Sorry, Olympia.
But that was the only moment of sentiment Ripley allowed himself. There was no place for emotion on the dueling ground.
The seconds retired to a safe distance behind the duelists.
The surgeons took position not many feet behind them.
The servants moved back, behind the surgeons.
Ripley cocked his pistol and raised it.
All his mind, his being, was focused on hitting Ashmont. He knew Ashmont was doing the same, shutting out every other thought, every regret, every memory.
“Ready, gentlemen?”
“Ready,” said Ripley and Ashmont at the same time.
When Olympia glimpsed the post chaise, nearly hidden among the trees, she made the hackney driver stop, and she was pushing down the ancient window, reaching for the door handle before the coach had quite stopped altogether.
She leapt into the road and ran toward the post chaise, Jenkins behind her.
“Where?” she said to the postilion. “Where are they?”
“Dunno,” he said.
“You do know. They’re—”
She broke off, hearing voices.
“Best not go in there all wild, missus,” said the postilion. “Dunno what you’ll get in the middle of. They been there a good while yet.”
He was right. She had no idea what had happened, and the last thing she wanted was to make a distraction and be the cause of somebody getting killed by accident.
As opposed to getting killed on purpose, damn them.
But, oh, please let them still be fussing about ground and distance.
She made her way as quietly as she could along the path the men must have taken . . . and came to a sudden, shocked stop as the clearing opened up before her.
They were already in place, raising their pistols.
It was like the nightmare, where she’d been frozen, unable to move or speak. Now she didn’t dare. She could only remain perfectly still, hoping Ripley hadn’t noticed her out of the corner of his eye. It was too late to stop him. She mustn’t distract him and throw off his aim.
All this went through her mind in no time but seemed like an eternity while she stared helplessly at the tableau: Ripley’s hand holding the pistol pointed at his friend. Ashmont’s pistol pointing at Ripley. Both men standing so rigid. From where she stood, they seemed to be made of stone.
A voice called out, “Ready, gentlemen?”
At the same moment, the two men said, “Ready,” while she covered her mouth and held back the scream inside her: Nooooooo!
She saw the handkerchief fall. So slowly it seemed to fall, hanging in the air and fluttering down, down, down. Two blasts rent the morning’s quiet, one an instant after the other.
In the same endless moment she saw Ripley’s arm go up, his pistol firing into the air. Birds exploded, screeching, from the trees while she watched helplessly as he spun and fell to the ground.
Chapter 18
Olympia remained immobile, unable to believe what her eyes told her.
The world was so quiet, but for the birds, still squawking.
Numb, she watched Ashmont give his pistol to a man nearby and run to Ripley. Another man was moving that way, but Ashmont pushed him aside.
She moved then, on stiff muscles.
She saw Ashmont kneel on the ground and lift Ripley’s head up. Something dark spread over the side of his face and down his neck.
She saw Ripley’s body convulse. Ashmont’s body shook, too, as he bent over his friend.
The numbness broke, and she ran across the clearing.
She flung herself at Ashmont, shoving him so hard, he fell over.
“Get away from him!” she cried. “Leave him alone!”
She knelt beside her husband, whose body, on its side, was in spasms. Blood. So much blood. She wanted to be sick.
She was aware of another man there, opening a black bag, but he was simply there, like the indignant birds. Noise. Background.
She became aware of another sound, too, completely discordant.
It took a moment to recognize what it was.
Laughter. Great, rolling guffaws. She looked down at her husband’s blood-streaked head. He was curled up, laughing.
She looked over at Ashmont, who’d rolled onto his knees. He was holding his stomach and laughing, too.
“I hate you!” she cried. “I hate you both.”
She fisted her hands and pounded Ripley’s arm. “You idiot! What is wrong with you?” She hit him and hit him. She was crying and she hated it, but she couldn’t stop.
Finally Ripley grabbed her hand. “It’s all right,” he gasped.
“It isn’t,” she said. “Nothing is right. Look at you. What’s wrong with you?”
Ripley was grinning. Blood trickled over his face.
“Ripley!”
“S-sorry, m’dear.” He let out a snort. Ashmont made the same sound.
“I hate you both so much,” Olympia said.
“If Your Grace would be so good as to allow me to examine His Grace,” said the man with the black bag.
She moved aside. She drew up her knees and folded her arms on them. She rested her forehead on her arms and tried to catch her breath. Her heart wouldn’t stop pounding.
“Dammit, Olympia,” Ripley said. “You were supposed to be sleeping.”
She looked up. “Don’t speak to me.”
He sat up, wincing as he did so. He put his hand up to his head. “That stings, rather.” He took away his hand. It was sticky with blood. Blood oozed from the side of his head and covered half his face.
She put her head back down on her forearms again.
“We’ll have it mended in a jiffy, Your Grace,” said the man with the black bag. “Grazed the scalp. I believe Her Grace requires sal volatile.”
“No,” Olympia said. “I never faint.” How many times had she seen younger brothers bleeding? They were always falling out of windows or trees or into lakes or onto rocks. Or fighting. But this was different. “It seems he’s not dead.”
“Apparently not,” Ripley said. “Don’t feel dead.”
She turned away. She was furious and terrified at the same time. He laughed, but he would, while he had breath in his body. The surgeon made it out to be minor, but of course he would. Men made light of the most ghastly things and fell into a desperate state over trivia.
But there was so much blood. She remembered the way Ripley had acted about his sprained ankle. Men deemed it beneath them to be injured. They pretended they weren’t. They’d pretend at death’s door.
She edged away. She didn’t need to hover while the surgeon attended to her dolt of a husband. Ripley wasn’t at death’s door. She was merely overwrought. Her hands were shaking. She glared at them.
“Yes, best to let the surgeon get on with it,” Ashmont said. “Don’t want the bastard to bleed to death from a trifling hole in the head.”
“Trifling?” Ripley said. “Dammit, you almost killed me. What in blazes were you thinking?”
“You deloped!” Ashmont said. “You were supposed to shoot at me, you cheating bastard.”
“Cheating?” Ripley said. “What did you think I’d do? You almost killed me, you half-wit.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Ashmont said. “You didn’t even try to kill me.”
“Did you think I would?”