Forrest Leo - The Gentleman

‘I’ll have a crumpet,’ says Lizzie.

‘Besides,’ says the Gentleman, ‘I am not in the habit of interfering with marital issues.’

‘Then what are you doing here?’ demands Lancaster.

‘I’m bringing back a book I borrowed.’

Lancaster’s brow furrows. ‘What book?’

The Gentleman brightens immediately. ‘Oh, it’s a lovely thing called The Idylls of the King . It’s by a great bear of a poet named Tennyson—’

Suddenly there is tremendous noise outside, and the whole house shakes upon its foundation.

‘Good Christ, an earthquake!’ cries Hubert, throwing himself upon the floor.*

In the silence that follows, we all look round cautiously. The house has ceased trembling as quickly as it began, and outside the window all is normal. I shrug off the anomaly as some supernatural phenomenon related to our visitor.

Lancaster apparently does the same, for he recovers himself quickly and says, ‘Vivien, I’m glad you’re back, because I need your help. Mummy’s forcing me to get married!’

‘I know,’ says Vivien, ‘she’s told me.’

‘She’s told you?’ exclaims Lancaster. ‘But I don’t want to get married, by Christ! It sounds awful!’

I cannot help it — I begin to laugh hysterically. I believe I am become slightly unhinged. It is all too much. I haven’t the slightest idea what is going on.

‘Damn it, Savage, it isn’t funny!’ says Lancaster.*

I master myself with great difficulty. ‘I’m sorry, old boy,’ I gasp, ‘but there is a certain undeniable irony to the whole thing.’

‘It’s entirely different, damn you!’ he cries. ‘You married for money, which is the same as prostitution only less honest. In my case, Mother wants me to wed in the hope that it will keep me closer to home. She wants to saddle me with a vapid young society wife who will throw dreadful parties and speak for hours on end about nothing whatever and rob from me my vitality and break my spirit and crush my will to live!’

‘That sounds awful ,’ says the Gentleman. ‘I’m so sorry.’

I had forgotten about him. ‘Don’t speak in my house!’ I snap.

‘I beg your pardon,’ says he.

Vivien interjects. ‘It’s my house, too, and anyone may speak that has a mind to. Lionel, the fact that at this moment you look like a caveman doesn’t give you license to act like one.’

I have forgotten to shave and now it is too late and I am entirely untroubled. This is the first time she has said my name since her return, and it makes the blood run hot in my veins.

(‘Yes, Lionel,’ says Lizzie through a mouthful of crumpet. ‘Listen to your wife; she’s wonderful.’)

‘Thank you, Mrs Savage,’ says the Gentleman, ‘but I don’t wish to cause trouble. I know I can be difficult, and he’—indicating me—‘means well.’

‘That’s not strictly speaking always quite true, is it?’ puts in Hubert, and I decide I like him.

‘Oh, I believe it is!’ says the Gentleman. ‘Despite the short time I have known him, I feel an unexpected kinship with your husband, Mrs Savage. I think I understand him quite as well as he understands himself—’

‘That’s ridiculous!’ I cry.

‘—and I do not believe him ill-intentioned,’ he finishes.

‘That’s very gracious of you,’ says my wife.

‘Not at all, not at all. In fact—’

‘She TOLD you and you didn’t tell me?’ Lancaster has finally regained his feet, and looks pathetically at Vivien. It takes a moment for me to realise he is talking about his mother.

‘When would I have told you?’ asks Vivien.

‘I SAW YOU TEN MINUTES AGO!’ thunders Lancaster.

Something is not right. I blink. ‘You saw whom?’ I ask.

‘Well, I’m sorry if I was focusing on my actual problems and not your hypothetical ones!’ says Vivien hotly, ignoring me.

‘When did you see her?’ I demand.

‘There’s nothing hypothetical about a life in fetters!’ he says.

‘She couldn’t tell you,’ says Lizzie, ‘because you kept blundering about with your eyes closed and wouldn’t let anyone say anything.’

I begin to get an inkling of a conspiracy. ‘You knew she wasn’t in Hell?’ I say to Lancaster.

‘Not until this morning, old boy, but good Christ, Viv—’

Hubert cuts him off. ‘You came here?’ he asks Viv. ‘That wasn’t the plan!’*

‘Neither was challenging my husband to a duel!’ she retorts. ‘And I had to see Simmons.’

‘You ALL knew?’ I cry, aghast and betrayed.

‘Settle down, Nellie. Until this morning only Simmons knew.’

‘Simmons!’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he says blandly, ‘but you know that in matters of love I always hold my tongue.’

‘Well damn it, how did the rest of you find out?’ I demand.

‘I dropped by to say hello,’ says Viv. ‘I met Lizzie and we became excellent friends and talked about art. I agreed to pose for her, and I’d managed to get about halfway out of my blasted corset when Ashley blundered into the room and had a fit, and then we heard you on the stairs and I threw my clothes back on and left in rather a hurry.’

‘Good God,’ I say. The earth reels beneath my feet. I want to ask a thousand questions, but the conversation is commandeered.

‘Vivien, by Christ, what are we going to do?’ wails Lancaster.

‘About what?’

‘About my funds!’*

Before she can answer there is a knock at the study door. Simmons opens it, but no one is there. After a moment we hear it again — but now that we are expecting it, it is quite plain the knocker is knocking at the old door to the library on the second storey. I look about in confusion. Everyone who should be knocking on a door from within the house is in this room.

‘Are you expecting someone, Simmons?’

‘I am not, sir. Shall I go and see—’

‘Oh, never mind,’ I say, and then I shout, ‘Come in!’

The second-storey door creaks open and in walks Will Kensington, his green eyes twinkling. He is soot-stained, wind-burned, covered in coal dust and engine grease, his hair is sticking straight up, his cheeks are ruddy, and his nose is running freely from the autumn chill — but he appears to be in perfect health and excellent spirits. A pair of driving goggles dangle from his neck. ‘Good morning!’ he says. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve landed on your roof.’

He descends the spiral staircase, his boots ringing merrily on the iron. I am remarkably glad to see him well, and it seems I am not alone in the sentiment — Lancaster meets him with a hearty embrace, and Lizzie throws her arms around his neck (about which I am not entirely pleased, for beneath her blanket she is still quite naked).* Even Simmons is demonstrative, and nearly smiles.

‘Kensington!’ I cry, pumping his hand. ‘You’re alive! How was your flight?’

‘Excellent!’ he says. ‘The repairs worked beautifully. A stray bullet almost took out the engine, which was frightful because I didn’t realise until I was at quite an altitude and then suddenly it coughed and sputtered and died completely, and we began to drop like a stone. It turned out to be a lucky thing I was so high up, because it gave me time to plug the hole with a bit of oilcloth and get the engine started again before we were dashed to bits. After that, I gained altitude until we were high enough to do some simple aerial tests. Satisfied that we could survive the North Atlantic, I landed in a village just outside the city, visited a blacksmith to get a patch for the engine, borrowed a Who’s Who to find your address, ate several gallons of stew at an inn, slept like a dead man for twelve hours, woke up, charted my course, and came directly here. I’m sorry for the delay, but I didn’t trust myself to get us to Iceland without a meal and a good night’s sleep. But everything’s quite ready now, and standing by!’