Page 23 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

George's gaze darted from his friends to the box in Darcy's hand, and finally to the darkness of the cellar.

"I will die," he realised. "I have never fired a pistol in anger. I have only fired at partridges. And I missed them."

"Then you must learn." Richard drew his own weapon. "Tonight. In the study. We have four hours until dawn."

"Come," Robert beckoned. "Out of the pit, Agnes. It is time to prepare for your execution."

The study of Captain Lindon's townhouse was a more comfortable setting than the cellar, but the mood was funereal.

George Wickham sat at the desk. He had been allowed to remove the mob cap, but he was still wearing the grey wool dress, as Robert insisted that changing clothes would "waste valuable survival time."

A bottle of brandy was placed before him. He took a sip, grimacing.

"Write," Robert commanded.

"What am I writing?" George asked, dipping a quill in the ink with a trembling hand.

"Your last will and testament." Robert inspected a speck of dust on the mantelpiece. "It is standard procedure before a duel. You own... what? Six waistcoats and a horse?"

"The horse is Darcy's," George sniffed. "I own the saddle."

"Leave the saddle to the poor," Robert advised. "It shows character."

Darcy stood by the window, staring out at the lightening sky. The guilt was clawing at him again. George was pathetic. A man in a dress, writing a will for a saddle he barely used.

"Is this necessary?" Darcy murmured to Richard, who was polishing a pistol by the fire.

"Vital," Richard whispered back. "He has to believe it, Darcy. If he thinks we will save him, he learns nothing. He has to stand on that field and think, 'This is the end.' That is the fire that forges a man. Or at least scares him straight."

"He will swoon."

"He might. If he does, we prop him up."

"I have finished," George announced, his voice hollow. He sanded the paper. "I have left my cravats to you, Fitz. Yours are so drab. Perhaps mine will inspire you."

"Thank you, George." Darcy choked back a hysterical laugh. "I shall treasure them."

"And to you, Robert," George continued, a tear splashing onto the parchment. "I leave my debts. You are the only one who can afford them."

"Touching," Robert said dryly. "Now. The weapon."

Richard walked over. He placed a heavy duelling pistol on the desk. It was unloaded, of course, but George did not know that.

"Pick it up," Richard ordered.

George reached out. He touched the cold steel and recoiled.

"It is heavy," he whispered.

"It is a tool of justice." Richard's eyes held a dangerous gleam. "When you stand on the Heath, you will raise your arm. You will aim for the chest and you will squeeze. Do not jerk. Squeeze."

"What if he shoots first?"

"Then try to fall backward," Robert advised helpfully. "It preserves the face for the open casket."

George let out a low moan and put his head on the desk.

"I do not want to die," he sobbed into his arms. "I want to go back to Cambridge. I want to study! I will study Latin! I will study Greek! I will memorize the Enclosure Acts!"