Norman did not wait for his brother-in-law to reply. Instead, he came striding up to stand between Turner and Duncan. "Randolph," he said, "I tried to persuade Sheringford to leave quietly before you were forced to come face-to-face with him. I understand how unspeakably painful this encounter must be to you – and in such a public place too. But he has refused to leave, and so on his own head must be the consequences. There are numerous witnesses, all of whom no doubt share your outrage and mine. No one will blame you for speaking your mind here and now and demanding satisfaction. All will attest to the fact that you were given no alternative." Duncan regarded Turner with raised eyebrows. The man's already pasty complexion acquired the color and consistency of chalk. He stared back at Duncan, his jaw set hard, his eyes inscrutable.
What /did/ one say to the man one had allowed to run off with one's wife without making any attempt to pursue him and run him to earth and throttle the life out of him on the one hand, or to spurn and divorce the faithless wife on the other?
What did one say to the man one must suspect knew all one's deepest, darkest, nastiest secrets? "I loved my wife," Turner said, "more than life itself." The two young ladies drew closer to his sides. One of them gazed worshipfully up at him. The other twined both arms about his.
Duncan nodded. "Yes, she told me all about that," he said. "You had /no right/," Turner said, "to interfere between a man and his lawful wife." Duncan did not turn his head to look, but he would wager a sizable amount that more than one lace-edged handkerchief was being raised to more than one feminine eye in the room behind him. "No /lawful/ right at all," Duncan agreed. "Randolph," Norman said sternly.
Turner glanced at him uneasily and licked his lips. "You will wish to demand satisfaction from the scoundrel," Norman said.
There was a collective feminine gasp from the room.
Miss Huxtable's hand tightened on Duncan's arm. "A duel?" Duncan said. "Have duels been made legal since I was last in London, then, Norm? That is an interesting development. Do you /wish/ to challenge me, Turner? With so many witnesses? Even ladies?" "I – " Turner began. "Of course you do, Randolph," Norman said briskly and firmly. "I will be your second. There is surely not a person here present who would not applaud you for taking such a firm stand with the villain who exposed your sister to public humiliation and destroyed your happy marriage." Someone really ought to find Norman a seat in the House of Commons if he did not wish to be an actor. He would sweep all before him with his oratory. "There is at least one person present who would /certainly/ not applaud such a childish way of settling an old quarrel," Miss Huxtable said. "What on earth will be settled if one of you blows out the brains of the other? I would suggest a rational discussion of your differences – in private." The pervading silence suggested that hers was a minority view It was not an entirely unilateral one, though. "Miss Huxtable," Turner said, fixing his eyes on her. "I presume that is who you are, ma'am, though I regret never having been introduced to you.
You are quite right. Mrs. Henry's home is /not/ the place for such a distasteful confrontation. And it has never been my belief that violence settles anything. Besides – forgive me, ma'am – I do not believe the Earl of Sheringford worthy of the honor of a duel. He has chosen his path to hell and will be allowed to tread it to the end as far as I am concerned. I feel no compulsion to speed him on his way." Now /both/ young ladies were gazing worshipfully at him. Someone in the library stifled a sob. Someone else sniffed quite audibly.
Duncan smiled, his eyes fixed on Turner's. "It has never been your belief that violence settles anything," he said softly. "One can only admire and respect such pacifist views. If you should change your mind, you know where to find me, I do not doubt, though I must caution you that Sir Graham Carling may not be overly delighted to have his home invaded by two belligerent gentlemen – an aggrieved husband and a man who is his relative, though not his brother." Turner's eyes bored back into his own. /Yes, of course I know/, Duncan told him silently. /Did you comfort yourself for one moment in the last five years with the possibility that I did not/? "Randolph," Norman said sharply, "think of your poor late wife if you will. Think of your sister." Duncan looked down at Margaret Huxtable. "Shall we go in pursuit of that lemonade?" he suggested. "A drink would be very welcome indeed," she said, and they proceeded into the dining room after Turner and his entourage had stepped smartly out of the way.
It was clear that the occupants of the dining room had been following the encounter as avidly as those in the library. There was a loud silence as everyone gawked at them, and then everyone turned away and rushed back into merry conversation with one another. "Well," Duncan said, "I hope you are enjoying your public wooing, Miss Huxtable." "If a duel is ever fought," she said, her voice trembling with emotion, "and if one drop of blood is shed on either side, I shall personally kill you." "That," he said, "is mildly illogical, is it not? But I did not realize you cared so deeply." She looked into his eyes and kept her voice low, though it still throbbed with feeling. "That poor man," she said. "Tomorrow, Lord Sheringford, you must call upon him – /if/ he will receive you – and apologize. Most humbly and most sincerely. You wronged him, and while you cannot change the past or expect forgiveness for it, you can at least acknowledge that what you did was very wrong, that the suffering you caused was inexcusable. You will apologize, Lord Sheringford." He raised his eyebrows. "Or else?" "Oh," she said, "do there have to be ultimatums before you will do what is right? You /must/ apologize." "You advocate lies, Maggie?" he asked her. "Lies?" She frowned. "No, I do not, though I have told some of my own in the past few days – none of which has done me a great deal of good." "And yet," he said, "you would have /me/ lie?" She continued to frown. "I am not sorry," he said. "If I apologize, I will be lying." She closed her eyes for a moment and her shoulders slumped. "Oh, you foolish man," she said. "You must have loved her a great deal.
But love ought not to cause dishonor. Or pain." "Can you have lived to the age of thirty and still be so naive?" he asked her.
Her eyes snapped open. "Let me fetch you some lemonade," he suggested.
The Earl of Sheringford was taking an empty plate from her hand and returning it to one of the tables before Margaret realized that she must have eaten something – she could not remember what. And her glass was empty. Lemonade? Yes, she could still taste it.
She was smiling. Lady Carling was coming toward her like a ship in full sail, both hands outstretched in front of her. "The Deans invited us to dinner ages ago," she said, kissing Margaret's cheek, "/long/ before Agatha set the date for her soiree. We have only now been able to get away and come here. And thus we have missed all the excitement. Margaret, my dear, you must be a saint to have borne it all and still be standing at Duncan's side. I understand Randolph Turner declined to challenge him to a duel, which is surprising really and even slightly shameful, though I am vastly glad he did. My nerves would never have recovered from the strain. Duncan, my love, you have no choice now but to eat a great deal of humble pie and apologize. You ought to have done it long ago." "He says he will not," Margaret told her. "He says he is not sorry." His mother clucked her tongue. "Laura Turner was a very fortunate woman, then," she said. "Duncan, you may fetch me some ratafia." Another half hour or so passed, most of it in company with Lady Carling and some of her friends, before Lord Sheringford suggested again that he escort Margaret home. She had never been more glad of anything in her life, though she would have died rather than ask to be taken. She felt exhausted.