adversary when he is down, and no wrestling holds are to be employed below the waist. No man is to strike a blow to his adversary below the waist." Jackson looked from Wickham to Henry and back again. "Are these rules understood, gentlemen?" "Yes," said Henry. Wickham merely nodded. "Very well. Mr. Tilney, I understand that you have issued the challenge in this fight. Mr. Wickham, please choose the gentleman you would have as your umpire." "I hope that you will act as my umpire, Mr. Jackson," said Wickham, displaying the charm that had laid all female Meryton at his feet. The champion appeared immune to any of Wickham's attractions; nevertheless, he bowed politely and said, "You do me great honour. Mr. Tilney, will you choose?" "I will have Mr. Angelo," said Henry, nodding toward Jackson's partner. Mr. Angelo bowed as well, and placed himself where he could view the fight easily. "Very well. If Mr. Angelo and I cannot reach an agreement in the event of a dispute, then we shall choose a third umpire. Gentlemen, please take your places." Henry bent his knees and shifted his weight forward to the balls of his feet, poised to move quickly. He brought his gloves up before his face and bent slightly at the waist. The fighting stance was natural to him, and he was relaxed and yet ready to react to any motion made by his opponent. Three feet away, Wickham sneered at Henry. "I hope you are prepared to receive your sister, Tilney. I will have you know that I was the undefeated champion at Cambridge." "Please accept my compliments, sir," said Henry politely. "You will recall, however, that I was at Oxford." "You may set to," cried Jackson, and Henry immediately crouched as Wickham directed a heavy swing at his head. Henry danced away before Wickham could recover; but recover he did, and advanced menacingly. Henry waited for an opening, and saw it as Wickham tried to land another blow. Henry avoided it easily, and landed a quick three-punch combination in his opponent's midsection. Wickham was off-balance, and he fell to one knee; Henry stepped back, and the first round was over. Wickham rose to his feet, glaring at Henry, and took his place on one side of the chalk square. "Gentlemen, you may set to," said Jackson, and Wickham came at Henry again. Henry shifted from side to side, his feet moving quickly, and was able to land several punches, including one to the chin that rocked Wickham back on his heels. In the first round, Wickham had been recklessly aggressive, and now he was angry and frustrated. He feinted, and Henry dodged away; Wickham moved in, seized Henry under the arms, and threw him violently to the ground. Henry landed awkwardly on his left side; his elbow drove hard into his ribs, and the padded glove into his solar plexus. For a moment, he was unable to move or draw breath, and then Darcy was dragging him to his feet. "Breathe," Darcy commanded in a low, strong voice. "You must get your wind back, Tilney." "Fifteen seconds," said Mr. Angelo. Darcy's footman, Joseph, who was acting as Henry's "knee man," held smelling salts under Henry's nose. Henry quickly turned away from the noxious fumes, sucking untainted air deeply into his lungs. He pushed Darcy away irritably and stepped up to the chalk square. Jackson gave them leave to fight. Henry favoured his injured left side, and he was unable to move as quickly, yet he avoided all of Wickham's blows. Henry aimed a left at Wickham's head, trying to take him by surprise, but Wickham easily evaded the blow. Suddenly, Henry's vision exploded in red, and he reeled back and fell clumsily to the floor. Wickham had brought up his right as he feinted, and landed a hit squarely on Henry's left eye. Darcy was with him in a moment, pressing a cool, wet cloth to Henry's face. There was a strange buzzing and tingling under the skin as the area around the eye filled with blood. "Fifteen seconds," announced Angelo as Darcy drew away the cloth. "How is it?" Henry asked him. "You are cut," Darcy replied. Henry could not feel the bleeding; the whole area was unnaturally hot. The skin around his eye was swollen taut and throbbing. One of the spectators, who had placed a wager on first blood, passed a roll of banknotes to his neighbour. "I can no longer see from that eye," Henry said to Darcy. "Is there much blood?" "No; it will stop soon. Do you continue?" "I am not done yet." "Very well. Keep your left up and protect your face. Wickham is weak on his left side. Concentrate on your right." Henry nodded and took his place on the chalk square. "Had enough yet, Tilney?" Wickham taunted. Henry ignored him, watching Jackson until he gave them leave to recommence the fight. Henry followed Darcy's instructions, keeping his left hand protectively in front of his injured eye. The pain in his side had lessened, and he was able to move with more ease. Darcy was correct; clearly Wickham was not strong or coordinated with the left hand, and tried to overwhelm his opponent with a brutal right. However, as Henry instinctively protected his eye, Wickham was able to rain several punches on Henry's already tender side, driving him back several steps. Henry tried to get away, but the intensified pain in his side slowed his movements. Wickham followed him, bent low; his right fist came up, aiming for an area rather lower than his opponent's ribs. An ancient male instinct made Henry bring his hand down to deflect Wickham's fist. Though he was able to redirect most of the force of the blow, he was not quick enough to stop it entirely. Henry collapsed. Dimly he heard Jackson, Angelo, and Darcy shouting at Wickham, but he could not care. The pain in his side and his eye were utterly forgotten. Nothing could be worse than this. He closed his eyes as waves of nausea washed over him. Then, Darcy was beside him; with his encouragement, Henry was able to raise himself to his knees, and even to stand, though it seemed a violation of both logic and nature. "Do you require a basin?" Darcy asked with great sympathy. "I think not," Henry replied weakly. The worst of the nausea had passed, but his legs were shaking. Gentleman Jackson approached them. "Mr. Tilney, your opponent has violated the rules of engagement established prior to this bout. I am of a mind, and Mr. Angelo agrees, to name you winner by default." Under the circumstances, Henry found this notion perfectly reasonable, and was about to voice his agreement when Wickham advanced on them, shouting, "It was an accident, I tell you! I will not consider myself beaten in this matter! If Tilney cannot fight, then he is the beaten man!" He put his face close to Henry's and said, "Take your sister with my compliments. She gave me fine sport for a fortnight, but I'd grown devilish tired of her." Henry was sick, in pain, weak as a newborn, but Wickham's words caused a surge of anger to course through him. He raised his head. "Will you face me again, Wickham? Face me now, at this moment?" Wickham laughed. "I'll face you. I'll finish you. I'll send you back to your fine parsonage with your tail between your legs, pup." "Very well. Come up to scratch, sir." "Tilney, are you sure about this?" asked Darcy urgently. Henry shook him off and walked up to the chalk line. Wickham was already there, smiling unpleasantly. Henry looked at the champion, and found that Jackson was watching him earnestly. The older man nodded slightly, his demeanour all respect: not the common respect due a gentleman of Henry's station, but respect for Henry as a fellow pugilist. No matter the outcome of the fight, Henry understood that respect would remain his own. Jackson backed away. "You may set to." Henry took the pain and the anger and focused it upon the task at hand. He was careful to protect his eye, but he would give up a blow to the ribs to gain access to Wickham's weak left side. Confidence made Wickham arrogant, and arrogance bred poor science. "Boxing," Darcy had told Henry, "requires mental ability as well as physical ability. You must approach a bout as you would a chess game: guard against your opponent's present move while anticipating his future moves." Henry bent his waist and knees, his weight balanced upon the balls of his feet, allowing him to easily shift from one foot to the other. He circled Wickham warily, looking for an opening. Wickham feigned several punches, but Henry did not fall for his ruses. The spectators--heavily in favour of Henry now, even those who had placed wagers on Wickham--shouted encouragement, but Henry did not hear them. All of his concentration was centered upon Wickham's gloved fists. At last, the right hand struck. Henry avoided it easily, and struck out with his own right, landing a solid blow in Wickham's midsection. Startled, Wickham flung out another right. Henry nimbly evaded it. Wickham desperately followed with the left, and unwittingly exposed his queen. Henry quickly bent his knees, and Wickham's left circled harmlessly over his head. Henry clenched his right hand into a fist and brought it straight up. He did not make Wickham's mistake and rely on the strength of his arm alone; as he had learned from the patient Darcy years before, he brought the punch from the larger muscles in his shoulder and back, driven by the force of his legs as he came out of a crouching position. His fist crashed into his opponent's lower jaw with explosive power. The force of the blow brought Wickham's head back sharply. He took two steps backward, his arms waving in an ineffective attempt at balance; he stood comically for a moment, his arms outstretched, and then he fell heavily to the floor. Henry stood over Wickham as he attempted vainly to rise. He looked up at Henry; his eyes would not focus. He raised himself with his arms briefly, and collapsed again. Jackson approached them. "I believe this fight is over," he said. "Mr. Wickham is beaten. Mr. Tilney has prevailed." Wickham struggled once again to rise, but could not. The attendants that Darcy had hired were finally able to bring Wickham to a standing position, though his legs would not support him, and they half-carried, half-dragged him from the room. Henry stood, wounded but victorious, alone on the field of honour. The surgeon summoned to Gracechurch-street--a large, jolly fellow by the name of Murtagh--treated the swelling around Henry's eye by carefully applying leeches to the area. It was a revolting process, and Henry was relieved when Mr. Murtagh pried away the fattened creatures and dropped them into a small bottle. Henry felt his eye gingerly, and was surprised to discover that the treatment had been quite effective. Most of the swelling was gone, though he was still unable to open his left eye, and the skin around it was badly bruised. "Now, let me have a look at those ribs," said the surgeon. Henry raised his shirt, and Mr. Murtagh whistled softly. "You say you won this fight? The other fellow must be a sorry sight indeed." He prodded gently, and Henry clenched his teeth against the pain. "I do not believe the ribs are broken," said the surgeon. He placed a hearing-trumpet against Henry's chest and commanded, "Deep breath." Henry breathed deeply, held the breath, and released it upon the surgeon's instructions. "Your lungs are clear," said Mr. Murtagh. "You'll be hurting for a few days, though, I dare say. I can have some laudanum sent over if you like." "No need," said Henry testily. "They are just bruises." "Yes, you're on your way," said the indefatigably cheerful surgeon. "We always have hope for a full recovery when the patient becomes--impatient!" He laughed heartily at his joke as he placed his instruments in his bag. "You may call upon me if you have any questions." He left his card and departed, still chuckling. Darcy smiled at Henry wryly. "I beg your pardon for inflicting Murtagh upon you, but he really is an excellent surgeon. If he says you are not badly injured, then you may be comfortable that there is no lasting harm done." There was a soft knock on the door, and Mr. Gardiner came in and handed Henry a letter. "This arrived while we were gone. It is from your father." Henry opened the letter eagerly. He had written to Longbourn to tell them that Lydia was well and at her uncle's house, though he had not mentioned the fight, wishing to spare Catherine, his sisters, and Mr. Bennet any undue anxiety. He said only that the negotiation of the marriage agreement had commenced, and wanted to know what his father would do for the newlyweds. Henry scanned the letter quickly. "My father agrees with my scheme for Lydia and Wickham. There is no suitable house in his estate, but he thinks an establishment can be formed inexpensively. Between us, we can contrive a small annuity for their ongoing expenses. If Wickham desires a better situation, he is free to seek employment and earn it himself." He looked at Mr. Gardiner. "I would like to send an express to Longbourn to tell my father that the marriage will take place in a fortnight, if I can obtain a special license. Wickham should have recovered from his concussion by then." "Allow me to obtain the license," said Darcy. "I would like to be of service to your family." Henry grinned. "You have been of great service already, Darcy!" There was a commotion outside the bedchamber. The door opened, and Henry could hear Lydia saying, "No, I will see him!" She stormed into the room and faced her brother. She stared at him in shock. "It is true, then! My aunt told me that you beat my dear Wickham! You must take me to see him!" "You will not see Wickham until your wedding, Lydia. Believe me, he is in no condition to make love to you, and will not be for a week at least." Henry smiled to himself, remembering Wickham's final fall with great satisfaction. "What have you done to him? I swear to you, Henry, if you have hurt him I shall never forgive you!" "He has a concussion, but will come to the altar without a mark on him." "A concussion? How could you?" "That is enough, Lydia," said Mrs. Gardiner, pulling her niece from the room. "Your brother needs his rest." "I'll go," said Lydia petulantly. "I never want to see him again! I wish I had no brother!" She swept out of the room and slammed the door. Henry glanced at Darcy, embarrassed. "I would not have had you see that." "I have already learned to expect no gratitude from young ladies thwarted in love." Henry laughed, then groaned at the misery it occasioned in his ribs. Mrs. Gardiner came back into the room. "Will you dine with us, Mr. Darcy? If it aids your decision, Lydia has announced her intention to keep to her room until the wedding." "I would be honoured," said Darcy. "A solitary meal at the club had little appeal, Mrs. Gardiner. I thank you for the invitation." Mrs. Gardiner smiled warmly. "After all you have done for our family, it is the least we can do for you." "I will send the message," said her husband, and they left the room together. Henry looked at his friend. "Darcy, allow me to express my gratitude as well. Your assistance in this sad affair has been invaluable; well beyond the obligations of friendship." Darcy said consciously, "You need feel no obligation, for as much as I esteem and value our friendship, and would render you any assistance within my power, I have not acted out of friendship toward you." He glanced sideways at Henry and looked away. "I confess I thought only of Elizabeth." He put his hand to his mouth, as if containing strong emotion. "Do you know what it is like, Tilney?" he asked in a low, urgent voice. "To see someone you have come to love in true distress, to know yourself the author of it, and to be unable to render any comfort besides the offer of a--glass of wine?" Henry remembered standing in the gallery at Northanger Abbey, and Catherine running from him in tears after his harsh lecture, and understood his friend's vehemence. "Darcy, this cannot be laid solely at your door. You could not have prevented Lydia from eloping with Wickham." "I could have prevented it," said Darcy bitterly. "If I had exposed Wickham in Meryton, he would not then have had the opportunity to ruin your sister, or any other girl. But my damnable pride kept me silent." "No, Darcy. Regard for your sister's reputation kept you silent. You behaved properly as a brother then, and your actions on my behalf, and Lydia's--no matter what your motivation--were the actions of a brother as well. I shall rejoice on the day that I can call you my brother without reservation. I trust that day will not be long in coming; when Lizzy learns of your actions, any lingering doubts as to your character will be cast forth." "I hope that Elizabeth will never know of my actions in this affair. I would not have her feel an obligation toward me that might lead her to act contrary to her true desires." Henry was amused. "Your scruples are very proper, but I think they are misplaced. Gratitude and esteem are as good a foundation upon which to build a marriage as appearance, or fortune, or any other in common use. It was gratitude that led me to pay more attention to my Catherine than that due to common civility." Darcy frowned at him. "Gratitude?" "Indeed. I noticed Catherine because she noticed me, and saw something in me that she liked, and did not disdain to show it. Gratitude led to esteem, and esteem led to love. I am sorry if I offend your sensibilities; the novelists will have us believe that love is a flame that rises instantly in the heat of a first meeting, and perhaps that is sometimes the case. However, I believe that love that is built slowly from more mundane stuff, such as gratitude and esteem, will be all the stronger for it." "Your sister was offered my esteem, my love, and my hand, and refused them," Darcy reminded him. "Yes, but Lizzy was labouring under a delusion of which she has been disabused, and I dare say she is ready to allow simpler ideas to shape her feelings." "Nevertheless, I would rather that she did not learn of my involvement in this affair, at least not at this time." "Very well, Darcy. The least I can do is honour your wishes. I shall take all the credit upon myself, undeserving though I may be." "You are not undeserving. I have never seen such courage as you displayed today." "You will find acts of greater courage on any battlefield. However, I suppose that my military upbringing has served me at last." Henry smiled at his friend. "As well as your fine instruction, sir! If some disaster strikes Pemberley that compels you to earn your living, you should seek employment with Mr. Jackson. He could do much worse for an instructor." Darcy was complimented into a better spirit, and the arrival of a servant to announce dinner ended the conversation, though it gave both men much to consider. Despite the excellence of the dinner, Henry found he had little appetite. He refused most of the dishes, and pushed his food around on the plate as Darcy and the Gardiners watched him in concern. Finally Mr. Gardiner spoke. "Henry, it occurs to me that it would be uncomfortable for you to meet Wickham, after what has passed between you. I would be honoured if you would permit me to conduct what remains of the business on your behalf. Your father's directions are clear; Haggerston, my solicitor, will attend to the necessary documents. Why do you not return to Longbourn for your convalescence? I dare say that your wife would be the finest nurse you could wish for in this instance, and you will still be close enough to town to travel here easily if it should be necessary." The notion of returning to Catherine, even if it were not at their own home, had instant appeal. "You have already done so much for us, sir. I cannot allow you to accept so much additional responsibility." "You have done the most in bringing Wickham up to scratch, as it were. You need not stay any longer. If you wish to return for the wedding, naturally you are welcome, but Mrs. Gardiner and I would be pleased to accommodate our friends in Hertfordshire in any way that we can." He smiled at Henry. "You can return to Longbourn as soon as tomorrow." Henry looked across the table at Darcy, who said, "I have some remaining business of my own, but I plan to set out for Pemberley on the day after tomorrow. Do not remain in town on my account. I tend to agree with Mr. Gardiner; you would undoubtedly be more comfortable at Longbourn." It was impossible to remain firm in the face of such kind solicitude, and when dinner was finished, Henry took himself off to bed, in order to be well-rested for his trip to Hertfordshire. Henry had expected a good night's rest to aid his recovery, but on the next morning he could hardly move without causing some part of his body to ache. The journey to Longbourn was difficult for him, though the roads were dry and smooth, and the post-chaise well-sprung. Normally a trip of several hours in such an equipage would be passed in relative comfort, but for Henry it was slow torture. Several times he considered asking the postilion to check the pace, but decided that the quicker the journey ended, the better; thus, he gritted his teeth and endured. As the chaise rumbled up the drive, Henry was amused to see several faces at the sitting-room window. Likely the ladies had been gathered around the large table with their work, and the sound of an approaching carriage aroused their curiosity. The chaise stopped, the door opened, and the stairs were let down. As Henry turned back to the chaise to retrieve the portmanteau that he customarily kept with him, he heard Catherine's voice, and smiled. She must have recognized him from the window and run outside, matronly dignity abandoned for the moment. "Henry!" she cried. "We received your express last night! I knew you would contrive it all!" As he turned away from the carriage to greet her, she came to a sharp stop, her expression changing in an instant from joy to astonishment. "What has happened?" she asked, reaching out gingerly to touch the bruising around his eye. "Was there an accident?" Henry's mood had already improved at the sight of Catherine, and he could not resist a bit of raillery. "No, my sweet, there was no accident. I believe that Wickham quite acted quite to the purpose when he, er--'planted me a facer,' I believe is the popular expression." Catherine's eyes grew wide. "Henry, do you mean--have you and Wickham been brawling?" He replied with mock dignity, "I do not brawl, Catherine, I box. Gentlemen do not brawl." Her expression remained grave. "Brawling, or boxing--whatever you call it, I cannot like it. Come inside, and I shall fetch you some tea." Mr. Bennet had emerged from his library and was waiting in the entrance. Henry shook his father's hand, a little embarrassed at the frank scrutiny he received. "I see that you have kept busy in town, son," said Mr. Bennet. "I suspected that you employed more than mere reason when you persuaded Wickham to behave honourably." "It is all for the best," said Henry. "It is over, and Lydia will be married, and there is no lasting harm done." "One hopes," said Mr. Bennet dryly. Catherine took Henry into the sitting-room, where his sisters all exclaimed over his injuries. He deflected their anxious questions with good humour and without imparting much in the way of information. Catherine took pains to sit by him, but remained grave and silent. When the reunion began to lose its immediacy, Mr. Bennet summoned Henry into the library. He handed his son a glass of wine and said, "Do not imagine that I am displeased with your accomplishments, Henry, but I beg you would tell me how it all came about. By what means were Wickham and Lydia discovered?" Henry had expected the question, and he had formulated an answer that was truthful, yet kept Darcy's involvement secret. "We were fortunate enough to discover one of Wickham's former connections who knew of their whereabouts. I went there and took Lydia away. Wickham made it clear that he had never meant to marry her, and I issued a challenge. We met by appointment at Jackson's Boxing Saloon. Many gentlemen are settling affairs of honour in the ring these days." "We live in a degenerate age," remarked Mr. Bennet. "Your command was that I should not fight a duel, sir." "It was, indeed. I am gratified at the imagination you employed to comply with that command. Now I fear we must consider more mundane matters. Have the settlements been arranged?" "Mr. Gardiner has kindly undertaken the whole. The settlement will be as you instructed in your letter: the annuity, and the lease of a modest establishment." "Very good. My brother is a man of great energy and will see to it all. You said in the express that the wedding will take place in a fortnight?" "Yes, I thought that the circumstances called for a special license. However, as Wickham is currently suffering from concussion, the wedding cannot take place before then, I think." "Concussion, eh? Well, if we cannot provide Wickham with a fortune to marry Lydia, than addling his brains will have to serve." He took out his watch. "We shall be dining in half an hour or so. Go on and get dressed." Henry understood the dismissal, and rose to leave. As he reached the door, his father called him back. "Oh, and Henry?" "What is it, sir?" Mr. Bennet smiled. "You did well, son." Henry nodded and left. At the foot of the stairway he met Elizabeth, who was ascending to dress for dinner. She took his chin gently, turned his head to better see the bruised skin around his eye, and shook her head. "You shame me, Henry." He took her hand and kissed it affectionately. "Why in the world should you be ashamed, Lizzy?" "You tried to tell me about Wickham. Do you remember? It was at Mr. Bingley's ball. You told me not to trust Wickham, and I ranted at you and said that you were prejudiced and unfair. And now I know that it was I who was prejudiced." "There really was no reason for you to believe me rather than Wickham." Elizabeth smiled ruefully. "On the contrary. Wickham gave me sufficient evidence himself, had I but listened attentively. He told me that Mr. Darcy had importuned him, but that he would never publicly expose Mr. Darcy out of respect for his father--and then, once Mr. Darcy had left the neighbourhood and was unable to refute his charges, Wickham proceeded to tell the story to everyone who would listen. I should have known then that Wickham was not what he appeared to be, but I allowed myself to be guided by my first impressions. If I had listened to you, perhaps I could have warned Lydia against him, at least." "Do you truly believe that Lydia would have listened to such a warning? Really, Lizzy, there is a great deal too much blame being assumed in this business by parties who bear no guilt. Any blame belongs solely to Lydia and Wickham." "Yet we all bear the shame." She touched his cheek gently. "And you bear the scars. Well, at least you prevailed," she added with a proud smile. "It was really very clever of you to contrive such a method of persuasion! Although I never doubted for a moment that you would find a way." Henry found his face growing warm, knowing that the cleverness that his sister praised truly belonged to Darcy. "Have you seen Catherine?" he asked by way of changing the subject. "She has already gone up to get dressed." In their bedchamber, Catherine had changed into a pretty gown and was fussing with her hair in front of the mirror. Henry's trunk had been brought up and unpacked, and it was quick work to find clean clothes to replace the ones he wore, which were dusty and creased from his journey. All was well until he tried to pull the shirt over his head: an involuntary gasp of pain made Catherine turn around curiously, and she had her first sight of the black and blue marks across his left side. She cried out, dropped her comb, and hurried to him. Henry, strangely embarrassed, pulled the shirt down over the bruises, but Catherine raised it again, staring at the bruises in astonishment. "Wickham did this to you?" she asked. "It is nothing," said Henry. "Nothing?" she cried. "You can call this nothing?" She dropped the shirt and turned her head away, pressing her hand to her mouth. Henry steeled himself for tears, prepared himself to soothe them, but when Catherine turned back a moment later, her eyes were dry. "Here, let me help you," she said, her voice soft with compassion. With her assistance, Henry was soon dressed. She turned away to finish her own toilette, but Henry took her hand. "I must beg your pardon, my sweet," he said. "I made you my promise that I would not fight a duel, and I kept the letter of that promise, but not the spirit." "It does not signify. Women cannot understand the way men feel about such things, I suppose." "Catherine, if the entire world operated on good sense such as yours, it would be a much better place. I know that you asked for my promise because you were concerned that I would be hurt. Therefore, I must beg your pardon." "I was concerned that you would be killed," she said. "Your bruises will heal soon enough, and I would not have your sisters disgraced so that I might be comfortable. You did your duty, and you kept your promise, Henry. Thank you." Henry reached out and pulled her close to his uninjured side. "I missed you this week, Cat. I missed your dependence upon the goodness in the world. I found myself greatly in need of it at times." Catherine laid her head upon his shoulder. "I feel sorry for Lydia. I think of what kind of man she will marry and consider myself fortunate that I married an honourable man." "I do not think that Lydia will ever miss what she does not understand. Lydia and Wickham both place too much importance on the material. Neither of them understands that a man can lose everything, and still have his honour; that it is something that cannot be taken from a man, but that he can only give away." "I've no fear that you will ever give away yours." She kissed his cheek. "I should not like to give it away. Then I might no longer be the nicest husband in the world," he murmured in her ear. Catherine giggled, and he added, "Are you ready to go down to dinner?" "As soon as I finish my hair." Henry sat down and crossed his legs with great deliberation. "If I must wait for you to finish primping your hair, I shall waste away to nothing. So much for my vaunted honour! It cannot even buy me a timely dinner." "You know that you like me to look nice, Henry." With an effort, he managed not to laugh. "Indeed I do, my sweet." "There! I am finished." She turned away from the mirror and held out her hand. Henry took it, tucked it into his elbow, and led her down to the dining-room, despite his pains and troubles thinking himself very much a fortunate man. Continued in Next Chapter ~ Table of Contents By A Lady Comment on this story Home ~ Site Map ~ Contact Original Images and Content Copyright © 2002 by Margaret C. Sullivan. All Rights Reserved.