Part XI: Recovery

The sound of turning pages welcomed Haddock back to consciousness.  He was lying in a bed, a very comfortable bed.  He wearily opened eyes that felt like they had been glued shut.  The room was a familiar one.  So they had made it to the hunting lodge after all.  Orange autumn light was fading away through the window, striking dust moats that lazily floated through the air as dusk descended.  A few small candles provided meagre illumination in the mahogany-tinted room.  He couldn’t see who else was in there with him.  Slowly, so not as to disturb whoever was reading, he moved his arm to probe his chest for the wound.  His fingers rubbed across a bandaged tender spot, causing him to make a pained noise in the back of his throat.  The reader set the book down and hustled over to his bedside with a swish of fabric.  Miss Marlowe’s face fell into the candle’s halo of light.  Haddock had expected to see no one else’s face but hers.  The thought made him curious, but he dismissed it.

              “You’re awake,” she said with a smile and an overwhelming sense of relief.  She looked like she hadn’t slept.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he croaked.  Working his dormant tongue caused him to taste old blood in his throat.  He made a face.  Miss Marlowe poured him a glass of water from a jug on the nightstand and administered it to him like he was a small child.  He would have taken the glass from her if his arms didn’t feel like lead.

              “I told my family that your mother wanted me to spend a month at the Estate, and I told your mother that I had to leave town for a family tragedy,” Miss Marlowe said simply, placing the glass back on the stand.  Haddock leaned his head against the pillow and closed his eyes. 

              “Lies within lies will only get you into more trouble.”

“You’re one to talk,” Miss Marlowe replied with a sniff.  Haddock was too drained and weak to engage in a verbal battle right now.  The sounds of a swishing dress drew away from the bed.

This was followed by the sound of a chair being dragged to the bed and subsequently occupied.  Nails thrumming on a book cover.

              “I made a deal with Evans after he pulled that bullet out of you.  I told him that we could take turns looking after you so that he wouldn’t be worn ragged.  He quite liked the idea, which is why he helped me to fabricate the stories sent to my family and your mother.  He’s resting right now—he stayed up most of yesterday as your personal nursemaid.  You should thank him when he returns, Mr. Haddock.  You owe him your life.”

              Haddock almost said, “It’s not the first time,” but held his tongue.  Miss Marlowe was putting on an air of indifference to hide the worry she was unconsciously projecting.  He didn’t need to alarm her about his past injuries.  Instead, he asked:

              “How long have I been, um…?”

“You’ve been delirious for two days, talking nonsense when you’ve been intelligible enough to string together words…”

              The thrumming stopped.

“Do you want me to tell you what you said?” she queried, a smile in her voice. “Oh, I’ll just tell you anyways.  For one, the way you called my name incessantly shed some light on your true feelings about me—"

Haddock’s eyes popped open as he snapped his head in Miss Marlowe’s direction.  Miss Marlowe laughed.

              “I’m only teasing you, Mr. Haddock!”

Haddock glared at her.  It was a half-hearted glare that fell away into an easy smile.  Miss Marlow’s laughing subsided.  She quirked a brow at him.

“Is there something on my face, Mr. Haddock?”

“What?”

              “You’re staring, and it’s making me feel very self-conscious.”

Haddock twisted his head back so that he was looking up at the ceiling once more.

              “No—no.  Your face is…fine.  It’s fine.”

He needed to change the subject quickly or he’d start finding it difficult to talk to her.

              “What happened to Sir Drexel?” he asked.

“You nicked him in the arm and he cried like a baby.”

              Haddock snorted.

“No, really.  What happened to him?”

              “I just told you, but if you’re referring to what he did afterwards, he holed himself up in his townhouse and hasn’t left it since.  He’s recovering, like you.”

“He’s licking his wounds and plotting,” Haddock said flatly. “If I had just aimed a few more inches to the right…”

Haddock counted knotholes in the beam over his head, thinking.

“What day is it, Miss Marlowe?”

“Saturday, but you slept through most of it.”

              “The next full moon is this Friday,” Haddock mused.

“What are you thinking?” Miss Marlowe asked suspiciously.  Haddock turned his head to look her full in the face.

              “He’s injured but not too grievously that he wouldn’t pass up a chance to go hunting during a full moon…He wouldn’t expect someone to be hunting him—”
              “And that’s going to be you, is it?  Mr. Haddock, I hope you realize you lost a significant amount of blood in your previous attempt at murdering each other.  You need to be resting, not thinking about going for a second round,” she said authoritatively. “I’d like to see you try to get up and walk around after lying about like a cor—”

              Miss Marlowe bit her lip.  Lying about like a corpse?  She shifted in her seat to hide her discomfort.

“The werewolf constitution helps the healing,” Haddock said.  That was half true. “And I’ll actually be the bait.  Evans will be lying downwind to shoot him with a silver bullet.”

              “But you’re still fighting him.”

“Yes—”

“Is Evans privy of his role in your scheme?”

“Not yet—”

              “Is this how you treat your friends, Mr. Haddock?  Volunteering them for possibly-fatal exploits?”

              Haddock turned his head, facing the window.  That was a low blow.  The sun sank lower, bathing the room in blue shadows.  Haddock heard a chorus of crickets begin chirruping from beneath the windowsill.

              “Do you know how to shoot a pistol, Miss Marlowe?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

              “Do you know how to shoot a pistol?”

“…No.”

              “I’ll teach you.”

Miss Marlowe ruffled visibly.

“I—you can’t just—how dare you assume—!  You’re an idiot if you think you can attempt two fights in a row!” she snapped, and got up and crossed to the window before Haddock could respond.  Haddock’s thoughts fell inward.  He began to see how much the duel and him getting shot had thoroughly rattled Miss Marlowe.  There was a sort of hysterical edge to her that he hadn’t seen before, one that felt if she was pushed too far, she would be liable to completely break down.  An uncomfortable, sickly sensation susurrated in Haddock’s chest.  Guilt.  He’d ignored her pleadings and strong repulsion towards the duel just so that he could feel the satisfaction of dropping Sir Drexel.  The ghostly image of Florence fluttered forth from the back of his mind where he’d locked away his deep regrets.  No, not again.  He barricaded her away.

              “Miss Marlowe?”

The woman turned so that the sinking sunlight limned her in a white glow, throwing her face in complete shadow.

              “Yes?” Wary.

“Sir Drexel’s comeuppance can wait.”

              The silhouette shifted.

“Are you being sincere, Mr. Haddock?”

              “Quite.”

There was a brief pause.

“It’s nice to know you’re being sensible for once.”

Part X: The Duel

“I hope you realize that I’m still against everything about this.  I’m only here because you asked me to come.”

Mr. Haddock sat on the opposite side of the carriage, thrumming his fingers on the windowsill.  He looked at Isolde with those piercing amber eyes, returned his gaze to the bouncing landscape outside.

“Just be grateful I didn’t spoil your plans and tell your mother,” Isolde muttered.  Mr. Haddock huffed a sigh, causing a momentary foggy circle to appear on the pane.  They had come to something of a truce after Isolde went off to think the day Mr. Haddock told her his motives behind accepting Sir Drexel’s challenge.  Isolde dropped the subject and restrained from interfering on her end, and Mr. Haddock avoided anything having to do with the duel in conversation around her.  Evans had been brought into the secret, and had himself requested that he be Mr. Haddock’s Second in the fight.  He rode on the box with the driver, who had also been sworn to secrecy.  Isolde grew fidgety as the carriage turned into the woods.  They were three towns away from Broadburn, headed in the direction of the Haddock’s hunting lodge, which lent some half-truth to Haddock’s lie to his mother.  This was where Sir Drexel and Mr. Haddock had agreed upon as the staging grounds for their duel. 

The wheels grated against dead leaves that littered the forest floor, shafts of golden autumnal sunlight peeking through the trees’ canopy.  Isolde’s nervousness intensified.  Mr. Haddock, on the other hand, seemed as calm as could be.  She didn’t really think he could be so cool about this whole ordeal.  Not when Sir Drexel was involved.  Her fear of Sir Drexel had turned to cold hate as events played out; only part of her reason for coming was because Mr. Haddock asked if she would be there.  The other reason was in hopes that he’d shoot Sir Drexel dead.

Isolde heard echoing voices from outside of the carriage.  She espied the sandy head of Sir Drexel glinting in the light amidst a crowd of well-dressed men.  She made an angry noise, of which Mr. Haddock took notice.  Before he could say anything, the carriage lurched to a stop and Evans was at the door.

“We’re here, Sir.”

Mr. Haddock jumped down from the carriage and barred Isolde’s way with his arm.

              “I’d prefer it if you remain inside the carriage.  This isn’t something a woman should see.”

Isolde frowned down at him.  After all the trust the two of them had built up, this was how he treated her!

“Why?  Do you think I’ll faint at the smallest hint of blood?” she shot back.  “You do realize I’ve seen worse; you get used to that sort of thing when your father is a tanner.”

              “Yes, you’ve told me that a dozen times over, but I would prefer it if you stayed here,” Mr. Haddock replied, a tone of finality in his voice.  Isolde returned his glare with her own.

“If you insist,” she muttered, sinking back into her seat.

              “Thank you, Miss Marlowe,” Mr. Haddock said, and shut the door.

                                                                                      *

Haddock straightened his jacket and together with Evans, strode over to the area where Sir Drexel and his followers were mingling.  Sir Drexel wore the same smug look he had after slapping Haddock in the face with his glove.  He raised a thin eyebrow.

              “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come, Haddock.”

“And I thought you might swiftly leave town again, Drexel,” Haddock returned in the same tone.  Sir Drexel’s false smile widened as he narrowed his eyes.

“Where’s Miss Marlowe?  Did that doxy leave you for another man too?”

Haddock held his fists in check.  You’ll get a chance to shoot him in a few minutes anyways.

“Where’s the pistols?” he asked instead.  Sir Drexel snapped his fingers and a meek little man in indigo livery scuttled over with a wooden box.  The man opened the lid, revealing twin flintlock pistols resting on a velvet cushion.  Haddock eyed them suspiciously.  Sir Drexel barked a laugh.

“If you’re that mistrusting, why don’t you choose your weapon first, eh?”

“Fair enough,” Haddock said, and lifted the pistol on Sir Drexel’s side, all the while watching Sir Drexel’s face to see if he would betray any of his schemes.  Sir Drexel’s sneer didn’t waver.  He fished the other pistol out of the box and the liveried man snapped the lid shut and retreated from whence he came.  Haddock handed his pistol over to Evans, who looked at it all over.  He handed it back with a curt nod.  Nothing irregular.  When Haddock looked back up, another man had appeared at Sir Drexel’s side.  He was dark-haired and rail-thin with deeply-pitted eyes that made Haddock think “criminal.”

              “This is my Second, Vespa.  He and your butler will decide how this duel should end.”

Haddock already discussed with Evans that he didn’t plan on holding back with Sir Drexel, so there was no need for this duel to be settled with first blood.  Vespa held his hands folded in front of him, rubbing a large ring on his finger while studying Evans.

              “How do you wish this fight to proceed, Signore?” the man asked.  His voice was low and smooth.  “Do the combatants cease after drawing first blood, when one falls, or to the death?”

Evans hesitated, seeming as if he was mulling the options over.  He looked at Haddock with a slight questioning expression in his eyes, but Haddock kept his eyes fixed on Sir Drexel.

              “To the death,” Evans said.

“So be it,” Vespa said.  He said something in Italian to Sir Drexel, who laughed.  Sir Drexel shed his coat and handed it to the thin man, who left to join the rest of the entourage.  Haddock removed his coat as well and handed it to an expectant Evans.  Evans took the coat, face void of emotion.  He turned to leave, and with his back at Sir Drexel, gripped Haddock’s shoulder.

              “Good luck, Sir,” he said and walked off to the side.  Haddock held the gun with both hands, feeling its weight.  He couldn’t tell if anything was off about it either.

              “Why the audience?”

“I promised my friends something exciting when I was last in London.  I thought this would be more than satisfactory for them.”

              Haddock’s extremities went cold.  So this had been planned.  Sir Drexel drew a few steps closer so that they were face to face.  He pitched his voice low.

“I’ve been looking forward to this, Haddock.  You better hope that your aim is as good as your handiness with your claws.”

              He traced a long, crooked scar over the bridge of his nose.  Haddock forced down the thing inside of him that wanted to fight Sir Drexel then and there with fists and nails.

“Ten paces,” he barked.  Sir Drexel shrugged nonchalantly.

“You’re only prolonging the inevitable.”

They both turned back to back.

“When this is over, I’m reclaiming what you stole from me,” the leering devil said under his breath.

              “One,” Haddock said, taking a step.  Sir Drexel followed suit.

“…Two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight…nine…ten!”

Two shots split the serenity of the forest.  Sir Drexel reeled backwards as blood sprayed from his shoulder and spattered over the dead leaves on the ground and his Second, a terrific howl erupting from his mouth.  Haddock also jerked backwards.  Something hot and burning had sunk itself into his chest.  He exhaled deeply as the pain increased tenfold and let the pistol drop from his fingers.  He felt warm, wetness blossoming from his chest.  Haddock coughed and crumpled backwards like a ragdoll.  The wound didn’t hurt so much as the bullet, which felt like a hot poker had been rammed through his ribcage.  He stared up at the autumn canopy as he heard Evans running up to him, trampling dry leaves and sticks.

Haddock grit his teeth, knowing he shouldn’t have left the duty of bringing the dueling pistols to Sir Drexel.  It had been a silver bullet loaded in the other’s gun.  Haddock had only experienced this kind of pain before, when a savvy huntsman who had heard rumors of a werewolf in Broadurn’s parts had shot him in the arm while Haddock had been galloping across the moors during a full moon.  He coughed and tasted metallic blood.  Evans skidded to a halt on his left while Miss Marlowe sank down beside him on his right.  Hadn’t he told her to stay in the carriage?  She never listened.  He tried to reprimand her but choked on blood.  Evans was methodical as he assessed Haddock’s injury, ripping open his master’s vest and shirt, jaw tight.  Miss Marlowe’s face was blanched as she watched Evans at work.

“Will he be all righ—?”

“Yes, if I can stop the bleeding and get that piece of metal out of him,” Evans replied coolly.  He applied pressure to the wound. “Call the carriage over, Miss Marlowe.  We need to get Master Haddock to the hunting lodge where I can work.”

              Miss Marlowe left Haddock’s field of vision, swift crunching footsteps headed in the carriage’s direction. 

              “If you don’t mind me speaking candidly, Sir,” Evans said quietly, “You were damn fool naïve to trust Sir Drexel.  This bullet is silver.”

“So was his,” Haddock coughed.  Evans’ eyebrows jumped up and he looked up.  Raised voices and crackling underbrush were coming from Sir Drexel’s side as the wounded man continued to groan.  Haddock stiffly twisted his head to see how the other combatant was faring.  Sir Drexel was kneeling on the ground, face contorted in pain as he clutched a blood-soaked arm while Vespa and another man from his entourage gathered him up and deposited him in one of the party’s carriages.  Vespa directed his face at Haddock and Evans, blinked his dark eyes, and mounted the carriage.  The party began to leave in droves.

              “Cowards!” Evans hissed.  The rumble of Haddock’s carriage sounded even louder with his ear mashed against the ground.

              “Evans.”

“Yes, Sir?”

              “Take Miss Marlowe back to her home after—”

Bloody saliva filled the back of his throat and he had to spit.

              “Take her home after—”

“Yes, Sir.”

The worry on Evans’s face was mingled with understanding.  Haddock closed his eyes as his body gave a convulsive shudder.  The driver leapt to the ground and helped Evans carry Haddock into the carriage.

Haddock’s impressions of the carriage ride to the lodge were fragmentary.  Evans’s face cast in deep shadows while the vehicle bounded through the woods, the man’s white sleeves rolled up as his master’s fresh blood stained his hands and arms.  Horses’ labored breathing.  Speckled sunlight dancing across the windowpane.  Thundering of the wheels.  Miss Marlowe’s pale hands holding his head in her lap as she whispered a repeated prayer.  Blackness.