12.8

Tilney sank back down to the table. If he had been pale before, he was nearly white now. Lizzie gasped and her tears fell freely. There was no one to see them now and she feared that Tilney could not hang on much longer.

Just then the door flew open and a harried man with a bag stepped in, closely followed by the alarmed seamstress, who was still blathering away wildly even as the physician waved her down. Lizzie was beyond relieved to see that a saviour had come.

"He's been shot, here," Lizzie said frantically, indicating the shocking wound needlessly and forgetting her French. "Ici, ici!" she added, still holding Tilney's hand in her own.

"C'est tout droit," the doctor said calmly, which maddened Lizzie to know end, but he stepped up to feel Tilney's pulse at the neck, frowned and then moved down to his side to peer at the wound.

"Permettez-moi de travailler," he said abruptly to Lizzie, indicating she ought to move to the other side of the table and out of his way. Loathe as she was to leave Tilney's side, Lizzie realised it was best to let the physician work.

He looked up at her, squinting a little. "Plus de lumière, s'il vous plait," he said, then adding, "monsieur," with such a crooked eyebrow that Lizzie feared she had been discovered. There was no time to think about that, however, when Tilney's life hung in the balance.

Lizzie and the seamstress moved to open the curtains of the shop and let more light in. The seamstress opened the door wider too. Lizzie hoped the fresh air from outdoors would prove bracing to the poor young man who seemed barely alive.

Oh, please do not take him from me, Lizzie fervently asked. I cannot bear to be parted from my dear friend. How could I know, how could I have imagined --

Lizzie found she was unable to finish the thought, save for redoubled wishes that he be safe, please let him be safe and whole.

The doctor called for water and the seamstress galloped off to fetch a basin. He rummaged through his bag and pulled out what looked like a very large set of pincers. He looked over at Lizzie. "Aidez-moi à le tenir," he said and she walked over as one in a trance, terrified at what was about to happen.

She leaned over and pressed her hands down on Tilney's shoulder, which felt icy to her touch. A sob threatened to break out from her throat, but through sheer force of will, Lizzie held it in. I must not fail him now, when he needs me most, she thought and inclined as far as she dared, then nodded to the physician.

The seamstress returned with a basin and stood ready beside the physician. He plunged the pincers into the wound and Tilney groaned, trying to rise from his weakened position. Even if Lizzie had not been holding him down, she doubted that he could have risen. He had become far too weak.

As the physician probed deeper, she could feel the body under her hands become weaker. All at once there was a terrible cry that pierced Lizzie's ears with horror.

12.7

It seemed an eternity had passed, was passing while Lizzie stood silently beside the still body of her friend. The rich red seeped through the cloth she held at his side, but it did not seem to leaking out as fast as before.

"Hang on," Lizzie whispered, unwilling to break the silence with much more than that, as if the silence itself somehow suspended Tilney's fate. His face was pallid and slack, mouth slightly open. The stress of the injury was evident in his expression, which looked far more fatigued than his usual animated self.

The eyes, normally sparkling with barely suppressed laughter, remained stubbornly closed and Lizzie had to learn down to ascertain that he was indeed still breathing albeit shallowly. The pleasant features—not so much handsome as lively and well-formed, good humoured and quick—looked as wonderful as ever and Lizzie felt fear stab her heart again at the thought of losing him.

To her surprise, Tilney raised a hand to touch her fingers where they held the cloth to his wound. He licked his lips and then began to speak. Lizzie had to bend low to hear him, her ear very near the barely moving lips.

"Bennett," he whispered in a ragged tone, "if I should not make it—"

"You will!" Lizzie hastened to say, laying her free hand on his shoulder for emphasis.

"But if I should not," he continued doggedly, coughing with the effort, "there are certain items in my bag that should be delivered to my family. Swear you will do this, Bennett."

"I swear," Lizzie repeated, a promise she knew not to be made lightly, but sworn as an oath on her life that very moment.

"You're a good chap, Bennett," Tilney said, smiling weakly, eyes still closed, "if a bit odd. I have grown very fond of you."

"I will do whatever is necessary," Lizzie told him, trying to keep the tears from spilling down her cheeks. "But the physician is on his way and will no doubt patch you up in no time at all. You'll be fine, I'm sure of it."

Yet she looked at the frightening red-soaked cloth and wondered if it were true.

"Tell my mother I am sorry," Tilney said finally. "I did not mean to punish her by going away, but I could not remain there any longer with, with—" He paused. "No matter. The past is the past. But tell her, Bennett. You will, will you not?"

"I swear," Lizzie repeated, the tears welling too fast to be detained any longer.

"Good man," Tilney said and then was overtaken by a fit of coughing that struck terror into her heart.

12.6

"Good heavens!" Lizzie exclaimed, forgetting all propriety in her moment of alarm. "What, what..!" There was nowhere for this sentence to go, fueled only by panic and a vague knowledge that something must be done.

"Yes, my thoughts precisely," Tilney said dryly if a tad weakly.

"Are you in pain?" Lizzie inquired, then immediately blanched. Of course he must be in pain! "I meant, are you in unbearable pain?"

"Manageable, Bennett," Tilney said, although his voice betrayed an evident weakness. "But perhaps we should ride along and in hopes of coming to an inn very soon."

Lizzie didn't like pale look of his visage, but there seemed to be no other option. They touched their heels to the horses and set off again. She decided that it would be best to keep his spirits up and his thoughts distracted by chatting about their recent adventures with a lively air she did not feel. "I wonder what sort of cheese was at the heart of the altercation," she began tentatively, casting a glance at the pallid Tilney.

"I've always been partial to Red Leicester," he said in return. The strain was evident, but he laughed nonetheless. "I don't suppose there's much call for that around these parts."

"Probably not. I'll bet it was far more likely to be Camembert, or possibly a variation on Brie."

"If it was goat cheese," Tilney coughed, "I think they would both deserve to be shot." Suddenly he collapsed against Darcy's neck and Lizzie cried out, distressed.

"Perhaps we should go back to the clearing. They did have doctors after all," Lizzie reined in her mare and rose as close as she dared to Tilney, Darcy helpfully allowing her to do so without shying.

"No," Tilney said, smiling wanly up at her. "Just a bit further. We can't be far from some kind of civilization. After all, the duelists had to be going somewhere, I suppose."

Lizzie tried not to be terrified by the bloodless look of Tilney's face. His eyes were looking dull and sightless. The loss of blood was weakening him. What would she do if he fell off? She couldn't lift him, surely.

"Ahead," he murmured. Lizzie looked and was immediately relieved to see a small group of buildings. Surely there would be some one who could help them!

"Just a little further now," she encouraged Tilney and tried to urge the horses forward a little faster, though she grabbed onto his arm to keep him astride the gelding. When at last they got to the door of the first building, Lizzie shouted quickly for assistance in French and was relieved to see a woman in an apron appear in the doorway looking surprised and then distressed as she saw poor Tilney's appearance.

The woman gestured to bring Tilney forth and Lizzie struggled to get him safely off the horse and through the doorway. He staggered in her arms and Lizzie was terrified to see how much blood was soaking his shirt. The woman gestured to a table from which she had cleared a good amount of needlework. Lizzie helped Tilney to clamber up on the tabletop while she begged the woman to find a physician.

Tilney lay supine and Lizzie hardly knew what she should do. Surely the blood must be stopped. She grabbed a cloth from the mending pile and, after hesitating a moment, opened Tilney's shirt to reveal the wound in his side. It was useless to blush at the naked flesh before her, for the horrifying hole where the bullet had struck him continued to pour forth the precious red fluid.

Lizzie folded the towel and pressed it to his warm flesh. "Hold on, Tilney," she said quietly. His eye flickered but did not open. Lizzie felt tears well up in her eyes. It must not be too late. She could not bear to have those beautiful eyes close forever.

12.5

[Your author humbly apologizes for her neglecting this narrative last week and blames an inordinately long coach ride for keeping her from her correspondence.]

Lizzie glanced nervously over her shoulder, but the men seemed altogether occupied with helping the wounded combatants from the field. The two dashed to the bush where their horses had been hastily tethered and leapt into the saddles, or perhaps more accurately, Tilney helped Lizzie aloft then scrambled somewhat awkwardly on himself.

With a last glance at the knot of men muttering away yet more softly as they departed, the two turned their steeds and beat a hasty retreat in the opposite direction. As the hooves thundered along the path, Lizzie resisted looking back although she could not help imagining that a parting shot might be fired at any minute and strike her in the middle of her back, which gave her a very unpleasant itching sensation just there.

At last they turned back into the lane from which her bolting horse had deviated an interminable time ago. Tilney led the way as they rounded the corner and headed them once more east. After some minutes, they let the horses slow, and seeing they were not pursued, breathed mutual sighs of relief and let the winded horses amble along, their sides puffing with the exertion.

Tilney patted Darcy's neck in acknowledgement of his quickness, then grinned at Lizzie. "A bit of adventure there, eh Bennett?"

"A bit more than I had bargained for," Lizzie agreed. "I can't believe it was all about cheese."

Tilney's head flew back as he roared with laughter. "Was it? Just cheese?!"

"Admittedly, in the market, scorning the methods by which one produces cheese can be quite serious, casting aspersions on a family tradition and livelihood, but I had really thought it might be over a woman." Lizzie still rankled at the thought, as much at realizing the mercantile nature of the tussle as at finding her own feelings so easily moved by such silly romantic notions. Novels, as Lord Mangrove had warned so many times, indeed had an insidious effect on the imagination.

Tilney laughed again, although somewhat less heartily. "Ah, men who go to pistols over a woman would do themselves a favour to aim for the heart and end it all." Lizzie noticed that dark cloud, which sometimes crossed his face, had once more darkened his visage.

"You're such a terror, Tilney. Someday the right woman will come along and change your mind to something more hopeful," Lizzie said with unaccustomed confidence. Some of the rush of excitement of the dueling must still charge her limbs, for she was not wont to take such a lively and chaffing tone with Tilney.

Tilney laughed, but there was something harsh in the tone. "For the time being, I shall be happy to remain with a simple chap like you, Bennett. Let women keep their distance."

Lizzie reflected that Tilney would be unlikely to guess that he was in much closer proximity to a female that he would have guessed, but had no intention of divulging that information. "Shall we ride on until sunset?" she finally asked.

"Perhaps we might seek out a tavern sooner, or some kind of public house," Tilney said, his voice a tight with strain, which made Lizzie dart him a quick look of concern.

"Are you in need of a restorative mug?"

Tilney gave her a lopsided grin, then reached to open his coat, revealing a crimson streak. Lizzie gasped in horror. "I think I was shot," he said finally.

12.4

Surely she had seen blood before, Lizzie thought even as she gasped for air. But the violence of the wound before her seemed vividly garish against the young man's bright white shirt. The shot had taken him in the shoulder and left behind a gaping hole though which blood poured even as the seconds tried to stanch the flow with an array of handkerchiefs.

His fellow combatant shouldered through the crowd, bleeding from the arm, but seemingly negligent of the injury and the pain. He looked fiercely at his foe, apparently trying to determine the extent of his injuries.

Good heavens, Lizzie thought dizzily, was he intending another go round?

"Bien?" he asked roughly, wrapping the bandage offered him around his forearm as he regarded his opponent with a cocky smile.

"Très bien," the other croaked, as another man pushed through the crowd. This must be the physician, Lizzie deduced. The man in black threw down his bag and waved the others away from the injured man. Taking away the bundle of handkerchiefs, he tutted at the wound and turned back to his bag.

Extracting a large pair of pincers, he called to no one in particular for brandy. Several flasks were proffered and the physician grabbed one at random and put it gently to the lips of his patient, before taking a swig himself.

Handing the flask back to its owner, he motioned for the others to take hold of the young man's limbs. Once he was securely anchored, the doctor plunged the pincers into the wound and began to hunt for the ball lodged in the man's shoulder. The patient bellowed with pain and was rewarded with further helpful infusions of brandy.

At long last, the doctor grunted with satisfaction and extracted the ball triumphantly. The crowd cheered heartily and everyone looked relieved. The doctor bandaged the wound with alacrity and they all helped him, swaying, to his feet.

His opponent regarded him with clear triumph and not a little scorn. "Il est decide, cousin?"

Lizzie felt her eyes widen with surprise. They were family, and fighting like this?! How horrible, she thought.

The defeated man, nodded and said only, "Oui," in a voice that plainly conveyed his defeat. He could not quite bring himself to regard his victor in the eye, which showed a want of character, Lizzie could not resist concluding.

The champion drew himself up to full height, ignoring completely the wound in his arm as he shook a warning finger at his enemy. "Vous ne souillerez pas le fromage de mon famille toujours encore!"

Lizzie could not have been more astonished. So it was not love after all. She grimaced. The scene no longer seemed like one plucked from a beloved novel, but instead appeared all too cheap and petty. Gladiators! Rather they were petulant prigs -- and worse, little more than merchants.

She felt certain that somewhere Lord Mangrove was smiling at her naiveté.

Lizzie had no time to reflect upon this shift in illusions, for Tilney grabbed her sleeve and said, "Let's make a run for it, Bennett -- now while their attention is elsewhere!"

12.3

The two men stood back to back and the seconds remained at rapt attention. A man all in black with a tall hat began to count in French. The duelists began to pace apart, pistols held high, faces grim. The cool afternoon breeze ruffled their shirts and hair, but Lizzie could not hear a sound.

It was as if she had been suddenly plunged into the pages of a novel. All the elements were here: Two men in a life or death struggle, tense guardians gathered round, a secret rendezvous in a sheltered location.

It must be love, Lizzie thought with an unaccustomed leap of her heart. These were emotions poorly suited to George Bennett, but she could not help the thought once it rose. Surely they were fighting for the love of a woman. How would it go? Surely the young man who had taken charge of the situation, who had forced them into service as seconds was hot-blooded enough to be the correspondent.

Lizzie looked over at the opponent, on whose side she had been drafted. While equally well-dressed, Lizzie thought that she detected a certain petulant air that suggested the wronged party, the one who had lost something.

Again she felt a stab of worry over Tilney's fate. In the heat of the moment, when the bullets were flying, who could say what might happen? Lizzie was alarmed to realise how strong her feelings were. I am beholden to the King of Naples, she reminded herself. It was only proximity that had caused her to idly knit her thoughts toward Tilney and his cursedly devilish humour.

He looked anything but amused at present, however. As the duelists reached the end of the counting and turned, she could not stop herself from drawing a gasp of breath. The two men aimed their pistols and fired. The sudden cacophony rang in the ears of all those present.

Lizzie looked with alarm at Tilney, who -- she was relieved to find -- suffered no injury. The same could not be said of the combatants. The seconds, friends no doubt of the two in question, rushed forward with cried of some alarm.

Neither remained standing, so Lizzie feared the worst. She saw Tilney head forward to examine his duelist, so she thought she ought to do the same. Fighting her way into the crowd around the erudite Frenchman, she at last caught a glimpse of the man.

It was all she could do not to faint straight away.

12.2

Lizzie tried to keep her wandering thoughts under control. The tension of the moment seemed to squeeze her middle so tightly that she found it hard to breathe. Tilney appeared to be completely relaxed, but Lizzie could tell from her close observation of him during the last few days that he was anything but.

"Marcel! Louis!" Their interrogator gestured peremptorily to his cohorts, indicating that they ought to train their weapons on the interloping English. Lizzie thought back to her time on board the Bonny Read and wondered what the fearless Black Ethel would do.

Not that it would help much, Lizzie thought to herself. I am no pirate. I wish I were fearless, but here I am consumed by it.

"To even things," the Frenchman continued, addressing them both with a haughty edge of contempt, "One of you must serve on either side. D'accord?"

"We shall be happy to oblige," Tilney said somewhat icily, irritated by the insistence that the two of them take part in this quarrel to which they had not been party. Lizzie was just relieved that they weren't going to have to be shot, so the full impact of the situation did not immediately hit her.

Tilney gave her a searching look, as if to signal concern for his young friend. Lizzie gulped, but tried to toss him a confident nod. He had to expect manly fortitude from young George Bennett and she was going to do her level best to deliver it.

If I die, he'll find out I'm a woman, Lizzie considered, but he ought not know before that.

Seeing the two compliant the Frenchman once more wrangled his cohorts into place and the duel began to reassemble. Lizzie was somewhat surprised to see that their interrogator was one of the correspondents. His opponent was a pale and effete-looking Parisian who maintained an unconvincing air of hauteur. Lizzie did not make much of his chance and thus was somewhat nonplussed to find herself wrangled to his side of the altercation.

There seemed to be an inordinate number of seconds for a duel, based on her memory of novels and historical events. She had a vague recall of the playwright Ben Johnson felling an actor (thus ever the enmity between writers and their instruments, she pondered) and of course, Pitt the Younger, but the details of the events remained somewhat hazy.

Besides, French rules -- like everything else about this country -- might prove to be rather different than those of her homeland. Fair play might not even enter into the proceedings.

"Êtes-vous prêt?" their commander demanded of his opponent. Lizzie looked over at Tilney and felt a stab of fear that his handsome face might be marred by the violence of the moment. Somehow she could not bear the thought and felt herself grow faint once more.

This will not do, she told herself with a little shake. You are a man, behave as a man must!

"Laissez-nous commencer!" the Frenchman spoke firmly and at once the duel began.