AUTHOR'S NOTES: Hello Dear Readers - Happy Early Halloween! Despite the absolutely stunningly beautiful October in my corner of the world, the spooky season vibes in the air really helped to shape the feelings of this chapter.
I am so glad you enjoyed being in Collins' (well, Fairchild's) mind and feeling his fear along with him. Buckle up - because there is plenty more of that in this addition, for multiple characters. In fact, there are only two lines of (new) dialogue in the 7k words featured in the below. I sometimes feel that my writing spends far too much time in the characters' inner worlds rather than moving the action along - after this chapter, you may find it a bit agonizing when you see how little the scenes actually progress. That's the trouble of writing a story which contains so many different POVs...every one of the characters demand that their feelings are expressed.
I hope you enjoy this installment, sitting in tension with our heroes as dawn finally rises for our duel. I do feel that some of you will be dissatisfied with there things leave off, but I hope you find some satisfaction in it. I have started the next chapter, however I have much ground to cover before it's completed. Rather than waiting on the next section to come together, I've opted to give you another shorter chapter to enjoy, though you may curse me for another cliffhanger.
Thank you all again for your continued support and encouragement in finishing this tale. Your enjoyment, as well as your patience with me, has truly meant so much. Some of you have been reading this story since my initial postings, and it always tickles me so much to see your usernames pop up and to know you are still following me after all this time. I really do appreciate all feedback, from pointing out typos I will hopefully one day fix, speculations on to what happens next, comments on characterization and the themes I have been trying to convey, or even just saying hi :) It really helps so much to keep creativity flowing, and I appreciate it immensely!
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Deep into the night, a lone fire crackled beside the lane connecting the estates of Longborn and Netherfield. It had taken Elizabeth far longer than she had wished to start the blaze, the forest floor had been heavily saturated by the recent rains, and the available twigs and brush were quite wet as well. Luckily, she had the good sense to bring kindling with her in the saddle bag she had packed, for without it, she was uncertain if she would have managed it at all – and it was a dreadfully cold, starless, night.
The chill had settled so deeply into her bones that she no longer noticed it at all. She sat on the hard, wet ground with her legs folded beneath her, her back pressed against the very boulder where Darcy and Bingley had found her cousin sheltering from the autumn deluge, sparing not a single thought to propriety in her situation. In fact, she had no thoughts to spare of the present whatsoever – her mind was entirely occupied by the ghosts of her past.
Today was the day she would see him again. She hardly wanted to refer to him as Collins, for they now knew it was a name he had stolen, but had no other ways to refer to him her mind. The Imposter, perhaps…yet that did not feel damning enough, and calling him a monster would only strengthen the fear Elizabeth desperately was trying to tamp down in her heart. He was vicious, ruthless, and depraved, but ultimately, he was just a man, his life as fragile as any other's. He was underserving of the mystique and added power that such a label would give him, even in her imagination. He was just a man – mortal, fallible, and, from what she learned from the others, apparently recently afflicted with some sort of illness which had slurred his speech and slowed his movements.
But then – didn't all God's creatures become the most vicious and unpredictable when they felt trapped and vulnerable?
She certainly had, when she was a little girl in fear of being killed by her father's murderer. Having no violent bend to her nature, Elizabeth had never thought about harming her nemesis at that tender age…not in any meaningful way, but she had certainly behaved in a single-minded and unpredictable manner when it came to the preservation of her own life. In fleeing Longborn and the "protection" of her guardian in the dead of night, bags packed with food and funds stolen from her family, she had abandoned every lesson of morality and manners her parents and vicar had ever taught her. Ideas of minding her elders and asking for permission had meant nothing at all once Collins had stepped into her bedroom that fated night.
The hours crept by unnoticed as ruminations consumed her. Visions of Jane and Darcy passed through her mind's eye. Thoughts strayed to the younger sisters she hardly knew, of the mother who had given her life in the pursuit of birthing a brother who would have protected them from the horrors they had later faced. However, it was the memories of her father which held her spell bound before the fire, awake yet unaware of her surroundings. Her dear Papa. How his blue eyes would twinkle when he told a good joke, the rich timbre of his voice as he read to his girls in the parlor, the scratch of his pen as he went through his ledger book, the smell of his pipe. The way he had always made his Lizzy feel safe and warm and welcome in his study, the patient way he would answer the many questions she had about…well, everything.
The way he had let her down – let all his girls down, when he died with no plan, funds, or preparations in place to care for his daughters in his absence. So much of Elizabeth's private thoughts throughout her adolescence had been wrapped up in avenging the death of her beloved father – of bringing justice to William Collins and freeing the Bennet sisters from the tyranny of the Longborn entail. So consumed in her grief, and later in the education Forelli had bestowed on her, she had never dwelled much on her father's role in all that had befallen in the Bennet sisters. That night, in the dirt by the fire on the side of the road, dwelling sustained her, kept her awake to meet the approaching dawn. Her father's life had been cut short by a ruthless man who wanted to claim an inheritance not rightfully his. It was a crime and a travesty, and it enraged her. But, she was horrified to find, that some of the rage which had broiled inside of her so long, rightfully belonged on her father's ghost. Longborn might have been vulnerable, but an attentive father would have never left his children so in the event of his death. Years of misery for the Bennet girls might have been avoided, had Thomas Bennet left the earth with an up to date will.
The revelation was a lonely one, which stuck in her consciousness for innumerable hours as the dawn crept closer, and the fog began to rise around her. Elizabeth was rightfully afraid to see Collins, but the longer she dwelt on thoughts of her father, the more anger began to replace the fear which gripped her heart. She was embittered, she was angry, she enraged. Furious with a father who had done so little to protect his children from a society which gave so few rights or opportunities for his daughters to thrive. Disgusted with Aunts and Uncles who had overlooked and
ignored any suspicions or unsavory happenings for their own convenience; with a little boy who had been too fearful, and too self-interested to speak out on behalf of others; with a sister who would take all suffering on her own shoulders rather than ask for help. She was resentful of neighbors of all classes who would gossip and pity, but never intervene. And she was ashamed of a little girl who had run away in fear instead of trying to fight back, as foolish as such a fight would have been.
They were not easy feelings to sit with. But the sky was fading from black into grey, and around her, the forest was being enveloped in an increasingly thick mist. The birds begin to titter softly in the trees above her, telling her it was time to move. With a grimace, she unfolded from her position next to the fire, and banked the few remaining flames amongst the embers, stuffing a pilfered cigar amongst the coals.
Today was the day she would face him. Today was the day that William Collins would face his reckoning for all he had stolen from. Her limbs were stiff from being so cold and so still, but her anger fueled her and warmed her. Stepping off the lane and into the trees, Elizabeth made her way toward Longborn with a surety of purpose. Her traps had already been lain, now she need only await her prey.
O0o0o0o0o0oo
Fitzwilliam Darcy was no stranger to stress. The pressures placed on him, whether from external influences or his own anxious mind, had plagued him for as long as he could recall. His position and influence in society were burdens he had known he would have to shoulder from nearly his earliest memories, and they had fallen on him well before they were supposed to. He was far from a perfect man, but he had learned to manage all that fell within his power with care and consideration. As his comfort with his responsibilities grew, the strain of that stress did lessen, or at least, he learned how to carry it – but he had never before felt a strain of worry as potent as the day of William Collins' reckoning.
Thankfully he had managed to catch a few hours of rest at Lucas Lodge, but they were fitful, at best. Still, it had been a welcome relief from the bitter cold of the wet, windy night, and the painful reflection on all they had learned from the interviews at the Barracks. He knew he needed all his wits about him, for the events of the morning to transpire smoothly. As he sat beside stone-faced Sir Lucas in his little donkey cart on the road which lead from Meryton to Netherfield, he wondered just much of his wits he had indeed left resting in his comfortable chair at Luca Lodge. Though he was now positioned exactly as he and Elizabeth had planned, his instincts were insistent that something was not right.
As far as either Collins or Bingley knew, Darcy had no knowledge of the duel that was shortly to commence – nor did Sir William, who acted as the local Magistrate. He was fortunate that Constable Gantry, who had been present when Bingley issued his challenge and pulled in to act as his second, had felt compelled to confide all in Darcy. He did not act solely in the place of an employee, though Darcy had hired him, but also as a rational man and strategist. Bingley was not meeting a common gentleman on the field of honor, but a man who was accused of murdering twice in order to steal an inheritance and conspiring to murder others to secure that claim two times more. He was not a man who would have any qualms about taking the life of a man who he felt had insulted him. Blood would be spilt – of that Gantry had been certain, and so too had been Darcy when he learned of the challenge. It had been determined that Bingley should remain in ignorance of any involvement on Darcy's end, and thus he and Sir William were to remain out of sight of the dueling grounds until the event had begun. They would serve as discreet witnesses to what was said, but did not discount that they might have to intervene in the scene dependent on Collins actions. They were in fact, expecting to, both men were armed, their pistols loaded.
The rising fog was a boon to their concealment, though it made it hard to see clearly what would happen before them. Darcy knew that the grey unknown enveloping them only added to his mounting fear, for the dark, damping morning carried the foreboding omens of the night into the dawn of the new day. Yet, how many brilliant blue skies had been unveiled to him by the lifting fogs of the rolling hills of Pemberly? The fog itself was a reminder that above the heavy clouds, the November sun shined down upon them. No matter the severity of the storms, no matter the length, the morning sun always triumphed over the rains in the end. This dark chapter would pass as well – the man known as William Collins could not run from his crimes forever. The true heir of Longborn was recovering from his attack and would usurp the pretender. With the sons' testimony, as well as Elizabeth's, and Gantry to tie their sad tales together; justice would prevail. This is what Darcy believed. What he had to believe – lest he go mad in these last worrying moments, the darkness before the dawn that would free the woman he loved and all her family from a monster of a man.
Darcy's faith could not completely overcome his fear, but it did bolster his courage. Their plan would work. Heaven help them, it must work. Gantry had proven himself to be a man cleverness and perception, who had served them incredibly well as their investigator. They had seen from previous encounters how easily goaded Collins' was – their own insights, as well as those shared by his wife and ward, gave them knowledge just which topics would most rile them. Gantry's experience as a Runner has taught him how to ask leading questions where a riled man might easily reveal far more of himself than he ever intended to.
It was simply imperative that they get Collins talking before any shots were fired. It was their hope that he would say something revealing on even the most minor aspects of one of his accused crimes for which Sir William could arrest him. Once they had him in custody, there would no longer be any threat to Bingley's life, nor Reverend Collins and his Bennet Collins. From there, Gantry, along with the other Runners who were hopefully now only an hour or two from Hertfordshire, would have time to thread together the evidence of the other crimes and formally charge Collins for all of the evil which he had committed.
Then too – they would be able to dive deeper into the character of Malvern, who's threatening letter was in Elizabeth's possession, and that of this other evil figure, Mallough – the London lender who exploited those who were indebted to him to perform business on his behalf. After their interviews at the Barracks, Gantry was certain that Mallough and Malvern, if not aliases of the same man, (a theory which he did not yet discount), had to be connected to one another in some fashion. From what Elizabeth had witnessed, Malvern had helped Collins murder Thomas Bennet and blackmailed him for it. Then, when Collins needed help silencing the heir of Longborn regarding his identity, a group of three young officers had been coerced (or tricked) into attacking a gentleman entirely unknown to them because of threats that loomed over them due to debts owed to a man named Mallough. There was no coincidence in this, Constable Gantry was certain – excepting for the fact that one of these indebted soldiers happened to be well known to Darcy, indeed. Inwardly, Darcy frowned.
His musings from the previous night had not brought him any true clarification on his feelings toward Wickham, and he wondered if he would ever feel wholly settled regarding his former friend. His betrayal felt unforgivable, but his regret was sincere and the circumstances he had found himself in were dire, indeed. Still, Darcy could not trust that Wickham would take the honorable road, if any easier path could present itself. He never had before, and though he had been raw and seemingly sincere during his interview at the barracks, his confession was born from fear – of the duel, of Mallough, of his commanding officers, and the law, and resignation that his role in the scheme had been uncovered – he was self-interested and thought that compliance would serve him better in this case than resistance or denial. But should the tides turn, Darcy was positive that so too would Wickham's newfound convictions. He would never be able to think well of such a fickle, cowardly man, but he supposed he could pity him. Pity and distrust aside, Wickham was now to play an integral role in the reckoning of William Collins, so Darcy would have to put his faith that Wickham would play his part loyally.
Thankfully, Richard Fitzwilliam, a Colonel in His Majesty's cavalry and a jaded second son of nobility, never relied on faith alone. He had insisted on escorting Wickham to his rendezvous at Longborn, and subtly following he and Collins to the meeting spot to ensure that both the principal and his second arrived at the duel to which they had agreed. Darcy knew he had to have faith in Wickham, but it helped that he had no struggle to do so with his stalwart cousin. With Richard on Wickham's tail, as well as Richard's promise to Wickham that Matlock would help free him from his debt, it would perhaps be enough reminder to Wickham that the honorable path was the one in his best interest, if his conscience alone could not be counted upon as a reliable guide.
Despite his faith, their clever plans, their strength in numbers, and the rightness of their purpose, Darcy did not relax for even a moment. He sat in the cart, his spine stiff and his dark eyes bright and alert as they peered into the grey, dream-like clearing. A soft, and sparse tinkling of bird song began to drift into the air as the sun began to peak over the horizon. The fog still hung heavily and grew thicker, but the dreary dampness in air began to hold a promise of a warmer day ahead. The duelers were on their way – the events of the morning were soon to begin.
A sudden burst of movement amongst the trees startled Sir William and Darcy from their silent reverie. A large family of birds had shot off into the clouds, chittering madly. The men looked at each other in surprise, but did not speak in their confusion. Then before they had time to register it, a low, metallic clanging reverberated through the birds' calls with a frightening echo. It was not a gun shot, for any gentleman who knew his sport would never mistake it as such, it did not sound like anything Darcy's agitated mind could call forward. A chill cut through his spine, sharper and brighter than the worst winter winds of Derbyshire. He clutched his pistol tighter.
Something was not going according to his plans. He would find out what soon enough. Patience, Darcy, he soothed himself, just be patient.
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
The day of William Collins' reckoning, the silent, fog-shrouded wood of Hertfordshire were awoken with a violent, thunderous, force. Around her, crows shrieked, sparrows chittered, and the forest floor rustled as fox, hare, and all their woodland companion fled the deafening cacophony that had disturbed the peaceful morning. None of the animals present that day knew what terror had created such a horrifying sound – but they had good sense to recognize a predator when one was among them.
For all mankind's posturing of superiority, in truth, people are little better than animals in this regard. It was plain to Elizabeth at least that William Collins was aware he was being hunted. He had dismissed the first echoes of her approach readily, for an early morning thunderstorm was a common enough event in the life of a country gentleman…but she had watched, hidden by fog and brush, as the pallor of his stern face had dropped as he encountered the crucifix she and her sister had so cleverly suspended across the length of the road. A feral delight had lit inside of her, seeing the obsidian eyes that had long haunted her dreams widening in fear. The display was more ominous than she could have dared to hope for. The morning fog perfectly concealed the grey and black threads which held the Holy Cross afloat, making the warning the Bennet girls had left for their guardian appear as a message from the Lord himself.
Oh, Collins had blustered, trying to blame her message as one from Bingley, but she remembered well how hard, how unyielding, how sinisterly cold he had been when she was a girl, and knew unequivocally that her display was shaking his confidence. He was not nearly so stern or commanding as she recalled in the face of such a sight. His companion was certainly frightened, despite the scarlet coat he wore, for when she lifted the rock in her right palm and slammed it once again upon the copper pan she held in her left, he shrieked in a manner more befitting a schoolgirl than a soldier. If she hadn't been so assiduously trained to contain her mirth by the theater, she would have given the game away in that moment with the sound of her laughter.
She had spent her life in London dreaming of the day when she could rescue her sisters from tyranny – had vowed to herself that she would avenge her beloved father's death. In all those fantasies of revenge, she had never once considered that the skills she had learned for the stage would be the same ones she used to ensure the carriage of justice. She had taken to the boards for simple reasons. Dear Forelli was an old man, and would not be able to shelter her forever, and as she had no interest in giving up the independence she had found by taking a husband, she would one day have to earn her keep in the world. Living in the home of an artist, and being tutored by his connections, had given her access to opportunities in the arts. She had charmed Harold Thompson, a prominent figure in the theatrical world, and given the fame she had gained as Forelli's muse, and her own lively nature and love of reading…it seemed a natural choice, to become an actress.
Elizabeth did little in half measures. When she loved, she adored beyond reason, immersing herself entirely into whatever passion had delighted her. When she disliked something, it was detested, despised with uncommon fervor. As she fell more and move in love with the theatre, she had delved deeply into understanding it – not just her part as an actress, but all the complexities of how the entire company created the spectacle in which she took part. She had spent many happy hours chatting with the prop master and stagehands, learning all she could about their craft.
It felt heady, poetic really, to use what skills she had gained, to torment the Master of Longborn. Without the threat he presented, she would never have left Jane and run away to London. She would have endured his strict discipline and miserly attitude for countless years, to remain close to Jane, had he never attempted to breach her bedroom the night of her discovery. She would have pretended ignorance of all she had overheard, so that she could continue to protect her sisters from the worst of his nature. But he had been too threatened by a frightened little girl to let well enough alone. When she had intercepted the letter from his conspirator, urging her guardian to silence her permanently, she had known she could not stay at Longborn…or go anywhere that her guardian would think to find her. To be safe, she had to disappear, and where better to be hidden than within the teaming masses of London? He had, in more than one way, created the very specter which now haunted him.
Despite the palpable fear of the duo, they had eventually begun to move forward once more. Elizabeth grinned into the mist. She had been waiting, oh so patiently, for the pair to continue on. Setting rock and pan down, she allowed them to move forward a few feet, before scrambling up the fallen tree she had used to be reach high enough to suspend the crucifix above the men's heads. In her hand was a pair of sewing scissors, and she balanced precariously on the damp, rotting tree as she reached for the thread in the thick, grey air before her. She prayed fervently that her next trick would succeed as she fumbled for the string, before finding it, holding it taut, then cutting it, and taking a mighty leap off the log to the forest floor, pulling the string with all her might.
She landed hard, though thankfully the ground had been softened considerably by the relentless rains of the past fortnight. Her energy was such that she would have happily dove head first into a bed of nails, if it meant it would help her distress Collins' sensibilities further. She'd known this rush before – the giddy anticipation of stepping in front of audience for a performance, the dreadful fluttering of facing Darcy after rejecting him, the wild, frantic, fear that propelled her feet along the path from Longborn to London…but all those moments paled in comparison to the frenetic energy which now possessed her. She stayed belly down on the ground, obscuring herself from view, and crawled closer to the road. She could not see much, but she could hear plenty – their shouts of surprise, the thunder of heavy boots as they moved to and fro…and suddenly, struck with inspiration, Elizabeth found herself cupping her hands in front of her lips, and dropping her voice as low as she could, and summoning all the evil she could imagine, she was calling to him.
It was a terribly foolish, risky thing to do. She had promised herself that she would work from a safe distance, that she would frighten and discompose Collins, so that he would enter the dueling grounds rattled and confused, but that she would not risk her own safety in doing so. She already knew that dear Darcy would be horrified, and perhaps rightfully angry, at how she had chosen to aid them on this day. He respected her highly, but he also had a natural wish to protect her which would have never accepted the risk she had chosen to take. He had been gone from Netherfield by the time she had concocted her scheme, so she had been unable to consult with him regarding her plans, and therefore could appease her guilt by knowing that she was not technically defying him. The least she could do was respect his sensibilities in turn and take prodigious care of herself. She would, she had told herself, remain a safe distance away, and one day, when they were safely ensconced at Pemberley, she would tell her husband all about her adventure, and they would laugh at her antics together.
Of course, those sensible rationalities had been crafted in the sitting room of her chambers at Netherfield. Now, belly down in the mud, blood rushing, reason no longer lead her, temperance held no sway. She would see Collins suffer. She would see Collins confess.
Wickham shouted, and then took off, the sound of his footsteps telling her that he was running away, back toward Longborn. So much the better, then. He was no innocent, but justice would see to the likes of him….it was only Collins who needed to be met with vengeance for all he had done. And after swearing at the lieutenant's cowardice, his gait was increasing as he continued toward Netherfield.
Eizabeth rose as the pair each took off, pocketing the scissors and taking the pan and rock with her. Though she had to route her own path through roots, leaves, and brush, she was easily able to outpace him, making her way to the boulder that had sheltered her cousin on the day of his attack. The saddle bag she and her sister had carried into the woods remained safely stored behind the large rock, out of sight of the lane. With a smile, she inhaled the tobacco that now wafted through the air. The cigar she had left on the fire's embers was smoldering nicely. One of the tricks she hard learned from her trade was that for a proper theatrical spectacle, one wished to engage as many of their audiences' senses as possible.
She then reached into the edge of the banked fire, scooping up large handfuls of ash. Heart pounding, she began by dumping what she could onto her head and smearing what else she could all over her face and hands. She had not thought to bring a mirror, so she could only hope that this impulse created as ghostly an image as she envisioned. In the distance, she heard Collins lumbering toward the stone with an anxious pace. Grinning wickedly, she doubled back through the woods, so that she could trail behind him once again, hissing his name through her teeth and into the shadows.
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
A golden pocket watch slammed shut. Bingley was to have met with Gantry some five minutes past so that they could leave for the duel. Dr. Barringer watched him pace from his seat on the settee of Reverend Collins' sitting room, a frown across his lips. He had just visited with his patient, whose ankle, they were now certain was broken, and who's persistent cough was quite worrisome, but the fever had not come back. He now had every confidence that the parson would escape death, at least for the moment, though he would have a long and painful recovery before he would be returned to full health. At any rate, it was a promising sign, and Gantry was glad of it. Collins' testimony incriminating his father as an imposter and murderer was of the utmost importance. He could only pray that his colleagues were able to recover the documents in Longborn would be expose his "father's" true identity – the parson was positive they existed and were safe guarded amongst Collins most prized possessions at the estate. If they did not succeed in arresting Collins this day, they might lose their only opportunity to recover them.
It was all risky and uncertain. Gantry was not used to being in the midst of a mystery, embroiled in the action. His efforts were usually reserved for crimes already committed, his meticulous attention devoted to dusting away the cobwebs of secrets long buried and forgotten. He was not particularly brave, and the nature of his work and his own keen intelligence often had the young man contemplating the nature of his mortality. He was not exactly eager to take risks. Yet, there could sometimes be a great reward, if one was willing to expend some risk. He had spent a sennight learning all about the so-called William Collins, what he wanted, and what made him tick. He was certain that with the right questions timed in just the right way…said in just such a tone…that he could discompose Collins into giving away some part of his convoluted game. That is, if he didn't begin by just shooting them dead on the spot.
He was anxious to be off – to be at the clearing before Collins arrived. And Bingley was late – today, of all days. He had already observed that his host kept Town hours, and that he was frequently distracted. His being five minutes late should not – indeed it did not, surprise Gantry in the slightest. But it did vex him greatly.
Nearly another five minutes went by before Bingley stepped into the room. Charles had not expected to sleep so soundly, given how nervous he was for the day, and had been startled awake by his valet lightly shaking his shoulder. He had allowed the man to dress him in a daze, his head aching lightly from his interrupted slumber. He took Gantry's scolding good naturedly, and blinking into awareness, followed as the leader of their trio moved through Netherfield's halls and stepped out into the grounds. The crunch of the gravel under his boots, and chill of the fog kissing his cheeks roused Bingley into a greater sensibility. The reality of where they were going, and of what he had to do came into focus, yet strangely, he found himself feeling detached from the fear and fiery determination which had compelled him the night before.
Instead, his mind was as still and foggy as the November morning which surrounded him. He was calm, eerily so, both to himself and the gentlemen he walked with, but none of them commented on it. They were all of them nervous, and they all had a role to play – though Dr. Barringer's purpose in attending would hopefully be unneeded. Bingley knew he had a gentle spirit – he had no wish to kill anyone. However, Collins' insults could not go unanswered, his reign of terror over the Bennet girls could not go unchecked. He would do what needed to be done, in order to protect Jane and her sisters. It was simple. The moment had come, and there no use in worrying about what would happen any longer – his worries had entered the present, and he had no choice but to emerge victorious from this foe or die in the attempt of it. For all his determination to see the duel through, the thought of his imminent death had been a terrifying prospect mere hours ago. As he walked toward his destiny, he found nothing in himself except a calm acceptance. He made his choices, and now he would see them through.
They were nearing the clearing now. With each step closer to his fate, his feelings of detachment seemed to magnify. His pistol was loaded, he would take his paces, and he would shoot a man dead, or be killed in return. He was calm. Subdued. Prepared to accept his fate.
Suddenly – the still, calm grey, the numbness that so bespelled him and what felt like the whole of Hertfordshire, was violently assaulted. A metallic bellow ripped through the air that reminded him of the clanging of machines in his textile mill, making the three learned men jump. They peered through the fog, attempting to understand what had made such a noise, when it was followed soon after, with the unmistakable crack of an answering gun shot.
Bingley did not think – he simply reacted. His sedated senses had been startled into wakefulness, and without knowing what he meant to do, he took off at a run toward the sound and into the clearing where he was to meet with William Collins, the doctor and the constable hot on his tail. He raced through the mist, his heart pounding violently, his long stride leaving the smaller and older man in his dust.
Panting wildly, he reached his destination. He was not the only one who had rushed the final leg of his journey to get there.
O0o0o0o0o0o0o
Gregory Fairchild prided himself on two things above all else – his ambition and his fearlessness. He had always known he was meant for more than a putrid hovel and paltry family he had born into. He had grasped every opportunity to pull himself from the shackles of poverty, caring nothing for who he stepped on and he ascended from the sphere in which he had been brought up. There was no one, he wagered, in all fair England, who had worked so hard, and achieved so much for his efforts. There were other men with gumption, but morality held many of them back from realizing all they could. Fairchild held no such quibbles. He had lied, cheated, stolen, and killed – and he would do it all again quite gladly, to have so fine a prize as Longborn.
In life, he had only two regrets, and both of those were that he had let those who knew important truths about the Longborn inheritance slip out of the sphere of his influence – first Elizabeth, who had disappeared into the wilds of England, and then young William, who found refuge away from him at the teat of a noblewoman's bosom. He had never repined killing William Collins or beating and threatening the man's son to accept him in his father's place. And he had not regretted taking the life of Thomas Bennet. After the man's wife had died in birth, along with their son, Fairchild had realized he could not assume his inheritance was secure. Bennet had proved he could father a son, after all, and was free to marry again after mourning his wife. It was a chance that could not be risked. The stain on his soul for the death of William Collins would not be in vain. If one murder meant eternal damnation – what did another truly signify?
That logic had sustained him through many of the worries of his last ten years. And as he settled into his life of leisure, he put the death behind him, determined to think little of it and to enjoy the fruits of his effort, and their sacrifices. The further removed he was from the act, the more he was able to frame it in his mind that their deaths were justified, that it was the right of the strong to subjugate the weak. Some men were born to privilege and made nothing of the lives they had been given. If another could take away what was theirs so easily, then why should he restrain himself? By supporting the Bennet and Collins orphans, he felt the little debt he owed to their fathers was being repaid.
Then, that grey morning, Thomas Bennet came to collect.
The voice of a demon had come cutting through the mist, hissing accusations at him. He had been chased through the woods by this foul creature who called him Cousin, this specter of retribution who compelled him to confess. Fairchild was no fool. He would never confess. He had nothing to be sorry for – he who had answered the call of ambition most men were too cowardly to follow.
He was proud, prodigiously proud of all he had accomplished – the life he had made from the name and home that he had stolen. But he was also frightened – frightened in a way beyond the anger and worry of his recent affliction. He done so much, taken so much, and he had never faced any consequences, never once was held to account – save for paying to keep his accomplices quiet regarding his business. But when he had finally acted to remove the final threat of his claim to Longborn…everything had started to go wrong. First, he was struck down by illness, pain, and ungainliness, his plans for William's convalescence thwarted by Netherfield, his wife defying him, Bingley expelling and then later challenging him…his life had been nothing but lucky until the fateful day Reverend Collins was attacked, and now it seemed the tides were turning. He was losing control, not only over the very muscles which willed his body to move, but of every carefully constructed plan he had for his future.
And the voice – that hideous, evil, that hiss on the wind. The one that called him murderer – it was following him, taunting him, as he furiously willed his body to move faster, no – faster now, damn it all!
"You know who I am" the voice taunted – and in Collins heart, he did know. He knew it well. A bullet was wasted attempting to scare it off, for it was no use, shooting at ghosts. No use in arguing with a vengeful spirit…one who left him a message in blood at the very scene of the damning crime.
"Murderer…. your time is up, murderer…"
It was all too much. By God, it was too much. The infirmity. Jane's defiance. William's reputed recovery. Wickham's blackmail and abandonment. Bingley's challenge. The terrible, unholy noise. The floating cross that came crashing to the earth below. The thick smell of tobacco clinging to the still air grew ever stronger as he moved towards Netherfield.
Then the specter of Thomas Bennet had appeared before him in the fog – he was white as the mists which swirled around him – save for the red of his mouth, which dripped with blood as that hellish voice laughed at him with an otherworldly taunt.
"NO!" He bellowed at visions before him. "Begone devil! Begone!"
He was running then, running with a power and fury his legs had never carried him with before. He was running, running like he had been in his heart since he was a young boy – fleeing every instance of cruelty inflicted by his hand, escaping every moment of guilt he had suppressed, dodging each lie he had told, every moment of avarice, of selfishness, of joy he had gained in lording his good fortune over those lesser than himself. His left leg was dragging through the mud, but the power of his fear pushed him forward with an unnatural speed. He was shouting, shouting through the mists and into the Heavens, shouting he knew not what. He was shouting until the woods opened before him into the clearing which led to Netherfield's gate. He ran clear into the middle of the open field, his broad chest heaving, desperately trying to fill his empty lungs again with the damp morning air.
Charles Bingley stood across from him in the lane - his sandy hair was tussled madly, his eyes wide and wild, sweat on his brow. "I heard shots." The boy spoke, confusion and exhaustion in his voice. A searing flash of anger ripped through Fairchild with his words – how he hated the very sight of him.
Despite the stillness that now held in the air, the echo of Bennet's mocking laughter still chased Fairchild in his mind. The exertion of his flight pumped through his blood – every muscle strained from his efforts, burning as if on fire. His mind was racing, memories bleeding into the present, even as the present dissolved into the past. His breath came in great shuddering gasps that wracked his massive frame. He tried to speak, to curse Bingley's name – but the words would not come, nothing would come. He was angry, so very angry, and so very afraid, but he could not speak…could not bring himself to move. A strange, gargling sound expelled itself from his lips where there should have been words.
"Sir?" Bingley said hesitantly, stepping forward, his own breaths calming even as Fairchild struggled on. "Are you well? Dr. Barringer is only a moment behind me, if you are ill, he will attend you. We have had disagreements, but we can hardly settle any scores between us if you are unwell. Please sir, sit. Truly, you look very ill indeed."
It was too much. By God it was too much. To be haunted by such a specter and escape the ghost only to face Bingley's officious attention. How dare he? The gall of the pup, to look upon him with eyes full of pity, when he ought to have been afraid. To offer to aid him, when the bullets he had wasted on Bennet's ghost had been meant for Bingley's head. To say he would put differences aside – to invite him to sit. To sit!
White hot rage burnt inside his chest, hotter even than the fire at the mill. Bingley was moving toward him, concern and confusion etched across his countenance. He was speaking once more, something flowery and gallant, he was sure. Though Fairchild could hear him, he could not understand what he was saying – there was no meaning to be found in the words which fell from his lips. Around him, everything felt confused – twisted and distorted. Bennet's laugh still rang in his ears, and his head was aching fiercely. His vision, he realized, was blurring. The fog consumed everything, turning the whole world grey, save for Bingley's bright blue eyes, eyes filled with pity and concern. Bingley's face now floated just out of reach, taunting him. He wanted to strike him but found that his left arm would not move at all, and his right arm only shook from exertion in trying to lift it but would not rise to deliver the blow.
That was when he knew – when the realization struck him soundly. His luck had run out – God had finally wearied of his unfettered ambition. Hatred and helplessness consumed what little was left of his rational self.
He was trapped in his own body, stilled from enacting retribution by some invisible force. But he could not succumb, could not let a boy like Bingley best him. No – the fire and fury that lived within his heart must be stronger than this malady. He could not let him win; he could not lose a duel because of pity.
As Bingley stepped toward him once again, his hatred burned brighter. With a snarl, the Mast of Longborn did the only thing he had energy left for, and with his final reserves of strength, thrust forward with a sudden jerk, collapsing the full force of his weight into Charles Bingley's approach. He had the satisfaction of knowing he had knocked them both onto the cold, wet ground before his vision turned black and his world into an acute, all-consuming, pain.
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Author's Notes: As a reminder, this story promises a HEA, so don't worry TOO hard about Bingley's fall. That being said...how do you feel about Collins? I have my reasons for writing the scene this way, but I have a feeling some of you won't be satisfied in this "duel" after all the dramatic build up. However, I feel the actions of the scene really fit my Bingley so much better than looking down the barrel at Collins. Sometimes we need to meet bullies where they are to put them in their place, but sometimes our goodness and kindness are our greatest strength and the most powerful tool against evil we possess.