London - Edward Rutherfurd [476]
“He is a gallant fool,” she added. “And the fault is mine for making him think you a brute.”
St James still said nothing.
“William,” she cried, “this foolish duel must be stopped.”
“The insult was offered, and in public. I’d be the laughing stock of London if I did nothing.”
She considered. “Honour,” she suggested, “may be satisfied with a prick, may it not? A drop of blood will do?”
“I suppose so.” Many duels resulted in only a small wound, often in the arm, at which both pairs of seconds would hastily end it. Deaths happened, but were rare.
“Then I beg you,” she cried, “do not kill him, for he has certainly not deserved it. I shall write to him now to scold him and to tell him we are reconciled and that he has no cause to defend me in this foolish way any more.”
“You do not think you need defending from me?” he asked.
“That is forgotten. We are reconciled, are we not?” She kissed him. “I have never betrayed you, my dear lord, and I never shall.” She smiled. “Go and rest now, while I write my letter.”
Soon afterwards, the swift footman was carrying her sealed missive to Jermyn Street. As for Lord St James, he did not sleep; but in due course came and lay by his wife who held his hand for several hours. She had dozed off when he kissed her and, a little after dawn, he went out with a lighter heart.
It only took him five minutes to reach Hyde Park.
For centuries the old deer park, which lay immediately west of Mayfair, had belonged to the monks of Westminster, until King Harry took it from them when he dissolved the monasteries. The Stuarts had opened the place to the public, and the long carriage drive round it, the route du roi (or Rotten Row, as the common people soon pronounced it), was nowadays a fashionable place for a lady to be seen in her carriage. A still more charming addition had been made when the little Westbourne stream was dammed, to make a large, curved pond called the Serpentine. But in the early hours of the dawn, its ancient oaks and quiet glades were convenient for another purpose: the fighting of duels.
The issuing of challenges between gentlemen had an ancient history, from the days of medieval combat and long before. But it was only in the elegant eighteenth century that arranging private duels became fashionable. Why this was so is hard to know. Perhaps the West End of London, where huge numbers of people with leisure, and all claiming gentility, lived close together, provided a breeding ground for social disputes. Perhaps it was the influence of the increasing number of regiments, with their chivalric military ethos. Or perhaps the upper classes, led by the aristocrats who had made the European Grand Tour, were aping the customs of the French and Italians. Whatever the reason, they duelled upon points of honour and courtesy. And though, to later and more timid ages, the practice seemed barbarous, it certainly provided an incentive to be polite.
The law was mild concerning duels. The courts, after all, were run by gentlemen who understood these matters. There was no question of murder, since, by definition, both parties were consenting to the business. If you killed your opponent in a duel, you risked a fine, or perhaps a nominal three months in jail. That was all.
There were seven men present: the duellists, each with two seconds, making six, and a doctor being the seventh. The carriages remained a little way off. The place the seconds had chosen lay in a dell, screened from view, additionally, by the spreading oaks all around. Though there was not a soul in the park, St James was keenly aware of the company of the birds, whose morning chorus filled the air. The seconds had inspected the swords. He took off his cloak and handed it to his second, then took the rapier. He was wearing a linen shirt with loose sleeves: a sensible choice, just heavy enough to keep out the slight chill that was still in the morning air. He noted a little dew on the grass. He must take care not to slip.
As the