The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

Author's Notes: I'm recovering slowly. Thank you for the comments. And for those interested, this story goes up to Chapter 28.

Chapter 25 – The Darcy Brotherhood

Darcy looked at him with levels of barely-controlled rage. Wickham was more than familiar with this. While to everyone else Darcy was a mystery of a man, Wickham knew him better, and one of the surest things he knew was that the man knew how to keep grudges. When Darcy intruded on his absconding with Lydia, he was fairly sure (at the time) that it was more about getting his revenge for Georgiana and doing that white knight thing he loved so much to do. Only later that it had been more about maintaining Lydia's sister's social standing so Darcy could marry her, which was not a huge surprise, either. Darcy cared about social standing. He would pay a lot of money to protect a family's honor, an astronomical amount to protect his own. And here he was, cornered with proof of his own father's indiscretions in the form of a church mouse and all he could manage was a deeply-intoned, "Wickham."

"I suppose I'm not going to be introduced. Well, I don't know your name, kid, but Lieutenant George Wickham at your service." He bowed politely, taking off his regimental hat.

"Brother Grégoire," said the monk, bowing in innocent. "Grégoire Bellamont, sir."

"Bellamont? Wasn't that ... wasn't that the name of one of Mrs. Darcy's maids? From when we were young. Fitz?"

"Yes," Darcy growled. "And your attempts at civility are tiring. Yes, he is our half-brother." Of course, he was referring to himself and Georgiana, who was not present.

"At least I was trying. Live and let live? Forgive and forget? Isn't that one of your people's teaching, Brother Grégoire?"

"Yes," said the monk. Or, more accurately, the pawn, overshadowed by the two much larger players with more moves. His accent was partially French. Darcy must have picked him up on the Continent like a souvenir, then brought him home because of some ridiculous honored notion that a son should see his father's grave or some such nonsense. "We are all poor sinners."

"Well, I only know two people here who are poor," Wickham said. "And it seems the Darcys are responsible for that."

"You are mistaken by his pious appearance," Darcy said. "Grégoire, unlike you, has not squandered his inheritance gambling."

"Inheritance?" Wickham laughed. "You call three thousand pounds to buy me off when your father passed away inheritance? Do you know long that lasted?"

"And the ten thousand to settle your gambling debts and provide you with a living in Newcastle. And the thousands father spent raising you, educating you, and sending you to Cambridge. At least you had the decency to flunk out in the first semester, since all you were going to do was – "

"Brother!" Grégoire interrupted, a looking passing between him and Darcy that Wickham could not, from his viewpoint, observe. So the monk was to be his advocate? He was going to make this even easier? "Tell him."

"Tell me what?" Wickham said, curious.

Darcy sighed, and it was not of annoyance. Wickham knew his frustrated sighs well enough. It was almost sadness. It crept into his voice when he spoke, more civilly this time, directly to Wickham. "It seems ... you are my half-brother as well."

George Wickham blinked. "Are you daft?"

"Surely your scheming mind can work your way around that one," was Darcy's reply, stepping closer to him, in front of his father's grave. "I admit father had me fooled, too, while he was alive. But why else would he raise you 'as his own son' and give you a living that you proved over and over again was undeserved? A living in the church, of all places! His last attempts to hope to reform you, even when it was beyond hope. How many maids did he have to dismiss? How far did you spread the Darcy seed around?"

To say that Wickham was flabbergasted was putting it mildly, but he knew that Darcy could be as tricky as he could. "You are a fool if you don't think I see your strategy. You are trying to draw me in to your own little family scandal so that I cannot ask for hush money, and you apparently would go as far as slandering my own father to do so."

"Despite my lack of desire to believe it, your father was, in fact, my father," Darcy said. "So the only person slandered here, beyond him, is your mother, who was married to Mr. Wickham at the time, which is a sin above father's own ... dalliances with his wife's lady-maid."

He was getting angry. Wickham was not at his best when he was angry. He didn't like being angry and not at his best, especially when he was trying to get money from people. He could not think of a way – no, he had one. If Darcy was to up the scale, so was he. They were alone. The setting was perfect. "Darcy, you have slandered both my parents to a point that is unsuitable, and as a gentleman – and you may laugh at the idea if you wish – I must defend their honor. I challenge you a duel."

Darcy gave him one of those perfectly clear 'You can't be serious?' looks of his and scoffed.

"I am serious," Wickham said. "Most serious."

"I cannot shoot a – brother."

Maybe Darcy really did believe it. Well, Darcy was a fool, or was playing some game beyond Wickham's own. "Then to first blood. I will be at the disadvantage, as you are better with the blade than I am, so accept my poor lieutenant's spare in place of your expert rapier. Just so you don't cut me to pieces immediately."

"You have two? On you?"

"Of course. I am, despite my own intentions, in His Majesty's service," Wickham said, returning to his horse to retrieve the blades.

"Darcy," he heard Gregory or whatever his fancy name was in the background. "You cannot fight on consecrated ground."

"It appears I do not have a choice. Wickham?"

But Wickham was a step ahead of him, literally. As he spun around, he carried two blades in one hand, his pistol in another, whereupon he fired and shot Darcy.

"My hand! You bastard, my hand!" Darcy fell to his knees, clutching his wounded right hand. Grégoire, ever his attendant, ran to his side and looked at the wound.

"It has gone straight through," he said, removing his cowl and tearing off a piece of the linen to wind around Darcy's hand.

"You could not expect me to not even the playing field," Wickham said. "You are too good on your strong side for almost any man in England who is not some team captain."

"You bastard," Darcy groaned. "You ignorant, stupid son of a whore! And this time, I mean it literally!"

"You're not doing it correctly, you damned monk," Wickham said, approaching them. Grégoire did not put up much of a fight as he pushed him aside, pulled loose Darcy's cravat, and wrapped it tightly around the wound. The bullet had apparently gone right through his hand. "An excellent shot, if I do say so myself."

"You bastard," Darcy snarled as Wickham tightened the bandage and tied it off. "If I call for my servants – "

"They won't hear. And if you send your 'brother' for help, I'll shoot him. Now." He released Darcy's hand. "Let's establish the terms. Since I've already drawn first blood, we'll have to go for second. If I succeed, I want an apology and a proper living. How much does Gregory have?"

"Don't tell him," Darcy said to his brother, but Wickham merely cocked his pistol, and Grégoire looked terrified.

"Ten – t-ten thousand a year."

"He gets ten thousand a year? What does he do? Did he buy his way into heaven or something?" Wickham said in disbelief. "Then, those are my terms. State yours."

"You have yourself declared dead and leave the British Isles, never to return."

"Self-imposed exile, yes? With a little death thrown in to free up Mrs. Wickham so she can properly remarry? Very noble of you. She may be a cow who squeals like a pig, but you know, she does have her positive qualities. I bet Elizabeth never went do – "

"Wickham," Darcy interrupted. "My sword."

"Then the terms are agreed?"

"Yes!" Darcy must have been aware that he was bleeding badly despite the bandages, and would lose energy with that, so time was on Wickham's side. "Grégoire, stay back, but if he tries to shoot you, I'll run him through. And Wickham, you would be shooting your own half-brother."

Wickham was indeed beginning to wonder if he was true. After all, Darcy would be the last person in the world to want to admit any relation whatsoever to him. Though as a bastard out of wedlock Wickham could never make a claim on Pemberley or any part of Darcy's various land holdings, he could reasonably demand more money than he was currently receiving from pay and from his wife's income. But that would mean his father had been hoodwinked, and that Mr. Darcy was one of the worst kinds of man. And then, it occurred to him, there was the matter of Georgiana. If he was half-Darcy, then he had almost - No, he was not ready for that yet.

There was an order to things.

Darcy knew he was at a loss. He could fight with his offhand; that much was true. But he was older now, and out of practice with his months of traveling, and he had been wounded on his left side not even a year before. And there was the small matter of his bleeding, throbbing right hand as a major distraction. Was he good enough now, in this state, to beat Wickham? The man was a military officer, even if he had never seen active duty. He must have trained.

As he took the sword into his hand, he contemplated just giving in to the demands. They were outrageous, true, but no more than what Grégoire received, and surely some of it would go to support Lydia Wickham and her children, who were his niece and nephew on both sides and were of his bloodline, at least by a quarter. They deserved not to live in poverty, even if Wickham did. But no – he had been challenged and his honor demanded that he defend himself for as long as he could stand. However, he doubted it would be very long. Slowly and carefully he adjusted his hand to the blade's unfamiliar hilt and took his stance. "I would shake on it, but it seems I am without a free hand." His voice came out tinnier than he would have liked. Perhaps he would not speak much.

"Brother, please," Grégoire pleaded with him by his good shoulder, which was once considered his bad shoulder. "Not in front of father, on holy ground."

"If your estimations are correct, Darcy, there is no one more deserving a witness," Wickham said, gesturing to the gravestone of Geoffrey Darcy.

"He is right, perhaps," Darcy said. "For once in his life. Stand back, Grégoire, and we shall finish it."

It was not quite their old childhood games. As they touched tips in some kind of gesture of respect, even though there was none, Darcy wished it was. Was it the blood-loss induced haze or were the memories of his younger days of playing with Wickham choosing to come back to him now for some nefarious purpose? This was not the way he wanted things to happen. True, he had been putting off planning a confrontation, but he could not think of a way for it to go more horribly wrong. And he had just jinxed himself by thinking that.

It was Wickham who struck first. He knew he would do that. Wickham did not have the patience or the intelligence to do otherwise. He thought he was a snake, lying and waiting for his prey, but though he did have many serpentile qualities, he was more like a charging boar of smugness and ferocity. He came at Darcy and it was an easy parry, but only because he knew Wickham. And he knew he would have to strike back, before the blows started falling light. Parry, parry, parry. "Damnit, hit me, Darcy! You know you want to run me through!"

Trying to incite him. Wickham was good at that, and Darcy had to admit that he was not in the best of moods to begin with, and would have to calculate that. He could not drone out his calls altogether, but the pounding in his ears was helping him out in that respect. His blood was up, and Wickham knew it, and the reverse. The 'second blood' they drew would not be a gentlemen's prick. Both men knew that; it did not have to be spoken. So he had to parry and parry on auditory and physical fronts. Deflect. Protect. Himself. Grégoire. Pemberley. Elizabeth. His son, his future child. Everything was at stake here, and he was not a gambler, not comfortable with those high stakes.

But Wickham was. He was brazen, continuously trying to draw Darcy out, continuously attacking to wear him down. Either strategy could easily work. But Darcy blocked. He blocked again and again until it became like a dance, like a dream. Wickham was darkness and he was light. He was truly the knight in shining armor. The Lady in the Water had given him a magic sword and he could pierce Wickham's black heart.

He was probably hallucinating. Loss of blood, of course. He squeezed his hand, but that just made the exit wound bleed that much worse. There were cries from Grégoire to stop, stop this madness, but he barely heard it. And then there was a blur in front of him, all grey robes as Wickham thrashed, pushing him back against another tombstone. Darcy fight comprehended that the blade would have gone to his heart, not a gentlemen's duel wound but a killing blow, and his arm may or may not have responded to the brain's call to parry. But that was irrelevant, because Grégoire had tackled Wickham, and they were rolling around on the ground. And then there was a gunshot, and the little monk slumped against the stone, trailing blood behind him. Had he been using the Discipline again? No, he took that away. And he was having the conversation again with Grégoire.

"I will personally pay for the abbey to acquire a new one if they press me on it," he had said, was saying again, at least in his mind.

No, better to imagine he was back at Cambridge, fighting a match against a worthy opponent. That he could understand. His opponent, not properly guarded and masked, was picking himself off the ground. He was open. He knew, within the lines, he could not drop his guard. He had violated the rules. There would be punishment, and Darcy would deliver it.

Darcy's blade went right through Wickham's uniform, then his flesh, then his organs and bones. He could feel it. Darcy could hear it and feel the tip break through the other side, as if an extension of his own hand, his off hand but still his hand.

"F-First - first blood," Darcy stammered as Wickham, still standing because he was probably in shock, pulled back his weapon, out the same way it had come with a burst of cherry-red blood. "Second, technically."

But hatred would not die so easily. Wickham raised his pistol, but Darcy dropped his sword and with both hands – and very painfully – managed to lift it so the shot went off into the sky, leaving only a small ball of smoke to cover their faces with gunshot powder. Wounded, angry, and flailing, Wickham tackled him and bashed him in the lower back with his sword hilt, unfortunately made of steel. Both men went over together, and rolled to the grass, where they managed to separate.

It felt immeasurably good to be off his feet, even if he could barely breathe, and his back was still figuring out which nerves to activate, and his arm was still bleeding. Beside him, beyond the pounding in his ears, he heard Wickham's ragged breaths as he tore apart his jacket and shirt, soaking his hands in blood in the process.

And then, there was silence, except for the sounds of Derbyshire on a pleasant fall afternoon, when the leaves were at their best color, and the birds were chirping their last before heading south for the winter.

"Darcy?"

"Hmm?"

"You ... you meant what you said."

It took him a bit of gathering of strength to respond. "I don't ... properly remember everything I might ... have said. Remind me."

"We are brothers."

"So it seems." He picked his head up just a bit – a painful endeavor – to see Grégoire still slumped against the tombstone, his eyes closed but obvious breathing. He looked the other way, to Wickham covered in his own blood, and craned his eyes above. They were, appropriately, in front of his mother and father's stones.

"Then we are ... terrible at it."

"... At what?"

"Being brothers."

"So it seems." His brain wasn't honestly processing a lot. He was resting in a pool of agony, but the resting part was wonderful. "Cain and Abel."

"Unless we ... both die."

"Cain never died."

"Yes he did."

"No he didn't."

"Did."

"Didn't."

Darcy, despite it, found himself laughing. And he found Wickham joining him, until they were both too exhausted from the process. It did not take very long, and then they were quite again.

"I love Elizabeth," Darcy said. "I want those to be ... my last words."

"I love ... uhm ..."

"... Money? ... Gambling? ... F-Fratricide?"

"My ... best qualities."

It was getting late. It was still early in the afternoon, but it felt so very, very late.

"I didn't ... mean for – I just wanted money ... Darcy."

"...I know."

"I didn't – kill Gregory ... did I?"

"Grégoire."

"Whatever."

"No ... I don't know ... I can't – get up."

He heard George slowly rise to his feet. It was a concentrated effort, and when he stood, it was hunched over, one hand desperately clutching the wound in his chest as he towered over Darcy. "If I don't make it ... I'm sorry about Georgiana," he stopped to grunt, as if his very insides were shifting around in him. "I didn't know."

"I didn't either," he said. "Make it?"

"Get ... some help." He tried to straighten up, but failed. "Agh!" But he did make it his horse, where he leaned on it, and tugged weakly on the stirrups. Finally he was able to climb on top of it. Darcy saw little more than a shadow. He was seeing little more than shadows and darkness now. "Darcy."

"George."

As the shuffling off the hooves of the beast disappeared into the distance, Darcy sighed, and let the last of his strength flow out of him.

...Next Chapter – Requiem