Marianne POV
"Christopher!", I scream blindly in the dissipating dark. "Christopher!"
"Marianne!", my mother yells, but I can hear she's farther from me than she was before. How far have I walked? Feet? Yards?
"Answer me...", I yell, tripping over a stone. Unable to see, I pitch forward and try to catch myself with my hands, but go down flat, my face smacking the mossy earth hard.
"Marianne!", I hear in a male voice. "Don't come near! Stay down!" It's Sir John, I'm sure of it. I feel his warm hand on my back and it's instantly a comfort. "Stay down", he whispers.
A second shot rings out. I scream and hear my mother screech loudly in the distance.
"No second shot!", Sir John yells. The black smoke clears gradually, leaving only the fog. "No second shots allowed! We can't even see!"
"You mean you can't see, old man", I hear right next to me. I'm positive it's Wilson. I kick out and land a kick on someone's shin. Wilson yells and falls down. A loud pistol shot goes off near my ear. That makes a third.
"It's okay, Marianne", I hear Sir John say, "He's dead."
Sir John helps me to my feet. A fancy dueling pistol lies on the grass. Sir John picks it up and opens the chamber pulling out one bullet and then another.
"There's not enough powder", Sir John says, letting the small amount of dark gray gunpowder fall on his hands. He blows it away. "Colonel Brandon was given a short shot. I'm surprised the bullet made it out of the chamber."
"Willoughby asked me to check the pistols because he knew I wouldn't know to look for that", I tell Sir John. "We have to find him. But we have to find Christopher first."
"Christopher!", I shout.
"Mari..."
"Sir John, here!", I shout and kneel down in the fog, tears streaming down my cheeks.
"Sweetheart, say something, please." Blood is gushing out of the Colonel's chest like a river. "No, oh my God, no, Sir John, help..."
I rip off my petticoat. "Press hard", Sir John orders, and I press the white linen against my husband's bloody chest. Thank God it's on his right side, and missed his heart.
"'Sssss too late", he mutters. "I'm getting cold. Losing blood. Ssss too..."
"It's not!", I scream back, and sunlight splits the sky, burning off the fog. Finally, his face comes into view. He's white as a ghost and shaking from pain and blood loss.
"Baby", I murmur, kissing every inch of his face. "I love you, I love you, I love you..."
He smiles. "I'm so glad to know that", he grunts. His hands are covered in blood where he tried to staunch the wound himself and they're shaking like leaves. The front of his loose white linen shirt is dark red and it's soaked through past the waist of his breeches.
I take his hands in mine and kiss them. "You're going to be fine...Sir John, get a doctor!" I know I'm crying too hard to be understood.
"I can't go...we don't know where Willoughby is."
"Mother!" I shout. "Go to the carriage! Run! Go get the doctor!" She screams "yes" back and I hear her foot falls.
Damn Willoughby. I haven't truly loved him in a long time. But I pitied him. I felt sorry for him. I still felt...something for him. I didn't want Christopher to kill him. This is my fault.
"He planned this", Sir John says, unnecessarily.
"You're stronger than I am. Keep up the pressure", I direct Sir John, and move my hands. He quickly slams his down in their place, trying to stop the blood gushing out of the man I love.
"You can't go a step from here, he's still out there!", Sir John yells.
"We won't know where the blood is coming from until we wash some of it off him. We need water! I'll be right back."
"Marianne, no", Christopher whispers loudly. "No... he'll hurt you."
"I'm just getting this cloth wet...the river is a few steps away..."
"You must stay", Sir John insists. "You must... say goodbye...you owe him to be by his side...I'm just...I'm so sorry..." Sir John is crying and pressing hard.
But it's not over. I refuse for it to be over. I rip off more of my petticoat and run to the river. Soaking pieces of my dress in the cool water, I turn to run back.
"Not so fast, beautiful", hisses in my ear as two arms clench around me.
"Let go of me!", I scream. He does and I turn around to see the young handsome man I thought I knew so well. Whom I once dreamed of marrying. I smack him hard across the face with all my strength, and crack reverberates through the empty forest. "Murderer!"
He rubs his red cheek. "Oh, Marianne, such drama. You've always been the emotional one. Sometimes I think my life would have been easier if I'd picked the other sister. But she's not so smart and so romantic as you...I couldn't deal the face either really, now that I mention it. You know how to make the best of any situation, as I'm sure you will this one. We can be married now, Marianne. The wait is over at last."
"You lied to me!", I bellow.
"Yes, I did. You see, my father didn't have those guns made, they're far older than that. An ancestor of mine served King Henry, the one who didn't have a son who lived, but had all those wives...he got in good with the Queen. Those pistols, made in Spain, were a present to him. They're probably priceless. Those stones that look like pretty glass are emeralds and rubies. They probably haven't been fired for 250 years. I expected a disaster when I fired them, but I couldn't be sure what kind...so I purposely put barely a drop of gunpowder in his, knowing you'd overlook that." He smirks at me. "I didn't know they'd work so well! Quality lasts a long time I suppose. I've never shot so straight in my life."
"Let me go back to him", I order.
"I can't do that, Marianne. It's time to move on. He's dead by now. Let it go."
I explode in a torrent in tears. Dammit, I hate that, I hate crying when I'm sad, and despise crying when I'm angry.
"Oh Marianne, you won't miss him. He can't have pleased you that well. I promise you'll be happy on that count. A young lover is what you need..."
"Shut up! Just shut up!", I interrupt, "Minutes are passing...precious time! Let me go back. You're a monster!"
"Marianne! You will not speak..." I smack him again, and his time, he shoves me as hard as he can and I land on the ground again, with a mouthful of wet earth.
A second later, he's on top of me. "Dammit Marianne! You know what I've been through! Losing you, being married to a woman I despised, losing my inheritance! You should be pitying me, not fighting with me. I'll show you then how to be my wife. I hadn't imagined you needed instruction. First, you will not yell at me or hit me again. I am your Lord and Master", he shouts, pressing hard on my chest with one hand, and tearing at my skirt with the other.
"Get off me!", I yell in his face, and kick him with a heavy boot.
He slaps me and I feel his hand tighten around my throat.
I scream again and bite his hand.
"Bitch!", he hisses, hitting me again. "You were begging for it so many times, my love, now suddenly you're not interested? I don't believe it."
Colonel Brandon POV
"You know that was her!", I growl again at Sir John. "Go help her! He has her, God only knows what he's doing! Leave me, it's no use anyway." The searing pain blinded me. Now it's starting to fade and I know what that means.
"I won't leave you, Colonel", he repeats.
"Then help me. Help me to my feet", I insist.
"You can't stand!", he yells back, "the blood will just flow harder."
"Help me up. My cavalry pistol...the one I carried throughout the war..." I gasp, losing my breath.
"What about it?", he asks.
"It's still in my pocket."
Marianne POV
I struggle to get away from him. The slim, classical, liberty-inspired, Grecian silhouette of our dresses with no corsets or wide hoops, were vulgar to my George II grandmother, but mine is making Willoughby's job harder.
"Damn dress!", he shouts, unable to pull the narrow dress up to my waist. He pulls out a knife and slices through it, wresting my legs apart.
"No!", I scream, "No, you will not do this, the only man who has ever touched me is the Colonel."
Willoughby's face contorts into one of disgust. "I know, and damn you both for it. I think of that boring old man's fingers on you and want to vomit. Now you're in for a treat", he grins, pulling down his pants. "You should feel sorry for me having to go where he's been. At least he's dead."
"Colonel, I love you", I whisper so quietly, I can barely hear it myself, squeezing my eyes closed.
"Move." I didn't hear the words actually spoken. Or did I? I don't know, but I kick Willoughby and roll out from under him.
He lets go of me for one moment. The second I'm out of the way, two loud bangs go off, and I scream again.
Sir John is supporting Christopher, who has his pistol in his hand. Then he falls to the ground. Sir John tries to catch him, but my husband is much heavier than the older man. They go down together in a heap.
"No!", I shout.
"Marianne!" The scream comes from Willoughby, but I ignore it.
"Colonel", I shout, pressing hard on my husband's wound, but it's gushing harder than ever. "Stay with me."
"It's not bad, Marianne, it's peaceful, it's... I don't feel the pain anymore", he starts, still thinking only of me and my feelings as he lay dying. He slips out of consciousness, and I scream as his hand falls limply out of mine. He still has a pulse though, light as it may be. I lean forward, putting pressure on his chest and kissing his lips. I kiss his hand and hold it to my cheek, weeping.
There's so much blood—all over his cheat, down his arms, his legs, in his hair, all over my dress, my hair, my face...it looks like there's been a massacre. All my fault, all my fault.
"Mother!", I scream, hearing footsteps. She and the doctor rush along the river to us.
"You didn't make yourself easy to find", my mother complains. "Why didn't you stay where you were?" The delay is my fault, like all of it.
The doctor looks at both men. "Help!", I shout, "Help the Colonel. This man tried to kill him."
"Colonel Brandon?! Oh no!" Thankfully the doctor recognizes him, then looks him over and pokes at the open wound. "There's nothing I can do here", the doctor says, disgusted.
"There is!", I shout. "Stop the blood."
Christopher is thankfully out cold. He can't feel it when the doctor and Sir John both press hard against his wound.
"Marianne! Marianne! Mari..."
"If you do want to say goodbye", Sir John tells me, his wig on the ground at his feet, "Willoughby is dying." Three words that hold so much meaning.
The bright red spots blooming like roses of death on his chest are spreading quickly.
I turn back to Christopher. "How can I help?"
"I think we've got it stopped", the doctor announces, stuffing the wound with more lint. "You understand this doesn't mean he's...I'm doing my best. He can't stay here. We've got to get him inside."
"Delaford is two minutes away", Sir John offers and the doctor nods. They lift him and soldier-carry him back to the carriage.
"The other man—I have to treat him too", the doctor says.
"Later", Sir John whispers, the doctor nods solemnly, and they continue to carry Christopher. Men are so good at communicating with each other without words. But they can't seem to communicate with us at all.
"Wait! Wait!", Willoughby shouts pitifully. They keep walking, but I turn back to him.
"Marianne", he whispers. I kneel down at his side.
I don't care about him, but I care what becomes of me, and how callous I allow myself to become. I don't hate him. I hate myself. "I loved you. I hope you wake in a more peaceful place", I say, kissing his cheek. "Goodbye, John." I hold his hand for a moment.
"Nooo!", he howls, "No...Mari...Mari...I've been through so much. Do you pity me now...finally...or am i wasting my time?" He vomits blood, then shakes a time or two. And he's silent. His mouth goes lax, his head falls to the side. His hand slips out of mine and hits the grass. Willoughby is dead and out of our lives. But at what cost?
I turn and leave him where he lies, running back to Delaford. Running home.