“Crawford, I must speak with you privately, sir, on an urgent matter.”
With feelings most unwilling, Crawford led Edmund through the crowd and found a secluded spot in the park, under some plane trees.
“Crawford!” Edmund spat out in contempt as soon as they were out of hearing of the others. “Crawford, I call you out to defend your infamous conduct.”
An observer might have thought Henry Crawford turned a little pale, but his bearing remained as graceful as ever, his voice languid and unperturbed.
“Sir? Do I understand you correctly, are you issuing me a challenge?”
“For your destruction of my sister Maria—and my cousin Fanny—”
Crawford’s eyebrow shot up. “Fanny?”
“Did you not enter into a sham marriage with her?”
“Yes, but I only requested her services for a short period of time — “
With a cry, Edmund launched himself on Crawford and would have borne him to the ground had not Crawford’s friends, watching the pair with interest, intervened. Edmund struggled to regain his composure, then, through clenched teeth, said only, “My brother Tom will be my second. Do not fail to meet me tomorrow morning.” He left the Square and regained the street, to commence walking, he knew not where.
Crawford brushed himself off and attempted to make light of the matter, but Charles Buxton, the president of the Four-in-hand Club, hastening into the park in response to the commotion, would not be satisfied without some explanation. Understanding that the challenge concerned the honour of a young lady—nay, two young ladies, for the affair proved to be twice as scandalous as the first report—Buxton exclaimed, “and some of my friends did warn me about you, Crawford! I will appoint one of our members as your second, to whom you will confide every detail of the events leading up to Mr. Bertram’s challenge, and by every means in your power, you will seek an honourable resolution without resorting to the folly of settling your dispute with a duel. In the meantime, you will not accompany us today, nor ever will, until this matter is satisfactorily resolved. This is a club for gentlemen, Crawford, and I will not have us become notorious for being rakehells and seducers.”
“Sir, I understand you perfectly….” Crawford began, but Buxton brushed him off contemptuously and stalked away.
The humiliation of having to leave Cavendish Square with all eyes upon him enraged Henry Crawford, and it was some time before he could command himself to explain and attempt to defend his conduct to Mr. Stanhope, whom Mr. Buxton had appointed as his second. He soon discovered that what he had regarded as a light-hearted escapade—pretending to be married to thwart the designs of a young lady who had herself broken through her prior engagement—was viewed more seriously by Mr. Stanhope. Stanhope saw an offer of marriage to Miss Bertram, along with a handsome settlement on Miss Price for the injury to her reputation, as the only solution likely to satisfy the Bertrams.
In vain had been the precepts of his religion, as taught by his late mother, in awakening Henry Crawford’s conscience. In vain were the pleadings of his sister, in vain were Maria’s tears and Fanny’s frowns; none of these had availed to give Henry Crawford a sense of his duty to his fellow creatures. But now, faced with the loss of his blue-and-yellow waistcoat, threatened with being an outcast from the exclusive society of gentlemen four-in-hand drivers, he agreed to everything.
“You had better see a solicitor, Crawford, and draw up the marriage articles and make some provision for Miss Price. I will meet with the Bertrams,” Mr. Stanhope offered, in a tone that brooked no opposition.
But, by the time that worthy man called at Wimpole Street, neither Mr. Edmund Bertram nor Mr. Bertram were declared to be at home by the butler, and he came away only with a note, fixing the meeting at dawn on the following day, at the West Meadow on Hampstead Heath.
* * * * * *
Tom Bertram had responded to Fanny’s note by hastening to Wimpole Street, shortly before Mrs. Butters and Susan returned from their outing. After a brief but anxious conference, he saw Fanny packed safely back to Stoke Newington—she had to be almost lifted up into the carriage, so oppressed was she with grief and horror—with a promise to send word the next day. Dusk was falling when Edmund returned and Tom persuaded him to leave home and have supper with him at his private gentleman’s club near St. James’s Square.
Tom had bespoken a private dining-room and to Edmund’s surprise, four of Tom’s particular friends—Anderson, Yates, Sneyd and Hedgerow, were all in attendance. “As it happens, Edmund, I was hosting a special supper tonight, and I think you will soon perceive why you were not one of the guests. But, events have necessitated a slight change in the evening’s entertainment.”
“We were to have been playing cards,” put in Mr. Yates, evidently disappointed.
Tom, as usual, was a gracious host, spirited and witty, and Edmund would have enjoyed himself thoroughly had he not been completely consumed with pictures of facing down Henry Crawford on the morrow and watching the b-st-rd fall backwards, with a crimson stain spreading over his shirt, and his eyes staring sightlessly at the dawn sky. Tom’s friend Charles Anderson sent a servant to retrieve his prized dueling pistols, and they were passed around and admired by the men.
The clock struck nine and the ninth bottle of claret was opened, when Edmund stood and made to excuse himself, pleading the need to get a few hours’ sleep before the contest in the morning.
Instantly Tom’s countenance changed
