Forrest Leo - The Gentleman

‘Don’t ask questions, just do it.’

Lancaster has retreated to a wall, slid down it, and sits on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped round his shins. His chin rests on his kneecaps and he looks absurdly like a small child. ‘My life is over,’ he moans.

‘SOME PERSPECTIVE, PLEASE!’ I shout.

He lapses into sullen silence.

‘Very well, Cousin Hubert,’ I say. ‘I neither know nor care why it is you believe yourself my cousin, but I am ready when you are.’

He is looking about for means of escape. It irks me that he goes about challenging strangers to duels but hasn’t the fortitude to run me through. He mumbles, ‘I really don’t think—’

‘Hubert!’ I say sternly.

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ He gets hold of himself and raises the sabre. ‘Where should I…?’

I take his point and place it between the fourth and fifth ribs on my left side. ‘Here,’ I say solemnly. ‘Steady now. Are you ready?’

‘I’m a little nervous,’ he says. ‘Might I get my snuffbox before—’*

‘HUBERT!’

‘No, no, right, I’m sorry, what?’ He refocuses. ‘Right here?’

‘Right there. And the sooner the better, if you please.’

‘Lionel!’ says Lizzie, apparently only just realising that I am serious in my intent. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘I’VE TOLD YOU FIFTEEN TIMES!’ I say. ‘I’m killing myself to get to Vivien!’

‘To Vivien?’ asks Hubert in befuddlement.

‘Don’t speak,’ I say.

‘Sorry,’ says he.

‘Nellie, I forbid it,’ says Lizzie.

‘Should I—’ begins Hubert.

‘Ignore her,’ I say.

‘If you ignore me—’ says Lizzie.

‘Plunge home, man!’ I cry, alarmed. Once Lizzie has set her hook there is no disobeying her.

‘But—’ says he.

‘Now, Hubert!’

Lizzie has picked up the pistol that I set down. She points it at Hubert. ‘If you stab him, I’ll shoot you,’ she says calmly.

‘It isn’t loaded!’ I protest.

‘Isn’t it?’ says she.

‘Is it?’ wavers Hubert.

‘No!’ I say.

‘Care to find out?’ she says, her finger tightening on the trigger. Hubert visibly quails. I prepare to throw myself upon his sword point before he has a chance to lower it.

As I ready myself for the end, I hear the door open behind me. ‘Ah, Simmons,’ I say, ‘just in time. Goodbye for now, old chap — I won’t be needing that tea after all.’

‘I’m not Simmons,’ says a stammering voice which I have heard only once before but would recognise anywhere. ‘Simmons is in the kitchen. What are you doing, my friend?’

It is the Gentleman. He is pushing a tea service. ‘You!’ I cry.

Hubert lowers his sword with relief. Lizzie lowers her gun.

‘Hello!’ says the Devil warmly. ‘Been keeping well, I hope?’

‘Lancaster!’ I hiss. ‘It’s him!’

Lancaster is still slumped on the floor hugging himself. ‘Him?’ he says absently. ‘Him who?’

‘The— The—’ Somehow it seems improper to say it. ‘You know!’

‘Oh,’ he says, mildly interested.

‘Oh goodness!’ says Lizzie. ‘Hello, sir, I’m Lizzie—’

‘Don’t speak to him, Lizzie!’

‘I’ll speak to whomever I please.’

‘Then I hope you enjoy sleeping out of doors, for I am still master of this house and no sister of mine will have dealings with — that person!’

She stamps her foot in annoyance but says nothing. I turn back to the Gentleman, who wears a look of polite curiosity. ‘I demand you return my wife to me at once!’

He frowns confusedly and says, ‘Excuse me?’

‘Vivien Savage,’ I clarify, in case he makes a habit of this sort of thing and loses track. ‘My wife. I know I accidentally sold her to you—’

(I overhear Hubert asking Lancaster, ‘Who’s that?’ ‘I believe it’s the Devil,’ he replies, to which Hubert says, ‘My God!’)

‘—but I want her back,’ I continue.

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ says the Gentleman. ‘Tea?’

‘NO I DON’T WANT TEA!’ I shout. ‘I want my wife!’

‘Where is she?’ he asks.

‘Exactly!’ I say.

‘What?’ says the Gentleman.

‘Where?’ I say.

‘Who?’ says the Gentleman.

‘What have you done with her?’

‘What have I done with your wife?’

I am losing my patience, and will do I know not what. Why is he playing dumb? I do not understand why he will not talk to me with gentlemanly frankness. If he does not want to return her, he need only say as much and I will then… challenge him to a duel? I laugh inwardly at the thought.

At that moment, the front door bangs open and a voice calls, ‘Hubert! Hubert, where are you!’ I know very well who the voice belongs to, but I cannot believe it. It does the most astonishing things (the voice, I mean) to my stomach, heart, lungs, and eyes. My knees weaken of their own accord and I put a hand on the desk to steady me.

A moment later my wife enters the room.

We must look a strange tableau before her. The Gentleman is trying to offer round tea, Lancaster is on the floor like a small child, Hubert and I are still holding our swords, and Lizzie is dressed only in a blanket, absently scratching her nose with the barrel of the duelling pistol.

‘Oh God,’ says Vivien, ‘I’m too late. Lionel, I don’t know what he’s said but don’t you dare fight him. He’s trying to be gallant, but you’ll just kill him and that won’t get anyone anywhere. I forbid you to kill him.’

‘I was about to kill him !’ says Hubert, a little hurt.*

‘Vivien,’ says Lancaster, still on the floor, ‘something dreadful has happened.’

Neither of them seem to grasp the obvious, extraordinary fact of her presence, but I do. ‘You’re alive!’ is all I can say.

‘Hubert,’ says Vivien sternly, ignoring me, ‘put that sword down! Hello, Lizzie!’

‘Hello, Vivien!’ says Lizzie brightly. I think it terrible breeding of them both to be so informal upon their first meeting, but I do not say anything.

I round on the Gentleman. ‘If you ever touch her again, I will drag you up from Hell and kill you with my bare hands.’

‘But I didn’t touch her,’ says the Gentleman.

‘Who’s that?’ Vivien asks no one in particular.

‘You must be Mrs Savage,’ says the Gentleman with polite interest.

‘I’m Vivien,’ says Vivien.

‘It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you,’ he says, offering her his hand.

‘Who are you?’ asks Vivien.

‘I’m— Well, I flatter myself that I’m a friend of your husband.’

I have been watching the scene in a reverie, which I abruptly pull myself out of. ‘Don’t talk to her!’ I say, slapping the Gentleman’s hand away from hers.

‘Lionel!’ says Vivien in a tone of remonstrance. ‘That’s no way to speak to your friends!’

‘He’s not my friend,’ I declare firmly.

‘I say!’ says the Gentleman, looking hurt.

‘Crumpets?’ says Simmons, entering with a tray of them.

‘Are you really the Devil?’ asks Hubert.

There is a pause. ‘Oh,’ says Vivien eventually. ‘Hello, Your Highness.’

‘Hello,’ says the Gentleman, looking a little embarrassed but also a little mollified.

‘Hello, Mistress Vivien,’ says Simmons.

‘Hello, Simmons,’ says Viv.

‘You sold your wife to the Devil?’ says Hubert, aghast.

‘If it’s any consolation,’ says the Gentleman, ‘I wasn’t informed of it.’

Hubert still looks very confused. He says, ‘But she couldn’t have been with the Devil, she was with me.’