A Pair of Bullets

         “Please don’t do this Constance, he isn’t worth it!” said Sophia throwing both of her arms tighter around in desperation.

           Constance thought for a moment, then responded looking directly at her, “I know Sophia, but I won’t stand for it.” He traced his hand over her cheek, they had become windswept friends and confidants since his arrival to Scotland. He was a guest of Lord Hamish McKenzie, Sophia’s father. Constance had befriended the entire family in fact and was ardently infatuated with the eldest daughter, Sophia.

           The tall, elegant woman had black hair that curled softly. Her eyes were green as a tropical lime and radiated a warmth that filled Constance to the brim with affection, she was strong of mind, and poised, she held a beauty he had hardly seen in his lifetime. Perhaps his favorite attribute was the way that she held her lips when she was thinking, or stern, or taking a nap in the conservatory, or any way at all really.

           Constance on the other hand was the son of an American diplomat and simply handsome compared to the Scottish men who had pervaded Sophia’s life. He had sandy brown hair and he too had green eyes, but his were dark as a pine forest and noticed everything, especially where she was concerned. He was a traveling man, a sportsman of a fly-fisher and a scholar of history. He had never stayed anywhere more than a week, until he found his way to the McKenzie household. 

           Lord Hamish McKenzie wanted Constance to marry Sophia. He could find no one suitable until he stumbled upon Constance napping on his property. The man had been fishing for the small trout which lay in the small, clear waters of his land. His traveling partner, a black cat named River slept on his chest, and the Lord knew that this man, whoever he was, must have been kind and proper for an animal to love and trust him so. Of course, he could not judge him only by the fact that animals loved him. Constance continued to prove his worth when he treated the family with kindness and sincerity despite their destitute manor. The conversations they held, the events they attended, the way he stood up for little man…He was a true gentleman.

           On this night, one of thunder and smoke, Sophia had her “Coming out” party, an event where young women would show that they were ready to get married by having a get-together with the eligible men and women of the area who were of similar ages. Sophia was twenty-one and McKenzie was finally ready to see his daughter join another family. McKenzie had loved all his daughters equally, but after his wife had died nine year ago, Sophia had partially adopted the role of mother. She was too young to be a guardian of five and still looking after her father.

           When Sophia, Constance, Lord McKenzie and the other men and ladies of the party were sitting down for dinner the question of Constance’s heritage came to light. A young, British lord sat at the table giggling to himself and when Constance asked what was so comical, the lord’s face turned serious for the first time all night. “What is a beggar like you doing here? Are you to gawk at all of these lovely women and to embarrass yourself in front of all of us gentlemen?” He flashed a dashing grin, and some of the crowd laughed along with him, they had all wondered why an American was at the table.

           Constance Hill sat back and smiled; he could tell when someone was looking to pick a fight. He thought it would be better to act properly, than to let loose the fury that had erupted in him. “Well if you must know, my father was recently the United States Ambassador to Germany, he died three years ago, and I have been on the road since. Traveling around Europe, the Americas, and parts of Asia, I’ve been able to master my craft. My mother died shortly after of consumption, and my brother and I parted. He is now an actor in New York, and I am just a student of the rivers and streams that I discover. If I were to return home I would be burdened with a large estate, and mansion, and I sincerely have no use for it.” His tone had changed from proper to exhausted. “I just don’t have the time.” He smiled back to the lord.  

“And you’re in love with Sophia.”

           Constance’s face turned pink, he had told no one so he made an attempt to compose himself, “Well in a sense I suppose, I have been a welcomed guest of Lord McKenzie and I have grown fond of all of his family. They have shown me unfettered hospitality and Lady Sophia is a true friend.” He smiled over at her.

           “Oh, but you wish she were more. That much is evident from your face, the way you looked at her when she entered the room, anyone could tell. She wears a plain dress, but you ogle her as if she wore a gown of gold.” He looked over at Sophia, “And you would like the same it seems. Sophia McKenzie would like nothing more than to marry you, move to your mansion, support her impecunious family, and have children with the handsome American.” He looked back at Constance, “And you are looking forward to giving her children.”

           Constance stood with so much force that the heavy oak chair in which he had previously sat smashed to the floor, the sound birthed a round of silence in the room. An uncomfortable pause entered the room. Constance looked like an animal, his shoulders were tensed, and his stubbled face cause the flickering shadows of the fireplace. He looked monstrous, and yet when he spoke, his voice was quiet, calm, and deathly. “You may offend me as much as you want, but you may not offend the family who feeds you. Even in America we tend to be polite at the dinner table, surely you can do better.”

           “I will do as I please.” said the lord.

           “Then come over here and do it to my face, at least show that much respect.”

           The man rose carefully from his chair. He set his wine down, which was nearly gone, and snapped his fingers. A butler who hid in the gloomy shadows hurried over with perfect cadence of step and pulled the chair out from behind his master. The man wiped his face, and dusted off his jacket, which needed no care; it was perfect as is.

Constance made him for the first time in the night. He wore an ivy cravat with his jacket which was a violet velvet. He had a spotless complexion and was clean shaven for the occasion, not even a shadow of hair touched his face. His hair was combed to perfection and his pants had zero wrinkles or tarnished spots. This “perfect” being now mirrored his butler; with an uncanny rhythm he strode across the hall and up to Constance. Constance could see McKenzie’s face, he was shocked at the whole event and had rubbed his face, skewing the look of his hair and eyebrows. He didn’t know what to do.

The man continued to stride behind McKenzie’s throne and over to Constance. He stood and shouted, “Let us be done with this, Lord Woodward, Mr. Hill, please!” 

           The man arrived, and the two men stood face to face.

           “You should go back to Ameri-,”

           CRUNCH. Lord Woodward fell to the floor clutching his nose. He was a crumpled mass, a spider playing dead. Constance leaned down, whispering distance from him, “Say it again…Please.” His green eyes had turned almost wholly black and the young lord realized perhaps he had known not with whom he had quarreled.

           Constance looked up to the crowd, “I also was quite the sportsman in college, even boxed a little.” He winked to the witnesses.

           “Howard!” the lord shouted. The butler almost ran to the aid of his master and pulled out a handkerchief from his overcoat. He wiped that master’s nose and asked him if he was alright. As he pulled Woodward to his feet the lord snagged another man’s riding glove from his pocket. When he stood again, he slapped Constance across the face; the leather gauntlet struck him cleanly and the lord believed that the man would at least display some form of shock, but the cheek was fortress to the glove, he did not move an inch, if anything the action just seemed to make him calmer and stiller than before.

           There was a gasp from the audience that sat around the hard and ancient table. “A dual.” They heard a woman gasp, “Are they not illegal?” asked another.

           Constance didn’t care, he looked to Lord McKenzie, “I’m sorry Hamish, I can’t stand how rude he his.” He pointed at the man with his informal thumb.

           McKenzie sat back dazed and concerned, in the past months, Constance had become a son to him. He had never had one, and he felt that this was the first time he was willing to let a man into the house. He loved him, and he knew that Constance was indeed doomed.

           Sophia began to cry; she truly loved the man who stood before her now. She loved his voice, which had sung to her on one magical under a lilied arbor. Loved the way his hair was never made up, how he knew so much about literature and history, and loved how he looked at her. To her, he was the one man she could be with for life.

           Constance walked outside quickly and waited for the enemy that walked closely behind.

           “You understand that this is not for blood, but for death, do you not.” The butler had accompanied his master with a beautiful redwood box. He opened the container to show two beautiful silver, flintlock pistols. They indeed were spectacular killers.

           “I do.” Constance felt confidence in himself, while he never mentioned it to most people, he was an extraordinary shootist. He had won competitions in sharpshooting and quickdraw and was content with his abilities.

           The lord walked into the scene and took of his evening jacket, the frills of his shirt jouncing with the wind. On his face lay a thin grimace, it seemed that he may have been regretting his decision. If the American was a sportsman, he most definitely knew how to shoot. Instead of worrying the lord surveyed his surroundings.  

           The area in which they stood was a long, macadamized walk along the McKenzie gardens. Verdant hedges lined the lane and were lit with flaming candle lanterns. The crew of guests were not long on their tails. They all found a spot perpendicular to the new execution alley.

           Sophia ran to Constance, grabbing his arm and staring up at him. Her makeup was running, and she sobbed into his muscle. “Please don’t do this Constance, he isn’t worth it!” She yelled at him.

           “I know Sophia, but I won’t for it.” His prior inhibitions were long gone. If he were to die, he wouldn’t be embarrassed, he’d rather live of course, but knew that he had an even chance of it. “He was vile to you my darling.” Pausing to roll up his sleeves, “And if I live through this, I promise that I will tell you every morning and night just how much I love you; how much you mean to me in every moment.” He smiled at her and the lord, her father, pulled her from him.

           The butler explained the rules. They were to turn, back to back, walk ten paces each, then on the count of three they were to shoot their pistols. He pulled the guns of the satin and exposed a pair of bullets nestled in their silky nest. He loaded them one at a time, he was careful and calculated, but Constance could sense no worry from the butler, he must’ve had confidence in his master.

Constance’s head towered inches above the lord, his shoulder blades poked at the man. He could feel the warmth of his enemy, the blood running through him. He could feel the breathing of his lungs and the pounding of his heart.

The two turned, then stepped their ten paces. Bodies turned, two men with the intent to kill. Silver barrels aimed at one another. The proctor of a butler counted down, “One. Two. Th-.”

Piercing sound of the gunshot rang throughout the garden, a puff of smoke emanated from the silver firearm. The ashen vapor drifted over the face of the hopeful killer. Woodward’s nose poked through the opaque screen; his mouth twisted into a horrendous grin. Opposite of him lay Constance, his previously ivory shirt now soaked with a crimson flower that bloomed from his chest.

           He coughed lightly, the wound that now marked him had obliterated his right collar bone, blood spurted out of the hole and onto his face. He managed a mumble, “You…you shot early.” He smiled through blood-soaked teeth.

           “Constance!” Sophia screamed, she took two steps toward him and fainted, her father caught her quickly keeping her body from striking the rough stone path.

           “He gets to shoot!” someone screamed from the onlooking crowd. “He gets to shoot!”

           The voice was right, Constance did have a free shot because the lord had fired before his mark. But Constance’s arm was useless.

Lord McKenzie, after securing his daughter in a garden chair, went to the side of the fallen man. “Shall I duel in your stead?” He whispered to Constance.

           “Do you think I’ll live?”

           McKenzie looked at the wound. There was a chance, McKenzie had seen many wounds in his lifetime, and while the man would have the go through severe rehabilitation, he thought, “He may live and regain the use of his arm.” then whispered to Constance, “I hope so.”

           “Good ‘nough. Put it into my left hand,” he twitched the pistol slightly with what little muscle he could command. “I need to do it.”

           McKenzie did so. He pulled his fingers from the gun and slid into his other hand. The hand was still strong even though the man who wielded it turned pale. Woodward’s face turned pale too. Never had he missed a man’s heart by such a large margin, “surely he won’t have the strength.” He thought.

           The gun’s front sight lifted from the ground, then Constance’s arm. It shook for a moment, then went very still. An eruption of fire and silence followed, and the body of Woodward fell onto the pebbles. The butler went to his aid and found his master was still able to look him in the eyes. The hole with which the lord was now adorned was identical to that of Constance’s in location, but not in angle, and now both of their lives were perhaps forfeit.

           There was a complete silence in the garden.

           The two bodies lay sprawled out on the ground. The butler ordered people from the group around and bandaged his master. He groaned at the servant and called names as he was aided. Lord Woodward was a truly ungrateful retch.

The other body sucked air quickly, then quieted. Constance’s green eyes stared up into the night, the glaze over them evident to all who saw him. His chest neither heaved nor moved at all. The silver killer that had been in his hand now lay still on the ground. The congregation of guests left the garden, they meandered out of the court and to their homes on the cobblestone lanes that lined the nearby town.

           The two gnarled fingers of lord McKenzie softly broomed the lids of the American who looked as if he were sleeping soundly in a grassy bed. A subtle smile still adorned his face. Somewhere, an ocean away, a brother became the last of his kind. The blood had stopped, the heart had stopped. And all that could be heard down those little roads and alleys was the wailing of the Lady Sophia McKenzie, and the family who lost the man named Constance.