These Three Remain

Shaking his head, Darcy let out a heavy breath. Dy had succeeded yet again in piquing his curiosity with his enigmatic speech. Questioning him further or issuing a demand for an explanation he knew to be useless. His old friend would merely return him a shrug of his shoulders and a ridiculously vacant, puzzled look with the reply that he had quite forgotten whatever silly thing had come out of his mouth and that Darcy should not regard it. Besides, Dy knew that his friend’s appearance in Genuardi’s fencing rooms was not accidental but related in some way to Georgiana; and that concerned him more than his opinion of the company Monmouth kept. After only a few minutes at his exercise, Dy dropped his sword arm and looked back to him with a curt “Ready?”

“That is all the preparation you require?” Darcy looked dubiously at his friend. “How long has it been, Dy? Have you done anything since university? You can hardly have warmed sufficiently —”

“Afraid I shall disappoint you, Fitz?” Dy cut him off. “Have no fear, my friend. My blood is quite up and has been for the last half hour or more.” He walked off then to an empty position on the floor, leaving Darcy little choice but to follow him, his eyes narrowing in perplexity. What was this uncharacteristic behavior about? If, out of concern, Georgiana had sent Dy after him, why fence with him? It was much more his old friend’s way to suggest billiards at their club or some sporting event to “banish that tedious set of your jaw,” as he called Darcy’s jealous protection of his privacy. Save for the rigors of the field, Darcy could not recall observing Dy in a sweat in all of the two years since he had returned to Town. He took his place opposite Dy and, after their salute, settled into the en garde from which their engagement would begin.

“My Lord! Mr. Darcy! Scusatemi!” Signore Genuardi called out urgently as he quickly strode across the hall toward them. “Perdono, signori, are you knowing one the other? Prodigioso!” He beamed at them with the fondness of a master for his prize students. Darcy looked to Brougham uncertainly, a suspicion beginning to form. “Per cortesia,” the fencing master continued, “allow me the pleasure. I will judge.” He then motioned them back into position and in a ringing voice that echoed above the murmur of the now attentive hall proclaimed, “En garde!”

“We have an audience, it would seem.” Dy matched Darcy’s advance but made no motion to offer the attack. “I had not anticipated such interest. Unfortunate, that!”

“You know Genuardi?” Darcy flexed his wrist, causing the tip of his foil to trace out tight circles in the air between them.

“Everyone knows Genuardi.”

Oh, how he hated it when Dy played his obtuse games with him! The irritation decided him. Springing to the attack, he took first priority, pressing Dy back several steps before being blocked and parried. Brougham’s riposte was effective but unremarkable, exactly what Darcy had expected from a good swordsman who had been away from the sport for several years. He blocked Dy’s thrust, parried, and pressed his attack back upon him, but this time he did not force him back as far before being blocked. Brougham’s parry was nicely done, and the first part of his attack was a move they had learned and practiced together in their university days. He deflected it easily but was met with it again, this time accompanied by a new twist of Dy’s wrist and body that greatly increased its effectiveness. He avoided it by a hairsbreadth and fell back one, then two steps.

“Touche!” the fencing master declared. “To His Lordship!”

Brougham drew back from his victory immediately and saluted him. “You are underestimating me, Fitz! I expect it from others, but not from you. I should not have gotten that one.”

“You will not get it again, I promise you,” Darcy bit out and returned to position.

“En garde!” Genuardi called them back together. This time, Darcy waited, intent upon observing everything possible about Dy’s stance and style, but his opponent offered no clues, merely smiling and holding his foil up before him in a desultory fashion. Darcy grimaced back, then lunged into first with a ferocity that swept them both into a display of arm that elicited shouts of admiration from the onlookers as they swiftly traded right-of-way, lunge, and parry.

“Touche! To Signore Darcy!” The blood was singing through his veins as he gave Dy back his salute. They were excellently matched, and it felt…good!

“Up to your weight that time?” Dy threw at him before returning to position.

“More what I expected of you, yes. Quite good.” His smile remained as ever, but as Dy turned away, Darcy had the sudden, uncomfortable feeling that more than his swordsmanship was being measured. It was a deuced curious sensation that he had felt more than once in the two years since their friendship had been resumed. He turned at position and looked back into Dy’s face, only to meet eyes that were focused upon him with a piercing intensity. Darcy brought up his foil.

“En garde!” Their third bout was like the previous one: swift, powerful, elegant. Darcy found that his friend answered him stroke for stroke, and the allotted time was almost gone before the tip of Dy’s foil caught him just under his heart. “Touche! To His Lordship!” The entire school and club were gathered at the sidelines now, and the response was deafening.

As they exchanged salutes, Darcy leaned toward his friend. “And where have you been training and not breathing a word of it? If that had been swords and serious —”

“You would still be whole and hale,” Brougham interrupted, the smile gone. His eyes bore into Darcy’s. “A man must have a heart to be slain by that stroke.”

“What?” Darcy’s brows shot up in surprise, but the fire he had seen in his friend’s eyes had already been replaced with his habitual nonchalance.

“You must forgive me, my friend, but I can spare you only one more bout. A pressing prior engagement, you understand. This little tete-a-tete” — he sighed — “was not on my calendar for today.” He offered him a small bow and sauntered back to position, leaving Darcy to stare after him in dawning comprehension. Dy was angry with him! He returned to his mark in some confusion, his mind casting about for an explanation. Why? And what was this about having no heart? Turning back to face him, Darcy went into position immediately. The noise of the onlookers quieted now that it could be seen that both of them were ready. He took a deep breath. No manners, no conscience, and, now no heart! See what you have begun, Miss Elizabeth Bennet? He snorted bitterly. All that remains now is a Greek chorus!

“En garde!” Signore Genuardi’s command cracked through the now silent hall. This time, Dy did not wait for Darcy to decide whether to take first opportunity but came at him directly with force and speed. Not only he but those gathered to watch as well could see that Brougham’s sword work was in earnest, and Darcy had never felt so hammered. If that was the way of it, then so be it! he resolved as he parried Dy’s lunge, taking the right-of-way from him and setting to. He put every move, every feint, every twist of body or wrist that was at his command into his attack and had the satisfaction of driving Dy back almost to his mark. The exhilarating sense of his body as a finely tuned and responsive instrument returned, along with an exquisite timing that seemed to send every thrust exactly where he wished it to go. Although Dy had successfully avoided the tip of his foil thus far, he knew that he was forcing from him the employment of every shred of knowledge and skill he possessed. Back and forth they worked, and the onlookers could contain their appreciation no longer. Shouts of encouragement mixed with those of astonishment as the time ticked forward with neither man scoring a hit amid the dazzling display. But Darcy, wholly focused on his goal, neither saw nor heard the uproar. Suddenly, there was an opening.

“Touche!” Genuardi could barely be heard, but those around him took up the cry. “To Signore Darcy!” The hall seemed in chaos, but the two men on whom the excitement had centered stood apart from it, their breaths coming in gasping unison as, with an awkward caution, they eyed each other. Slowly, a reluctant smile spread across Dy’s features, and he brought his foil up in salute. “Well done, old sod! You might make a swordsman yet!”

“Ha!” Darcy laughed, returning the gesture. “And I might say the same of you! Two to each of us — not a decisive outcome!” Then he turned a sober regard upon his friend. “Are you going to tell me what this was all about?”

Dy looked away. Which one will it be who answers the friend or the fool? Darcy wondered.

Darcy wondered, “I stopped in at Erewile House this morning to see whether you had recovered from your jaunt in Kent,” the friend replied, turning to look him full in the face, “only to find Miss Darcy alone and in very low spirits.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Whatever it was happened in Kent, Fitz, I beg you will not give Miss Darcy the grief of it! She is all concern for you, while you behave with her in a shabby, patronizing manner nursing