Bruce Alexander - An Experiment in Treason

There I stopped, panting and quite out of breath. It seemed we were both left with nothing more to say, for we were silent for a considerable while.

“And so,” said Clarissa, “what shall we do?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, I should think.”

“But it’s all so plain,” she protested. “Do we cover our eyes and stuff our ears with cotton wool?”

“If we must, I suppose. Yet I do not think it will pose a problem. Black Jack is much too canny a fellow to ignore the limitations put upon us all. He will have explained to the others, I’m sure.”

As with so many things in life, the problems were greater in anticipation than they proved to be in actuality. It was a surprisingly happy occasion. Surmising correctly that we would have had our evening meal, Mr. Bilbo served us dessert rather than dinner — or, indeed, it was Marie-Helene who had proven so dangerous to Clarissa when last we had imbibed. The dessert was a tart in the French style — a variety of berries and other fruits in a base of Sweet custard, and all of it baked in a pie of the finest, flakiest crust. I had had no such treat since our days in Deal. It was, in fact, so like what we had eaten during our first days there that I began to wonder.

“Tell me,” said I, “was this delectable dessert baked by the famed Jacques?”

“It was,” said Marie-Helene. “And do you remember him so well?”

“In truth, I never met the man. Yet I believe I would know him an3rwhere by his works, which are quite the finest of their kind.”

“Put like a true gallant! ” said she, punctuating her declaration with a bit of impromptu applause.

“Might I meet him?”

At my question, Marie-Helene and Mr. Bilbo exchanged glances; hers was of an inquiring sort, and his response came back in the negative.

“Ah, but no, Jeremy. That is not possible. He has begun his journey back to France, and left this tart which we eat as his final gift to us.”

And Jimmie Bunkins merely smiled.

So it went through the evening as we recalled old times and other occasions.

Clarissa reminded Mr. Bilbo of our chance meeting with him in Bath, where he had come of a purpose to lose his money. I asked Marie-Helene if she knew how Black Jack and Bunkins had met; then did I tell her the whole story before she could say yea or nay. Then did Bunkins stand and toast our host declaring that he was “the best cove a lad could want and to be equaled only by one who ain’t with us at the moment.”

It was thus a true valedictory moment with toasts raised and drunk; there was laughter, yet through it all a sense of underlying seriousness, as well. More stories were told, another bottle of wine opened, and then at last we divided; I went with Bunkins at his suggestion to the front of the great house, as Mr. Bilbo excused himself and said that there were matters which begged his attention in his study. Thus were Clarissa and Marie-Helene left alone to talk, as the latter had requested.

Bunkins and I walked down the long hall to the street door, which he threw open in an invitation to step outside. He followed me and left the door ajar.

“Let’s sit right here on the steps,” said he. “It ain’t too cold for you here, is it?”

I assured him that it was not.

“I like to sit out here and do my thinking sometimes, and I decided, maybe I’d tell you what I been thinking about. I mean, if you don’t mind listening.”

“Go ahead,” said I. “We’ve not talked so in quite some time.”

“You was remembering for the lady how it was that me and the cove got together. Jeremy, do you remember how it was you and me met?”

“Well, I remember you took me to the Raker’s to show me the body of the old barrow-woman.”

“That’s right, Moll Caulfield. We did that, but that ain’t how we met. You remember? We fell to tussling one day right there in the middle of Berry Lane. And when the Blind Beak hisself come out to pull us apart, I knew him right off and took off running, fast as ever I could.”

“Which was pretty fast back then.”

“Still is.” He laughed. “Anyways, that’s how we came to know each other — by rolling around in the dust in Berry Lane. And I been thinking about that, so I have. And you know what I been thinking? That all the good things that came to me since then — meeting Mr. Bilbo, getting the little bit of learning I do have, all of it, came from meeting you and that fight we had some years back. You changed things for me. Never had much luck till I met you, and since then, it’s all been good luck, and I want to thank you for that.”

We talked on together for many minutes more, perhaps an hour in all. Yet what was said further was in no wise so seriously said as that eulogy that Bunkins had offered me. We ceased only when the coach was brought round. Then was it quite obviously time to think about leaving. Bunkins returned me to the dining room where all awaited us, and he did announce that the coach was out there in St. James’s Street. Once again then at the door to the street Clarissa and I stood awkwardly wondering what was now to be said.

“Au revoir,” Marie-Helene offered. “That means, ‘till I see you again.’ It is a promise that we will.”

“Au revoir, ” said we all.

In the coach, Clarissa and I found we had tears to be wiped. I passed to her my clean kerchief, clearing my throat quite earnestly yet still sensing a certain huskiness in my voice as I attempted to speak.

“What did you think?” I asked Clarissa.

“Oh, many things,” said she, “but let’s not talk about it just now.”

I took her hand and held it — loosely, so that she might take it back from me whenever she wished. Yet she did not withdraw it. “You may put your head on my shoulder, if you like.”

That she did, and we rode thus half the distance to Bow Street. But then, without moving her head from its station on my shoulder, she spoke in a quiet voice.

“I can tell you one of the things that I think.”

“And what is that?”

“Molly Sarton is wrong.”

“Wrong about what?”

“About Marie-Helene seeking to trap Black Jack into saving her. She, in all truth, loves the man dearly.”

“You’re sure of that?”

Only then did she move her head from my shoulder and look me square in the face.

“Aren’tyou?” she asked.

I thought hard upon it for a long moment. “Yes,” said I, “I’m just as sure as you are.”

She put her head back on my shoulder.

“I heard no good-byes and no talk of escape,” said I to her. “Let us not say a word of what was or was not said this evening. Let us speak only of The Merchant of Venice.”

“What? The Mer — oh yes, yes indeed. Not a word … only … only, dear God, I hope I see them all again.”

Having uttered that distressed cry, she did once again return her head to the spot where it had previously rested. I was content with that, in truth, I liked it very well indeed. I thought, as thus we kept our silence, of the many conversations we two had had over the past few years — conversations which more often than not had ended in debate. I had enjoyed such play, for play was what it was. Nevertheless, this silence between us was something new, something more serious, something vaguely profound. I rather liked it.

“Tell me a little about your doctor friend, Jeremy.”

It was Molly Sarton’s first inquiry as we set off for our great buying trip to Covent Garden for the Franklin dinner. I was sure that there would be more questions to follow.

“You mean Mr. Donnelly, of course,” said I. “What do you wish to know?”

“Well, there’s something right there. You say he’s a doctor, but you call him plain old mister. Now, how does that happen?”