Story [Sense & Sensibility] "By Their Very Nature" | Apocalyptica Challenge | Missing Scene, Vignette

Title: “By Their Very Nature”
Author: Mira_Jade
Fandom: Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility

Genre: Angst, Drama
Time Frame: Missing Scene; October 1797
Characters: Sir John Middleton, Colonel Brandon, John Willoughby

Summary: It was a disagreeable thing by its very nature, a duel - but not without all necessity.


Author's Notes: This story was written for @Pandora's Apocalyptica Challenge over in the Mini-Games thread! The song I received was Ruska. The grim tension, repetitive rhythm, and bittersweet imagery of falling leaves – as "ruska", the Finnish word for autumn foliage, implies – all acted upon my imagination until this story quite wrote itself in reply. (And shhhh! One of these days my muse is going to leave Regency England for a galaxy far, far away again, but for now she's quite stuck. I can't get her to move. She's even picked out curtains. )

That said, this story fleshes out a missing scene from the novel: namely, the duel fought between Brandon and Willoughby for Eliza's honor. I know: scandalous! Jane Austen was quite the risqué author, wasn't she? Yet, while the constraints of the time may have kept her from delving into this subject with too much detail, I am under no such limitations myself. Thus freed, I couldn't help but be drawn to the moral ambiguity automatically implied by the very nature of this scene. With Ruska playing over, this is what I was inspired to write.

I do have a couple notes underneath the spoiler tag for anyone who'd like to further acquaint themselves with a few particulars as regards the story. Then, as always, I thank you all for reading and hope that you enjoy.

Spoiler: Further Notes

A Note on Eliza: This is a disclaimer I have to include in keeping with the TOS. I don't discuss age in this story, but in the novel, Eliza was only 16 at the outset of her seduction. As such is unacceptable by the standards of the boards, I'm bumping Eliza's age up to match with the 1995 film, which puts her at 18/19 instead. Consider this a blanket note for all of my S&S stories. (Even in the Regency era, though women did marry young - they could even be 'out' in society as young as 15 - this was still a scandal. Compare Eliza's circumstances with Georgianna Darcy and Lydia Bennet's in Pride and Prejudice; Jane Austen was trying to make a point. )

Also, while the social and moral norms of this time were miserably hard on poor Eliza, I tried to be as fair to her character as possible, and I can promise a very happy ending for her if this series ever gets that far.

A Note on Sir John: He may, admittedly, be a great deal less silly here than Jane Austen initially intended in her portrayal. Rather than call him OOC, I would instead challenge that this is a rather serious situation, and I can't imagine how he ever earned his knighthood - let alone maintained a nearly twenty year friendship with a character like Brandon - without having the ability to put his humor aside and think critically and somberly when necessary. I'd then doubly say that it takes a particularly special strength of character to constantly be so generous, liberal, and high-spirited - even if his sense of humor may be a little too irreverent and his speech rather too free at times for the taste of some. He definitely has his insipid moments, which I cannot and do not want to deny. If I'm completely off the mark, I can only offer a last defense in saying that I have a pre-canon long-fic I've been working on for a while now, and Sir John has quite become his own character to me. I'm rather set in my voice for him now.

A Note on the Averted Duel in Calcutta: You aren't missing anything from canon; this is a nod to that same aforementioned long-fic. More context isn't needed to understand this story. I would only note that a sepoy was what native Indian infantry soldiers hired by the East India Trading Company were called. 96% of their armed forces were hired from the local populace, which, to me, seems a truly staggering number.

A Note on the Duel: Writing this story was really just an excuse to watch saber fencing videos on YouTube, let's be honest. Yet I still have to disclaim that I am no expert, and can only beg your indulgence if the more technical details I included are off the mark. The same goes for the swords themselves. I researched what weapons would have most likely been used at this time, and I am pretty confident in what I portrayed, but there's certainly room for error. Anything I may have botched, let's call artistic license.

A Note on the Story: If you are curious for a bit more context on exactly why this duel is necessary, I have included two passages from the novel below. One tells the circumstances from Brandon's POV, and the other from Willoughby's. The text is part of the public domain, and this particular transcription is borrowed with all credit through Project Guttenberg.

Spoiler: Chapter 31 excerpt

An exchange between Miss Dashwood and Colonel Brandon in London, following news of Mr. Willoughby’s engagement to the heiress Miss Grey. Chapter 31:

“But last February, almost a twelvemonth back, Eliza suddenly disappeared. I had allowed her, (imprudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire, to go to Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her father there for his health. I knew him to be a very good sort of man, and I thought well of his daughter—better than she deserved, for, with a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no clue, though she certainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted man, could really, I believe, give no information; for he had been generally confined to the house, while the girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced himself, of his daughter’s being entirely unconcerned in the business. In short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, what I feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too.”

“Good heavens!” cried Elinor, “could it be—could Willoughby!”—

“The first news that reached me of her,” he continued, “came in a letter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party to Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly, which I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body, and which I believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in breaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom he had made poor and miserable; but had he known it, what would it have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your sister? No, he had already done that, which no man who can feel for another would do. He had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address! He had left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her.”

“This is beyond every thing!” exclaimed Elinor.

“His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse than both. Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess what I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on being assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have felt for all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you alone, I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when it was known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so deceived; to see your sister—but what could I do? I had no hope of interfering with success; and sometimes I thought your sister’s influence might yet reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what were his designs on her. Whatever they may have been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless will turn with gratitude towards her own condition, when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life. Surely this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment.

“Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others.”

Elinor’s thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne, from the communication of what had passed.

“I have been more pained,” said she, “by her endeavors to acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you,” she continued, after a short silence, “ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?”

“Yes,” he replied gravely, “once I have. One meeting was unavoidable.”

Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying,

“What? have you met him to—”

“I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad.”

Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it.

Spoiler: Chapter 44 excerpt

An exchange between Miss Dashwood and Mr. Willoughby, during Marianne’s fever at Cleveland Park. Chapter 44:

“When I first became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before. Your sister’s lovely person and interesting manners could not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a kind —it is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what she was, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at first I must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design of returning her affection.”

Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most angry contempt, stopped him, by saying,

“It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by any thing. Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the subject.”

“I insist on you hearing the whole of it,” he replied, “My fortune was never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of associating with people of better income than myself. Every year since my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a woman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a thing to be thought of; and with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty, which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much,—I was acting in this manner, trying to engage her regard, without a thought of returning it. But one thing may be said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I meditated, because I did not then know what it was to love. But have I ever known it? Well may it be doubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice? or, what is more, could I have sacrificed hers? But I have done it. To avoid a comparative poverty, which her affection and her society would have deprived of all its horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that could make it a blessing.”

“You did then,” said Elinor, a little softened, “believe yourself at one time attached to her?”

“To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness! Is there a man on earth who could have done it? Yes, I found myself, by insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my life were what I spent with her when I felt my intentions were strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless. Even then, however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed myself most improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here—nor will I stop for you to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already bound. The event has proved, that I was a cunning fool, providing with great circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible and wretched for ever. At last, however, my resolution was taken, and I had determined, as soon as I could engage her alone, to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an affection which I had already taken such pains to display. But in the interim—in the interim of the very few hours that were to pass, before I could have an opportunity of speaking with her in private—a circumstance occurred—an unlucky circumstance, to ruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort. A discovery took place,”—here he hesitated and looked down. “Mrs. Smith had somehow or other been informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose interest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection—but I need not explain myself farther,” he added, looking at her with an heightened colour and an enquiring eye,—“your particular intimacy—you have probably heard the whole story long ago.”

“I have,” returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart anew against any compassion for him, “I have heard it all. And how you will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I confess is beyond my comprehension.”

“Remember,” cried Willoughby, “from whom you received the account. Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and her character ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have nothing to urge—that because she was injured she was irreproachable, and because I was a libertine, she must be a saint. If the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding —I do not mean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. I wish—I heartily wish it had never been. But I have injured more than herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me (may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind—Oh! how infinitely superior!”

“Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl—I must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well be—your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours. You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence.”

“But, upon my soul, I did not know it,” he warmly replied; “I did not recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense might have told her how to find it out.”

“Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?”

“She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be guessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her ignorance of the world—every thing was against me. The matter itself I could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it. She was previously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in general, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention, the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in my present visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. By one measure I might have saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman! she offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza. That could not be—and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house. The night following this affair—I was to go the next morning—was spent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. The struggle was great—but it ended too soon. My affection for Marianne, my thorough conviction of her attachment to me—it was all insufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those false ideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to feel, and expensive society had increased. I had reason to believe myself secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her, and I persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do.”

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, but for the words.

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"By Their Very Nature”
by Mira_Jade​

Sir John Middleton had long considered himself fortunate to have never participated in a duel. His years in service to the Crown notwithstanding, which hardly qualified in any similarity, he’d never been moved to call out another man for his behavior, nor had he ever conducted himself in such a manner for which his own behavior could be challenged. He could attribute that in part to the society he kept; he did not have a constitution that offended easily, nor did he keep acquaintance with those who were easily offended. Then, as affairs of honor were concerned . . .

. . . well, he knew that it was nothing more than the variances of chance that he’d never been tried upon to throw down his proverbial gauntlet. For, the protection of those who could not seek out reparations for themselves was the only just cause to turn what was, by its very nature, such a senseless folly as a duel into that which was necessitated as a duty instead.

Now, for such a duty, he was ready to act his part, his streak of good fortune well and truly at its end.

He rose well before sunrise on the day of their appointment, having slept but poorly the night before. There were times when memories from his soldiering days still haunted him as dreams, and he supposed it was only natural that they had returned, considering what would transpire that morning. With only a single candle lit, he saw to his own toilet without troubling to wake his valet and broke his fast on a few light gleanings liberated from the kitchen. Mrs. Reed, who was already kneading dough at that early hour, tutted at him good-naturedly, but forgave him when he promised that he was not shirking her culinary efforts, and was in fact much obliged for the pot of tea she offered to share. The grooms were only just arriving in the mews when he was ready to depart, and he tended his own horse before saddling the affectionate but nonetheless curious animal. “I know, Passe,” John patted his old companion’s sorrel neck, “we don’t usually keep country hours here in town, don’t we? I promise, I’ll take you to Richardson’s for a proper gallop later – I know you don’t fancy being stuck behind so many carriages at Hyde Park any more than I do.”

Though he endeavored to keep to his usual high spirits, the intended joviality of his words was seemingly swallowed by the deep shadows that yet dominated the stables. For a long moment, John simply stood in the warm pool of lantern light illuminating the stall and attempted to regain his bearings. He breathed in the familiar scent of horse and hay, reminding himself that he was here, not there. Then, shaking his head for the pointless indulgence of such sensibilities, John led Passelande out to the courtyard and hoisted himself up into the saddle. There was nothing left to do then but turn south towards the river, and together they left Chelsea behind at a steady pace.

It was not yet November, and the town was scarcely as populated as it would be much later in the winter with the arrival of the full season. As such, London was only just blinking its drowsy eyes in wakefulness for the day. A thick layer of fog hovered over the cobblestones and rose in undulating vapors to blind the tall edifices of the proud buildings lining the streets. The gloom effectively blurred the line between city and sky, obscuring how far ahead he could see, even on horseback. Those few who were out and about at such an early hour moved like ghosts through the mist, one moment there and then gone the next. When he made his crossing at the Thames, the black waters were only visible in shapeless impressions through the nebulous haze, with even the great might of the river obscured by the tenebrous murk preceding the dawn. The steady clap of hoofbeats over the bridge was loud in his ears, where his own heartbeat had seemingly quickened in want for sound.

Not far from the boundary of the river, the unspoiled hills and trees of Putney Heath were equally as enmired in the early morning hush. John passed no other living soul on the trails, and he rode until the path intersected and then split two ways at one of the gently flowing canals that linked together the ponds of the park. A swath of open green swept down in a moderate incline from the path before leveling out again before the embankment. Stretched between a bracket of sawtooth oaks, whose branches had darkened nearly to black against their crowned glory of gold, there was a field of more than ample size for a match. This John admitted, but forced himself to ignore for the present when he spied two figures waiting by the waterside.

John dismounted to lead his horse the rest of the way down the hill, and found the grass wet underneath the soles of his boots near to the point of being sodden. The fallen leaves formed a slick mantle of color over the earth, and hardly rustled for the passing of either horse or man. The humidity – even on a chilly morning this late in October – had his jacket sticking his waistcoat and shirtsleeves to his body in a most unpleasant manner, and his powdered hairline itched from the oppressive moisture in the air. Yet he wouldn’t consider loosening his cravat or doffing his hat to provide any sort of relief – then, more so than ever, the trappings of a gentleman were of paramount importance. This was not some tavern brawl they were about to bare-knuckle their way through, but rather an affair of honor.

With that thought in mind, it was perhaps fitting that the day was so dreadfully dreary. Only the riot of the last autumn colors in the trees and the deep dark of the green granted any sort of vivacity to the scene – and even that was obscured by the mist. At the very least, the heavy stink of London was less oppressive here in the heath. If he but closed his eyes to the town surrounding these eaves, he could almost fool himself into thinking that he was back home in Devonshire, where he’d admittedly much rather be.

Ah well: if wishes were horses and all that. He’d made a commitment, and he’d see it through.

Down by the bank, John was hardly surprised to see that Brandon had already arrived. Equally as unsurprising, they still waited upon their defending party. Another man may have paced to pass the time and temper his energy, but Brandon merely stood straight and still, as if he was as much a part of his surroundings as the stately trees or the tranquil waterway that wandered in search of the river. Waiting with Brandon was Mr. Charles Elliot, a former army surgeon who’d agreed to attend the match and provide assistance if and when his particular skills should become necessary. To that end, Brandon had already shed his own hat and jacket, and his sword was drawn – an officer's saber, yes, yet better forged with a heavier, stronger blade than the typical army spadroon and protected about the grip with as much of a hilt as it could manage in keeping with the somewhat ridiculous regulations of '86 and '96. His expression was grim as he slowly twisted the pommel and stared down at where the thin tip of the blade disturbed the gild of leaves upon the grass. Brandon looked up for his arrival, and tensed before his expression softened in recognition. Wordlessly, he inclined his head in greeting.

“Swords?” John too asked in lieu of a good morning to you, arching a brow as he freed his horse to graze with the other waiting animals. He shrugged aside the bows both men offered – really, if Brandon didn’t known any better by now then he never would – and instead clasped their forearms with the warm affection of familiarity. “I didn’t realize they were at all in fashion these days.”

“The colonel kindly offered Mr. Willoughby his choice of weapon,” Elliot shrugged, his own countenance suitably severe in keeping with his role. “That gentleman then declined the option of pistols.”

“Smart lad,” John muttered, putting aside his own bias to consider the match with an objective eye. John Willoughby was an admittedly good shot, especially for having no formal training. Even so, he’d attended enough of their hunting parties back in Devonshire to know better than to test his aim against Brandon’s in any more serious a contest than sport. He'd do better to take his chances on the unknown variables provided by cold steel – and it seemed that he too had concluded much the same. Undoubtedly, Willoughby was trusting in the superior speed and energy of his youth to grant him an advantage over Brandon, who was ten years his senior.

It was easy enough to guess Willoughby’s mind, yet John wanted to laugh for the single, most erroneous error in his thinking. Someone should have warned the boy that officers fought more battles with swords than they did with firelocks in keeping with their rank – and the raw, frenetic violence of true combat was a far cry from the polite sort of fencing that Willoughby would have better known. Sparring with his fellow idle dandies, the lot of them like young bucks testing out their antlers against without any intention or fear for true harm, was a pastime based in no serious contention. War, to the extreme contrary, was no such frivolous game – and Brandon had not survived as many battlefields as he had, for so as long as he had, by being any sort of an opponent to take lightly.

“His choice of weapon matters not,” Brandon stated in a quiet, sure voice. “The end result shall remain unchanged.”

But at least with swords there was less chance for serious injury, John was yet relieved to consider – only fools dueled with pistols. Only fools dueled at all, really – and he would have previously thought that to be an opinion Brandon shared. Or, he assumed it was an opinion he shared now. John couldn't help but recall a memory then nearly fifteen years old: of the privates Tarleton and Hackney and the murder of a sepoy soldier named Suraj at the end of their time in Calcutta. Major Leigh had turned a blind eye to the actions of his men, and Brandon – only just a captain, then, and one recently appointed, at that – had been prepared to call out both men for their crimes before John had finally decided that risking his own impending knighthood – and any further promotion for Brandon in the future – was worth acting in service of the truth. He'd seconded Brandon's testimony to Colonel Everton, above Major Leigh's authority, and thus averted the need for a duel entirely. As a result of having two witnesses speak against them, rather than one, both men had been tried at court-martial and then hanged – which had admittedly been a most distasteful matter to the army. The great majority of senior officers for both the Company and the Royal Army were usually content ignoring the actions of their soldiers against anyone who did not have the protection of also being an English citizen, and as such, the verdict against the errant privates had been most begrudging. Yet the fact of the matter remained that Brandon had been ready to see justice done by his own hand once before. Now, here he was, poised to do so again.

When he'd first stated his intention to challenge Willoughby and asked him to serve as his second, John had entreated Brandon to repeat himself – so astonished was he by the nature of his request. He well knew that his friend was no stranger to violence, but there was an honor that came inherent with serving in His Majesty’s Army. To call out a man – a civilian, no less, untried by battle – in this fashion, instead . . .

. . . well, it was quite another matter entirely. John would have previously thought Brandon much too sensible – and kindly fair-minded – to resort to such a course, even if he well understood his reasons for calling out this particular cad. Oh, how he understood!

“Should a marriage even be forced between them in the first place?" John had admittedly been uneasy on Eliza's behalf, just as he saw little wisdom in Brandon taking up arms in an illegal practice for his own sake. “I’d rather Eliza escape being tied to such a lout entirely; in time, she may even be grateful for her freedom. Her potential happiness must surely outweigh the stigma now attached to her name, should it not? Leave Willoughby’s justice to God in the hereafter, and that will be more than enough in recompense; yes, that is indeed what I advise.”

Eliza Williams, as the natural daughter of a disgraced mother and an unknown father, had already fought to claim what a small place she could in polite society – and that was before compounding the uncontrollable sin of her birth with an illegitimate child of her own. With a deep sense of shame, John remembered how his own wife had barely tolerated allowing Brandon’s ward within their home over the years, and never with any true hospitality. Eliza was hardly welcomed, even as a child – and she’d once been scolded most thoroughly by Mary when she’d only reached out to touch the bonnet of their own toddling daughter, as if the circumstances that had borne her could be caught and shared so easily, like a sickness. By the time Brandon had been able to offer the girl a proper home at Delaford, Eliza was old enough to understand the gossip and the unkind whispers that followed her in the same house where her mother had been so unjustly treated. She was ever eager to return back to school or to stay with families where her exact parentage could remain relatively unknown – where she only needed the guardianship of Colonel Brandon to offer her a degree of respectability that she otherwise lacked through no fault of her own. She'd been used to fighting her battles for years, and now, continue to fight she would.

Yet, no matter her determination, Eliza hadn’t been happy in far too long – not truly happy. That surely must have been why, with just a few sugared compliments and an empty declaration set as traps, one who had hardly ever felt loved herself had so easily been persuaded to . . .

. . . well, John could understand Brandon's bitter look of loathing then – both for the self-imposed failings he ever tortured himself with, and for the blackguard who’d taken advantage of a girl who’d already suffered so much throughout her young life. Eliza had already suffered, and she would continue to suffer in yet a new way, all the while her seducer would bear an unequal burden of shame – for society was always quick to forgive men who were simply acting in the supposed way of men, were they not? If Eliza had been some gentleman’s daughter, greater would the outrage be – but she was not, and the sad fact of the matter yet remained that no one would truly care. John Willoughby would never be excluded from all good society – and not even from the high society he so craved – for the same sins now binding Eliza as shackles. To ease Eliza's loss in standing, what was left but to prevail upon Willoughby to wed her and see justice done, even by all force necessary?

Yes, propriety demanded that they marry, but to have Eliza beholden to such a worthless husband for the rest of her days, all in punishment for a mistake of her youth . . . it was a burdensome thing to consider.

John had been so taken by his thoughts that he’d nearly forgotten that he was waiting for a reply before one came: “I do not pretend to know the correct path to take.” Brandon had no false pride, and he bluntly admitted his uncertainty for what it was. He scrubbed a hand over his face, then looking weary beyond his years. “But then, I have never known what’s best for Eliza – clearly I have not! She deserves better than my failings . . . she always has.” Another thought came, and it must have been an agonizing one for the way that Brandon flinched and then admitted on a voice hardly stronger than a whisper: “Dear God, but to imagine what her mother would say . . . and after I promised her so faithfully . . . ”

His raw confession brought down another heavy silence, one that John did not know how to break, let alone sooth. Though neither Eliza was or had ever been his by the laws of man or nature, Brandon had sworn himself twice over by oaths of the heart – which were, in some ways, all the more binding. For his part, John wanted nothing more than to help alleviate the misery his friend so clearly shouldered on behalf of both women, yet what could he say? There was nothing that could be said; he could only be there to offer what support he could, as he could. Time, again – and time alone – would sort out all the rest.

“No,” Brandon sharply exhaled, deciding some unspoken argument in his mind. “If I can make this one thing right for Eliza, then I must. For some reason I yet fail to comprehend, she clings to her love for that . . ." but he smothered a look of distaste and censored whatever epithet he'd first intended. "She clings to her regard for Mr. Willoughby, and defends him still. She insists that if he could only see their son, then he too would remember those feelings he once vowed and fulfill his previously stated intentions to . . .” but there Brandon paused, and John watched as he banded some emotion then too strong for words underneath the iron bars of his control. With a blinking, his countenance turned cold, his posture severe. When next he spoke it was as if he was preparing to address his regiment, with all emotion stripped from his voice but for the determined certainty of intent: “If John Willoughby can be made to stand up as a man, and offer relief to one he has injured as both a husband and father – as he has already taken the part of without any thought for the consequences . . . then it falls upon me to convince him.”

Yet how could a man be forced to be a father any more than he could be forced to be a husband? If Willoughby had already refused to claim the family he'd unwittingly created by his own free will, then surely his pride would never allow him to do so by the edge of a sword. Eliza Williams was clearly a mere dalliance on his part – an indulgent way to pass the time while he lazed about in wait for his fortune. If being disinherited for his sin coming to light by Mrs. Smith had not moved him to offer his hand, then what would? This entire venture was a fool’s errand, but what else could be done? John little knew what to advise; what advice could there be given, even by the wisest of men – which he most certainly was not?

Still, there was one matter that weighed heavily upon his mind. On this point he could not maintain his silence in good faith.

“Brandon, should you call Mr. Willoughby out, are you certain . . . well, what I mean to ask is this: do you truly challenge him in Eliza’s name?” As was his habit, John addressed the unspoken with all blunt forthrightness. He held Brandon’s eyes without smiling for the first time in as long as he could remember, matching his expression in severity. Whether or not he acted as Brandon’s second hinged upon his answer. “Will you fight for Eliza’s honor, and Eliza's honor alone?”

Even for such a delicate matter, Brandon would not present himself in the best possible light with a lie. Instead, he fixed his gaze in return and solemnly answered, “As best I can.”

For that, John had closed his eyes and let out a breath he’d too long held. It would have been impossible to remove Marianne Dashwood from the whole of this, he finally allowed – and even the elder Eliza Williams, whose memory still haunted his friend in death as much as she had while living. How could such threads possibly be untangled? They were too tightly bound to so easily come undone.

Yet: “The moment you do not,” John warned, for he knew how Brandon’s conscience would torture him – later, if not now – if he acted on anything but, “you must promise to -”

“ - I shall step aside,” he did not have to finish before Brandon vowed. “You have my word.”

That had been enough for John; it still was.

Since then, in his role as second, he’d already met with Willoughby’s man in a further attempt to settle their quarrel without violence. Sadly, his efforts had been to no avail. Yet from that meeting he now recognized Mr. George Stanton as two riders appeared from the mist – Willoughby he already well knew. Stanton, it hadn’t taken John long to suss out, was another milksop young man who knew more of card tables and hunting parties than he did any of the wider world beyond the decadent drawing rooms of London. Both men dismounted, and Willoughby only briefly glanced their way before he locked his jaw and stalwartly averted his gaze. He seemed restless, John observed, but not anxious. His hands did not shake as he unbridled his horse, and his manner was rather more determined than apprehensive as a whole. John wasn’t sure if he should credit Willoughby for the assured, easy way he stripped off his jacket and drew his sword, or if he should think him overconfident. They'd know soon enough.

Elliot called out a welcome, which Stanton returned aloud. Willoughby merely inclined his head to the surgeon. From there, they waited to allow Willoughby what time he needed to flex his muscles and loosen his limbs. John watched him move, admitting that he looked well with his weapon in hand - a gleaming backsword with an ornate basket hilt. The guard was so finely wrought with twists and loops of steel, all decorated with silver gilt, that John wondered if the strength of the blade had as much substance to match its style. He hoped so, for Willoughby's sake – he'd seen the damage done when weak steel gave way before a superior blade before, and he cared but little to have such a scene repeated here today. Scarce minutes passed, and then John pushed his thoughts aside when Willoughby snapped his sword in a last wide arch before coming to a stop on the slick grass. Willoughby looked at Stanton and nodded, still in silence. Stanton then turned to Elliot and did the same.

Similarly, John caught Brandon’s eye, who too confirmed his readiness. From there, they approached the midpoint of the field by mutual agreement. John stood facing Stanton, while Elliot took his place between them as their neutral observer. Both Brandon and Willoughby mirrored their seconds, but held a few paces back. With all parties then posed to play their parts, it was time.

No matter that the sun rose somewhere far above the gloom, lightening the world from black to a mournful grey, the fog seemed denser than ever. The branches, heavy with golden leaves overhead, swayed as if in attentive witness to the scene unfolding below. John inhaled the crisp, cold air, and then said in a strong voice to Stanton: “Colonel Brandon would like to extend the courtesy of offering your first a last chance to apologize and make amends.”

The rules of decorum demanded that they attempt to avert violence one final time. Indeed, many duels stopped here altogether, the honor of both parties satisfied. John still held a small hope, if not any faith, that this match would much be the same. “Protect the girl and your son with your name,” he added, unsettled when Willoughby’s already present frown withered into a full glower, “and put a stop to this madness.”

Though he intended for his words to inspire some manner of shame, Willoughby's expression revealed that he somehow felt to be the injured party – and one most unfairly imposed upon, at that! In an abstract moment, John was reminded of his own son whenever little William wanted more pudding and less peas on his plate, and he would have chuckled for the absurdity of the likeness if there was anything here worth taking humor in. This was no puerile matter they attended to. Eliza and her boy were not a bitter portion to swallow; they were human beings who deserved to be treated with dignity and compassion. Yet there was not a glimmer of contrition to be found in Willoughby’s countenance; no penitence nor regret nor discomfiture. John pressed his mouth, well able to guess Willoughby's demurral even before it came.

“Mr. Willoughby makes no apologies, for he has caused no offense.” If Stanton seemed somewhat disconcerted by his role, he answered as was required of him well enough. “He is of course sorry for the pain endured by any of God’s creatures, but as he is not the cause of such suffering he cannot be the one to provide any of the necessary alleviation.”

Through the force of long practice, John hid his disgust behind a mask of civility. "So be it," he stated coolly. When any further discussion would only prove pointless, there was nothing left that could be done but to state the rules both parties would adhere to throughout their match: they would fight only to first blood, not last; there would be no bludgeoning, pugilism, or percussive hits; an opponent was not allowed to strike once they themselves were struck, and so on and so forth until every point of importance was exhausted. If John expected the nature of his words to prompt a change of mind – if not heart – from Willoughby, then he was yet again sadly left wanting. By the end of his instructions, Willoughby gripped his sword so tightly that his knuckles were white, and his eyes were narrowed with deadly intent. John did not need to glance behind him to know that Brandon’s look was just as severe in return.

“This is an affair of honor between gentlemen,” even so, John felt the need to repeat. “So we will all endeavor to act as such, shall we not?”

“You needn’t worry, Sir John,” he heard – and ignored then as he ever did – how Willoughby stressed the honorific of his knighthood as if his title was some great joke to be made, instead. “I’ll go easy on the dear old colonel, I give you my word.”

Stanton smothered a tittering laugh for Willoughby’s flippancy, but failed to hide his look of amused superiority in whole. John fought not to roll his eyes, more annoyed than offended – but Elliot, a former army man himself, looked like he’d very much like to take a go at Willoughby in Brandon’s stead. Valiantly, however, the surgeon mastered his countenance and maintained his role as was required of him.

“Oh, believe me,” John said brightly – with a throaty laugh that he knew would do more to make Willoughby bristle in return than any taunt or threat ever could, “I am not worried for the dear old colonel in the slightest.” With that, he turned his back completely. “Good luck, lad,” he offered with a dismissive wave of his hand and another chuckle. “You’ll need it.”

Imagining the glare he could feel burning between his shoulder blades was sweet indeed, but he could not savor the moment for long. As Brandon moved to take up his position, John caught him by the arm. “Christopher,” he gravely intoned – and he knew that he had his undivided attention for the use of his given name as much as he did for how unsmiling his own countenance was. “Don’t bloody the boy too badly.” I’d not see you hang for such a cur, he thought, even if he did not say aloud. Best would it be if both contestants walked away from this field without any lasting damage done, and John ever hoped for the best.

Brandon clasped his shoulder in return. “Thank you, John,” he said, smiling gently in his stead, and that was enough. John knew that he was understood.

Following, there was a heavy silence as the two opponents saluted each other and stood at ready. Overhead, even the wind seemed to pause in the trees, and then Elliot gave the signal for them to begin.

The bout started much as John first expected: Willoughby was overconfident in his own athleticism, and he swept in offensively with all the speed of youth and yet none of the sense. His footwork was weak, especially when taking into account the wet terrain. He lunged, more than once, without returning to his center and recovering his baseline – so much so that John almost wanted to call out a correction, as if Willoughby was one of the green men that had once served under his command. There were even times when Willoughby senselessly – or was it arrogantly? – had both feet facing forward, his body squared to Brandon's rather than slightly turned to work the natural angles that came from parrying into ripostes of his own. What was more than that, he advertised his intentions with his eyes and flexions of his limbs in such a way that even a moderately experienced swordsman would have been able to defend against – let alone a career soldier with a long-standing command. His performance, delicately put, was . . . untidy.

Yet, even a fool could do damage with a blade in hand, John reminded himself. When he bit down on his lip for the thought, he tasted blood.

Brandon’s skill, however, was in his economy of motion – something that had always frustrated John back during their own sparring matches, but which he now appreciated as an outside observer. While Willoughby gripped his sword tightly – too tightly, as if he was brandishing a club instead – and thus worked against his own weapon, Brandon held his fluidly in hand, just as the saber was designed to compliment its wielder. He primarily kept to a high pattern of blocks that needed but slight alterations in his grip to flow from one form to the next, letting his blade do most of the work while keeping the energy in his body tightly coiled for when it should be needed most. The grace of his restraint was made even more apparent against Willoughby’s wild swings and pointless flourishes – a showy display which must have made him popular to watch in any genteel fencing hall, but was only a waste of energy here in a more serious match.

For a time, Willoughby continued to dance about with all sorts of fierce grunts and passionate outcries. Brandon's silence, in contrast, was almost unnerving in its complete reserve. Overhead, the golden leaves whispered before they showered and fell to the ground, taken by the mercy of the wind while the stately old trees merely swayed.

It did not take long before the strength of Brandon’s parries – the power that nothing but time granted to a man – and the wasted energy of his own attacks had Willoughby tiring. His footwork turned from weak to sloppy; his thrusts, in frustration and anger, worsened from unrestrained to erratic. He was incautious in his rash determination to score a blow, while his opponent remained canny and patient. As such, John thought, their match was already well decided.

Then, it came: without showing any interest in drawing the fight out for longer than was necessary, Brandon took advantage of a naked opening left by Willoughby during yet another unrestrained lunge. With the same upwards angle he used to deflect what would have been a wickedly long slash down across his torso, he swept up even further in an explosive riposte. The violence of the motion made Willoughby's sword slide down to the guard, and once the monstrous ornamentation was secured on Brandon's blade he twisted and knocked Willoughby’s sword from his hand entirely. For having the force of his attack so unexpectedly thwarted, Willoughby struggled to maintain his balance. He slipped, and then fell from where he hadn't properly braced himself against the sodden earth. Between one blinking and the next Willoughby was off his feet and frantically scrambling to retrieve his sword from the ground. He fumbled, but to no avail.

Still in all calmness, Brandon followed his opponent. As Willoughby grasped for the pommel, Brandon stepped on the blade to prevent him from reclaiming the weapon entirely. Furtively, Willoughby reached even further to tug on the grip once – twice – before seizing up for the sword point that then dropped to hover before his face in warning. Aware of the sudden danger of his predicament, Willoughby went completely still as Brandon bent to retrieve his weapon in a nonchalant motion. Wisely, Willoughby held up his hands when two blades were then turned on him, and he remained on his knees – bowed, but hardly made submissive in defeat. His eyes were churlish, and a scowl marred his usually handsome features in an ugly look of virulent loathing.

“Do you yield?” Brandon asked mildly, finally breaking his silence. He did not let either sword fall – not yet.

For that, John rushed forward to play his part. No blood had been drawn, and thus, technically, the conditions of the duel yet remained unsatisfied. Everything now depended on these next few moments. Stanton matched him from the opposite direction, stopping just out of range of interference behind his own first, but the young man was then pale to the point of seeming faint for this unexpected turn in events. John almost wondered what the boy would have done if any actual blood had been spilled – but it was of no matter when he then had more pressing concerns to attend.

Wasting no time – even Brandon’s patience was finite, and he did not want to see those limits surpassed – John interceded to officially demand of Willoughby: “Will you apologize, sir?” He wanted nothing more than to press on Brandon to lower his weapon, yet restrained himself through a supreme force of will. “Do you agree to honor Eliza Williams and your son, and legitimize your bond with them both through marriage?”

“Good God, man, but how do you continually want for understanding? It is not my child!” Willoughby hotly contested, as if the words had been welling up within him and could no longer be contained. “If I’ve told you once before, I shall tell you a hundred times again!”

Willoughby’s pride was wounded, rather than his honor, John understood with foreboding. His need to lash out and wound in return was then greater than any sense of preservation he may have otherwise possessed. “Come now, Mr. Willoughby,” John huffed, still keeping to his own manners. “You only demean yourself by insisting -”

“ - yet who’s to say that girl was not ruined long before she met me?” Willoughby interrupted. He ignored John to address Brandon directly, looking for any tender spot he could find and then ruthlessly pushing. “And I imagine that she remained so thereafter – after all, just how long was she missing for? Who’s to say where she was, or who she was with, during those months? She certainly wasn’t with me. How does it follow that since I have been judged the libertine then she must be upheld in all innocence as some saint? I tell you it was not so!”

The months following Eliza’s disappearance from Bath, and the search that had commenced for her, was not common knowledge, John knew with a worried glance at Brandon to gauge his reaction. Beyond the infuriating vulgarity of his insinuations, Willoughby had just damned himself even further – not that they'd ever thought to doubt Eliza’s word to begin with. Brandon, who'd kept an unaffected demeanor until then, narrowed his eyes, and a black look overtook him in a rare display of temper. The sword that had previously been hovering in vague threat then snapped to press against Willoughby’s neck with pointed intention. The boy swallowed against the blade, but his look remained viperous.

Again, John wanted nothing more than to pull back on Brandon’s arm, but he restrained himself. They were now at an impasse: Brandon could either let Willoughby go, or bloody him as he saw fit in punishment. Such was his right as victor.

Such was his right, and yet . . .

. . . was it right? As a guardian in defense of his ward, perhaps it was; as a soldier against one of the citizens he was sworn to protect, perhaps it was not. As a man against a man? For that, it was harder to answer. Perhaps it was easier to question this: while Willoughby's behavior was in all ways reprehensible, would any amount of blood spilled mend the wounds he himself had first rent with his own actions? Punishing this man would bring no peace to Eliza; it would ease no pain in her heart. Now that Willoughby had confirmed that he would offer Eliza no relief in marriage, no matter the impetus, all their initial justifications for violence were for naught. There was nothing more to be gained here but for vengeance.

However, those were John's thoughts; it yet remained to Brandon to decide how this ended in all finality.

“Dearest Colonel,” sensing his hesitation, Willoughby made to capitalize on what he perceived as a weakness in a voice that was all honeyed vinegar, “what would my Marianne say, if you were to put even a scratch upon my person?”

All seemed hushed then, from the murmur of the water to the swaying of the trees. Not a single leaf fell as the fog continued to writhe in vaporous curtains of mist, closing them off from the outside world. John gaped at the still kneeling man, aggravated that he would bring her name into this, and yet not at all surprised.

“Certainly, you must have considered – for you have the wisdom of age, do you not? And you are a most observant man besides,” Willoughby continued with a smile that was just as sharp as the blade poised to drink from his throat. “You must have considered that it is not that I will not wed Miss Williams, but rather that I cannot.”

When Brandon did not speak in answer – when he still did not strike, yet neither did he let his weapon fall – Willoughby then so carelessly closed his eyes and laughed.

“How can I promise to marry,” he shook his head as if he told a joke whose ending only he understood, “when my affections have already long been engaged elsewhere?”

So, that’s how it was between them? Anyone who'd seen Marianne Dashwood and John Willoughby together that autumn could hardly doubt as much on that score. And yet . . . something was off about Willoughby's claim. Something was not right, that same instinct that made him the hunter he now was and the knight he'd once been whispered – yet he could hardly pause to parse out his intuition. How could he consider anything else when every line in Brandon’s body had gone so horribly taut? John could well imagine that he saw all their faces then: Eliza on her deathbed and her daughter on the day she was found, wrecked from the sad result of her trying to find her own bit of happiness in the world. Even Marianne, in all her brightness of spirit, was impossible to untangle from such a Goridan’s knot as this one. Had she any idea that this was the kind of man she so ardently wished to bind herself to? What an unequal match theirs would be!

With only a twitch of his hand, how many demons would he think to be slaying?

But that was not the sort of man Christopher Brandon was; he never had been. Visibly, he exhaled – banishing his grief and his loathing between one heartbeat and the next. He sheathed his own sword in an abrupt motion, and then gestured sharply with the other.

“You are not even worth cleaning the blade,” Brandon sneered down at Willoughby. “Get up.”

No matter his decision, Brandon took a full step back as Willoughby cautiously found his feet, and then a second as if to physically remind himself of his resolve. Just as wisely, he handed over Willoughby’s sword and the temptation it represented – which, for his part, John was only too happy to accept. Brandon officially ended his side of the challenge with a clipped, “I am satisfied,” and a shallow bow to his opponent. Only then did John return the sword back to Stanton.

If they were expecting any similar such courtesy from Willoughby, they’d be waiting for quite some time. So John turned when Brandon did, not waiting for the other man to prove his manners as they walked across the field towards their waiting horses. John, for his part, felt buoyant with relief, even as the initial reason for their encounter still remained, unremoved, to cast its shadow. Their battle may have ended, yet Eliza's was far from over.

They fell into step together, and when they were far enough away so as not to be overheard John muttered, “This is for the best, my friend. It will take time, but Eliza will someday be grateful not to be chained to such a lodestone. And, her child . . .” but John could only sigh for the boy. He himself could not imagine a life without a father’s love – for William Middleton had been the best of men, God rest his soul, and he'd never once doubted the sincerity of his affections. But then, one only had to look at Brandon to see how an indifferent or even cruel father could have the averse effect. John thought of his own children, even, and could not understand John Willoughby in the slightest.

“They will want for nothing,” Brandon fiercely swore. “And yet . . .”

What else was there to say? There would always be that lingering and yet, wanting for a proper conclusion. That sense of loss would be slow to take its leave in parting, at least entirety. But, to that end, thinking of Eliza’s escape was some small comfort. Now, if only that same freedom could be extended to . . .

“What of Miss Marianne?” John hesitated, but then ventured forth to address that which needed to be addressed in all boldness. This affair was not his to share, but he firmly believed that it should be shared. All his Dashwood cousins had already endured trials and tribulation enough that year without compounding their pains with the bitter regret that would surely follow Marianne's union with such a man. John Willoughby did not deserve the tender regard and fervent devotion he’d earned from a woman whose character was so decidedly above his own that she should have been unattainable to him in her entirety. If his wedding Eliza was odious to consider, even if it had to be attempted in adherence to propriety, then it was equally to be despised for Marianne, who was not bound by any similar such obligation.

“How can I possibly tell her?” Brandon replied so quickly that John knew the question had already weighed heavily upon his mind. “If Mr. Willoughby has refused Eliza because he loves . . .” but he stopped, and had to start again, “because he is engaged to Marianne–Miss Marianne, then what can I do?”

John privately wondered how Willoughby – disinherited, and yet still expensive in his habits and dissolute in his manners – could offer for Marianne’s hand without a suitable fortune on her side to accompany their marriage. The sensibilities of his heart may have preferred one thing, yet John couldn't see him abandoning his own worldly comforts to truly act the romantic; he would only ever play the part. However, John did not say as much in favor of challenging, “Doesn't she deserve to know? Shouldn't this be a choice she makes for herself, with a full view of Mr. Willoughby's character in mind to aid her decision?”

“Of course she deserves to know,” Brandon sighed out sharply, clearly frustrated. “I should make her family aware of the kind of man he truly is without delay. And yet . . . I do not know how to be the one to bear such ill tidings without seeming to be, at best, self-serving, and, at worse, cruel in destroying all of her hopes for happiness. She will . . . this knowledge will wound her deeply.”

“I would say that Willoughby is the one destroying her hopes, not you,” John disagreed, his tone mild. “And why shouldn’t these tidings raise you in the estimation of your friends? You have acted honorably throughout this affair, whereas he has not. No matter what you would say, you are worth such a high opinion.”

For that, Brandon didn't have a response, little convinced as he was for the truth of his words. Yet John knew better to expect anything else. It was already telling that he had all but admitted his love for Marianne as it was. Getting that much from his usually taciturn friend would have been a herculean undertaking before, and now . . . John found himself equal parts overjoyed and grieved on Brandon's behalf. To be moved to love again after so many years of mourning, unrequited though his regard may have been . . .

“You are an honorable man, my friend,” John merely shook his head to conclude. “Too honorable, at times.”

“A sensible man – a truly honorable man would never have attended this match to begin with. My challenge had naught to do with honor, and everything to do with wounded pride and . . . well, with jealousy, I am cognizant enough of my sins to admit. John, when I say that, in that moment, I almost . . . I truly could have . . . ”

“ - but you didn’t,” John hissed to counter with all feeling. “You faced the devil’s own temptation and yet found it within yourself to turn the other cheek. You left that boor without a scratch, because that’s the kind of man you are: a good, honorable man.”

The breeze stirred again, valiantly fighting in tandem with the dawn to clear away the lingering pall of fog. Brandon looked up, and for a moment merely stared at the last bit of color left on the trees. “Am I?” he muttered, more to himself than to John. “Sometimes, I fear that I am little different from - ”

- yet John was never able to find out if he meant to say his father or his brother or even Willoughby himself when he heard a shout of warning go up from Elliot. “Willoughby, don’t!” Stanton exclaimed just as loudly after his first, and they both turned in time to -

- John hardly registered the motion of drawing his sword before he held it in hand. It was an old memory, but one still deeply ingrained in the marrow of his bones for how he acted without thinking. Willoughby swung, and John caught his downward blow – right where Brandon’s back was turned hardly a second ago – with an upward swipe of his own blade. Without the polite rules of the duel then binding them – John had always been a better boxer, himself – he drew his arm back and snapped his fist into Willoughby’s face while their swords were still locked, knocking him off kilter. A kick to follow swept Willoughby’s legs out from underneath him – John rarely wasted time on such pretty maneuvers of his own – and for the second time that day the younger man looked up, stunned to once again be on the ground with a sword hovering in his face.

“Disgraceful,” John sniffed down at Willoughby. He waved at Brandon to keep him back, and was glad when he sensibly saw the wisdom in maintaining his distance. Instead, John held his position until Stanton and Elliot reached them. Ashen faced, Stanton picked up Willoughby’s sword from the ground. Elliot pulled Willoughby to his feet, and maintained a tight grip on his arm to restrain him.

“See that he controls his temper from here,” John counseled Stanton most severely – whose face then went from pallid to flushed. “Your cat is running out of lives to spare.”

“I’ll see them off myself,” Elliot vowed, putting himself bodily between the two parties. He roughly pushed at Willoughby before he could think of another unadvised retort – or worse, and herded him back across the field. "You've shamed yourself enough for one day! Good God, man, but where's your sense of honor?"

With that, what more could be said? "Come now," John beckoned when Brandon stared overly long at Willoughby's retreating back. "Let's be done with this miserable place."

Brandon hesitated only a moment longer, but then joined John in turning towards his horse. With that, they mounted and took their leave, knowing how unwise it would be for tempers on both sides to linger any longer. As they headed back down the trail and left the heath behind entirely, John finally felt as if he could chuckle to say, “If God is kind, I shall never touch that weapon again. It felt good, though . . . acting the knight one last time.”

Yellow leaves scattered across the cobblestones as the Thames came into view. The morning sun, John thought, was doing much in an effort to clear away the gloom. A daring slip of blue sky was even struggling to come into view through the mist, far above the chimney tops.

“You do not need a sword to act the role of knight,” Brandon said, his voice soft. John looked over, and caught the warm look his friend turned on him before his countenance smoothed for its usual quiet gravity.

“No,” John agreed, his voice pointed even as he returned his attention back to the road ahead. "Indeed you do not.”



fini


~ MJ

 

Aw, thanks! I take that as quite the compliment, especially for how delicate a subject this was by the standards of Austen's time. Evoking that tone and cadence was then a teensy bit tricky! As always, I appreciate your kind words!

Oh you don't have to apologize for anything! To the contrary, I rather savored your review and have read it over more than once. I just . . . thank you! All of this was so, so good to hear! While these may be Jane Austen's characters, and they're interacting in a plotline she did first intend, it nevertheless felt like walking a tightrope to write this and remain true to the kind of stories she liked to tell. This wasn't some polite drawing room scene, after all, but a duel, and I wondered for my characterizations and depictions throughout. Though, even when it was tricky, it was admittedly fun to try and convey what I could of Austen's style with my own narrative - that is the highest of compliments, for which I can't thank you enough!

Then, I can't believe how well Ruska fit this story, at least for my muse! Wasn't that the perfect prompt?

(Aaaaand wow, this reply got long. Apparently this is a subject I still have thoughts on. So, of course, feel free to skip or skim whenever you see fit. )

Thank you! Because it's true: the brightest smiles can cover up the darkest frowns. Every soldier brings the war home and copes with their wounds in different ways; this one is John's. I really enjoyed exploring his character a little bit further beyond what Austen initially intended in her portrayal. (So much so that this may technically be OOC and a slight AU, but here I am. )

Then, this sentence was actually more detailed at first, but I trimmed it back and felt that it worked better leaving more implied rather than expressly stated - which you know can be a trick for me - so I'm happy to hear that the phrasing was effective!

I SPENT SO MUCH TIME ON THIS PARAGRAPH, IT'S RIDICULOUS!! Because London is a character all its own, in so many different settings for so many different stories, and I really tried to capture that essence here for myself.

EXACTLY!!!

I loved adding details like that throughout the text for just that reason! Because dueling is morally ambiguous, no matter who is technically in the right and who is in the wrong when the combatants take the field. It's hypocritical, ethically dubious, and not to mention illegal at this time. I love how you put it: "that they've failed in keeping the high standards that society demands of supposed gentlemen just by entering into the duel to the first place." That's it, precisely!

But then, in certain circumstances, as necessity would demand . . . what other recourse was there but for violence? Which is a funny question to ask after coming from fandoms like SW, where grand battles between good and evil are oftentimes essential to further the plot - but that's a whole different subject, entirely. It's a little more complicated here in the real world on a more personal scale, even the real world two hundred years ago. And that's why I couldn't help but leave the story with no clear answer in judgement one way or another.

Thank you! The differences Austen already established provided me with such an interesting dynamic to work with. I still find it incredibly amusing that Willoughby was not only arrogant enough to agree to the duel in the first place, but overconfident in assuming that he'd emerge from their bout the victor. I mean: the Sybaritic Dandy who's never had to work for anything a day in his life vs. the Veteran Soldier who's fought to overcome every hurdle thrown his way for years now. The odds were more than stacked against Willoughby, which, in turn, made the duel even more of a morally grey area for Brandon: is this the gentlemanly thing to do, let alone the correct thing for a royal officer, to fight a man and a civilian so inferior in skill and experience? And that's all before your throw Marianne into the mix.

But then, ignoring that Willoughby at the very least deserves a good thrashing, Willoughby certainly never viewed himself as lacking in any regard. Heck, to the contrary, Willoughby ranted at great length - he had a wonderful argument with Elinor in Chapter X where he just made himself look ridiculous - about how he considered Brandon's penchant to think rather than speak and all his life experiences beyond England to be inconsequential enough to save him from being a completely bland old gentleman who's too dull to interest anyone beyond having admittedly polite manners. Which is even funnier when you consider that Willoughby lacks those same manners. That Willoughby actually is that shallow, with nothing but empty romanticism to elevate himself in his own regard, just highly amuses me. To carry that contrast between them on through the constructs of a duel was just so interesting to consider and then execute.

Right?! Willoughby has never been my cup of tea as a character. I personally have a hard time suffering textbook narcissists more so than I do most villains for how close they hit to home. Forget everything with Marianne. That he used a girl in this way - that he even admitted to Elinor in his "apology" that he was used to indulging his habit for such dalliances, and he only first intended for Marianne to be another such conquest - and then abandoned her in the middle of London with no money, no way to contact him (heck, he even called her stupid for being unable to find him on her own), and a baby after convincing her to run away in the first place . . . That's low by the standards of our time, let alone then, when these girls were ruined in the eyes of society while Willoughby was still able to marry his rich heiress and live happily ever after in the lap of luxury for the rest of his days. Yet, somehow, he truly thinks himself the tragic hero of his own story. Eugh!

I just . . . Vi, I detest few villains the way that I do Willoughby. I can't stand him, so I really had to fight to make sure I was treating him fairly throughout the story. He's IC as far as I can tell, but then I well know my own bias to the contrary!

First of all, I love that we now have to include the addendum of not in a fun or interesting way before calling a character a creep. You, sir, are no Festus or Ferrus, no indeed you are not! Willoughby is hardly a victim of circumstance. To the contrary, he had every tool at his disposal to do good and choose good. Instead, he constantly chose to indulge his selfish desires, no matter the cost to others, all because of his conceit, greed, and vanity. That, in my humble opinion, is what makes a true villain.

Then, I kinda squeed out loud to hear that you went out of your way to watch a movie just because my muse is stuck in a mood. Gosh, but that made me so happy to hear! And of course I loved your reaction to Willoughby. Oh how I loved it! See, again, my own admitted bias. He's just sooooo -

I had SO MUCH FUN researching this story that I now follow a YouTube channel that's all about the history of weapons and their use in combat through the ages all over the world. Each and every video is fascinating, lemme tell you!

Anyway, there was one video in particular where they showcased eighteenth century backswords with basket hilts, and I was just like: yep, that's Willoughby. In contrast, pre-Napoleonic British infantry officer's sabers were criticized for not having enough of a hilt. Not only that, but the guards of the hilt collapsed so that a sword could lay flush against a uniform, which was a fashion statement as much as it was practical for ease of mobility. So the hilts were stingy and weak, which, to me, seems like a great way to lose your fingers if you don't know what you're doing. The juxtaposition in their weapons alone all but wrote itself as far as characterization is concerned. I mean, just look at these fancy monsters:

Spoiler: Basket Hilt Swords

And then compare that to:

Spoiler: British Infantry Officer's Sword

Again, those two plates collapse. While every officer commissioned their own sword - the army didn't provide their weapons, so how strong the blade itself was depended on how much money was spent in the forging - they had regulations they were required to keep to as part of their uniform, and that was one of them. You can really see that here in the next one.

I couldn't have better material to work with if I wrote the history myself.

I had Elizabeth Bennet, the queen of sass herself, ringing in my ear to say that the best way to punish an arrogant man is to laugh at him. And, well, I was cackling along with Sir John here, too.

Aw, that made me so happy to hear! How dear is that??

Then, that's actually a very easy detail to forget or not realize. Jane Austen never gave Brandon a first name, and the '95 film called him Christopher a grand total of once. So, while not exactly canon through the mouth of Austen, that's now pretty widespread throughout the fandom, especially following Alan Rickman's passing to honor his performance.

You're not rambling! Those are the best kind of thoughts, and it's beautiful that stories can generate those reflections that can then be shared in return. I loved your insight. That is definitely something I've thought about, too! Especially in regards to Austen's time, where family names were so important and carried so much weight. It was a mark of a close friend to be able to use your given name for just how personal they were, which really made your surname define you all the more so - especially for men. Mr. Darcy will forever be Darcy to us; it's almost weird to think of Elizabeth calling him Fitzwilliam after they're married! Likewise, John using Brandon's name drew him up short here for just that reason, and I love that detail stood out to you, just like it was intended.

Then, that subject becomes all the more complicated when you throw in titles. In my pre-canon fic - which I really need to show you one of these days - I have a scene where awkward teenage Brandon, fresh off the boat from England, stumbles over how to introduce himself now that he's a lieutenant. There's this line from John in reply, saying that he's given up his Christian name for a rank, and if he manages to survive and serve with any sort of distinction that title is only going to grow to define him all the more so over the years to come. It was a rather sobering line that I was really proud of, and your review called that back to mind for me.

Just:



You know?

Thank you!

This is where watching all those fencing videos really came in handy. I found it fascinating that a good saber fight almost gave the impression of being slow. The more experienced swordsmen hardly seemed to move at all, which was the whole point. Sabers were designed to be held with one hand for self-defense at close range, while a pistol was then held in the opposite hand for offence in true combat situations. European officers fought in that style until WWI, even, while the general ranks of solders fought with firelocks and bayonets. The curve in the grip of a saber allowed the wielder to change blocks with very little effort through flexions of the hand and wrist alone, and the reach of the sword was then capable of protecting the entire body. Sabers are nothing like two-handed longswords made for melee fighting, to say the least! One video even specifically said not to bash a saber like a club, which was a detail I of course then had to use.

I was even reminded of how Count Dooku's lightsaber form always seemed so effortless and graceful compared to others he dueled, and that was because of Christopher Lee's actual fencing training and wartime experience, which inspired the choreography. In the end, truly good fencing isn't flashy; Brandon knows how to stay alive with a sword, and Willoughby knows how to show off for a crowd. When I was trying to decide how the actual action of the duel would go, it really was just that simple.

(Also, also: it's absolutely ridiculous how many times I almost wrote lightsaber out of habit in my first draft. It's funny how different and yet the same so much of this was in the end. )

I can't deny that I took a very personal delight in writing so much of this scene.

And to think that I almost cut John punching Willoughby in the face from the story entirely - but, more about that in a second.

Because that's a fantastic insight as regards to Willoughby. I always found it interesting that in his entire "apology" speech to Elinor (which I quoted only part of in my opening notes - it gets even worse, believe it or not ) he never once mentioned the baby. I don't know if that's because Austen was at her limit of shocking things she could include when publishing her novel, or, more likely in the context of the story, Willoughby was consciously choosing not to acknowledge his child. Because nothing is his fault, right? He has an excuse for everything, and a cause for complaint against every woman in his life that he uses to justify his own vain, selfish choices. The kicker is, just like you said, that he really believes those excuses himself.

. . . yeah, he's just such a creep, and it is pathetic.

Right?? That really is the great thing about writing these "still waters run deep" kind of characters, as I know you know. When more emotion does make it to the surface, those moments then seem even more intense in comparison.

That's especially true for a character like Brandon, who's reserved through practice as much as through natural disposition. He had all of the negative examples he could have followed to the contrary from early on in his life, but he instead chose to break that cycle of cruelty between fathers and sons. While fighting to reject that mold, he could have easily given into bitterness and anger over the years, yet he has made - and he continues to make - the choice to not be like his father or brother. See, Willoughby? You have to make a decision to do the right thing. You don't just avoid that choice when it's not the easiest or most ideal option available. These two men are so very different down to their very nature - and hey, lookie there, that's kinda where my title came from.

Just, when you think about the whole of Brandon's story . . . he was exiled to the army following his failed elopement with Eliza, who was then forced to marry his brother instead. No matter; he served bravely and found a career for himself. All the while he hoped that Eliza healed in his absence and at least found some happiness in being mistress of the estate with some command of her own fortune. Eliza, however, was far from happy, and she abandoned her marriage in a fit of desperation. Brandon finally came home from India to find that his brother had squandered Eliza's money and the estate was nearing insolvency. There wasn't much he could do as the second son, but he nonetheless took it upon himself to find the servants who'd been let go to make sure that they were compensated in parting. Paying the debts for one such servant was how he found Eliza in the first place. By then, Eliza was not just divorced from his brother, but a fallen woman of the worst possible sort. That didn't matter; he removed her from the sponging house and made sure that she passed her last few days with dignity. Eliza died with the comfort of knowing that she was still loved, and the assurance that Brandon would care for her child. He was just twenty-two, then, a bachelor soldier with no fixed home to give little Eliza, but he still raised her as best he could. He continued to serve in the army all the while, and climbed the ranks to colonel. Years later, he unexpectedly inherited Delaford following his brother's death - a home attached to few fond memories. Did he sell it, or, better yet, burn the house to the ground? Well, the land was encumbered from years of mismanagement and the tenants who depended upon his family for their survival were suffering. So, he stepped aside from the place he'd earned with his regiment and did his best to rebuild Delaford from the ground up. It's easy to infer that the younger Eliza had no desire to live in a house where her mother was an object of such scandal, and so he continued to pay for her education and for her to travel with various different families who had daughters her age. When she disappeared from Bath and was only traced as far as London, months of silence must have implied the worst. Eliza did finally turn up, pregnant and abandoned by her seducer. Brandon didn't cast her aside - as was not only socially acceptable, but rather socially expected at the time - but instead attempted to secure her relief through marriage to her child's father. When that didn't work, he made sure that she and her baby were provided for in Willoughby's stead. All the while, he'd fallen for Marianne despite every misgiving and constantly telling himself not to, as his feelings were definitely one-sided. That's all right; he was still there as a friend for the entire family, and anything the Dashwoods needed that he could provide, he did. Then, for the cherry on top: what's that? A man he doesn't even know has been cruelly disowned by his own family for daring to love the wrong woman? No biggie: here's a living so that you may marry without your family's support. Ha, take that, impediment to true love! Somehow, after everything, Colonel freaking Brandon is still a bleeding heart romantic. How is he still a romantic? For that, I just adore his character beyond words. Jane Austen knew how to write a hero, is all I can say!

But - and now I'm coming to the point of this rant/info dump, I promise - no matter that Brandon has made it a lifetime's endeavor to choose to do the right thing, every disappointed hope, every experience survived in combat, every grief endured on behalf of a loved one - too many long buried wounds are now right there at the surface and wearing the same face . . . and that face is running his mouth. Willoughby ought to be grateful that Brandon has so much practice at self-control. I don't think he ever realized just how much danger he was in, otherwise.

Why, thank you. Because it is so complex and problematic and downright messy! I couldn't resist delving into the mire, and I'm thrilled that it ended up reading so well.

You and me both.

Something else, indeed. Where he can't win with a sword, Willoughby is certainly landing his own blows. And to know that he intends to honor neither Eliza or Marianne at this point, but he's instead just reaching for any advantage he can . . .

. . . have I mentioned how much I loathe Willoughby as a villain, because I do?

(And, and - I was particularly proud of that description, too. So thank you!)

I rather thought so myself. But, ahem, see my aforementioned bias, again.

Amen to that. I never understood why Brandon backed down from telling Elinor the truth during that first visit in London. I mean, I understand, but it's still not enough. And don't even get me started on the "I'd hoped your sister's influence could reclaim him," or "bring out the very little good that's in him" or "towards her at least his intentions were honorable", I think was the '95 movie's line? Nope. That still doesn't fly with me. Marianne deserved to have all of the facts to make an informed decision, no matter how painful making that decision may have been.

Exactly! It seems to me that a good person is one who can admit the wrong in their thoughts and actions, and strive to do the right thing going forward regardless. Should Brandon have challenged Willoughby? Probably not. There were too many messy emotions at play, not the least of which being that ugly strain of jealousy. But, like John said, he still did the right thing when he had the perfect opportunity to indulge any number of darker impulses - and, in doing so, he kept his honor.

Willoughby, on the other hand -

- isn't quite so honorable.

Oh, I'm so glad! I mean, it was beyond satisfying to write, but I really worried that my bias influenced this scene too far. Yet in the end I reasoned: Willoughby is selfish and vain. To have just been so solidly trounced by a man whom he's openly ridiculed and scorned before - in part because he has his own jealousy the other way as far as Marianne is concerned . . . yeah, I can see his wounded pride inspiring him to lash out in a fit of temper. Willoughby never holds back on any of his impulses, so why would he, even with violence?

Then, Sir John strikes me as the type who'd punch a jerk in the face if he was finally pushed that far - none of this pretty dueling business about it. Especially in defense of a friend. So I gave in and finally let the scene be what it was.

A knight will always mean one thing to me before anything else, what can I say? So I completely understand. Reading this, in turn, made me emotional. There's really no higher praise I can imagine receiving as an author. I was truly honored to have inspired such a reaction!

I just couldn't stop smiling when I initially wrote those last few lines, and your review brought back all of that stupid grinning and then some. Yes, that's exactly what this story is about at its core - by their very nature, again, as far as a knight or a friend is concerned - and I can't say enough for how overjoyed I am that the themes I wanted to explore in writing this came across so clearly!

Those were actually the first lines I wrote for this story, would you believe it? The whole outline then developed backwards from there. I could hear those words so vividly, and to know that they continued to reverberate beyond their initial inception . . . again, I am beyond incredibly touched as an author!

Oh my goodness, but I can't thank you enough for your wonderful feedback. This is definitely one of those reviews I'm going to return to again and again in the future.





~ MJ