Forrest Leo - The Gentleman

The room is rather awed by his account. ‘Kensington,’ I say, ‘I thought so before but now I am quite certain: you are the most poetical person I have ever met. Allow me to introduce my wife!’

‘You found her?’ he asks in bewilderment.

‘I found him,’ she says, extending her hand. ‘Hello, Will Kensington. I’ve heard about you.’

‘Madam,’ says he, taking it and bowing. ‘I have heard so much about you! I am very pleased to see you in so mundane a setting.’

‘Thank you,’ she says, smiling with amusement.

Kensington leans in and asks in a low, respectful voice, ‘If you’ll pardon the presumption, might I enquire what Hell was like?’

‘Oh,’ says Vivien airily, ‘you mean being married to a man who doesn’t love you?’

Poor Kensington is nonplussed.

‘No,’ I cry, ‘I’ve had an epiphany! I do love you!’

‘You have a remarkable way of showing it,’ shoots back my wife.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ says Lancaster, ‘but what am I going to DO?’

‘Ashley,’ says Viv, ‘we can make a plan to save you as soon as we finish the plan to save me.’

‘Plan?’ I demand. ‘What plan?’

‘I am afraid two circumstances have rather altered it,’ she says, ignoring me.

‘What plan!’

‘The plan to make you fall in love with me.’

‘But I do love you!’

‘That is the first of the two altering circumstances I mentioned.’

‘What’s the second?’

‘The second is that you sold me to the Devil.’

‘Excuse me,’ puts in Hubert almost inaudibly. ‘I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I’m not quite clear on one point. What was the exchange?’

‘Do you know,’ says Lancaster morosely, ‘I’ve been curious about the same thing.’

‘Yes,’ says Lizzie, ‘your talk of selling suggests that something was given to you in exchange for Vivien.’

All eyes turn to the Gentleman, who holds up his hands palms outward in a gesture meant I suppose to absolve himself of any blame.* ‘Please reflect upon the point that in fact there was no bargain whatever struck between my dear friend Mr Savage and myself,’ he says. ‘I had no knowledge that Mrs Savage was anywhere other than here. She certainly never came home with me, as some of you seem to be suggesting.’

‘Of course she didn’t go to Hell,’ says Hubert. ‘She came home with me —as dictated by the plan.’

‘WHAT PLAN?’ I demand.

‘Wait,’ says Lancaster, ‘we’re not finished. Savage, what is the exchange you believed you had made?’

‘I don’t know!’ I say. ‘There wasn’t one, clearly!’

‘But you’ve been saying for days that you sold her to the Devil.’

‘Yes,’ says Viv, ‘and I am quite curious — what exactly am I worth?’

I shrug uncomfortably. ‘Well… Well, the truth is that I wasn’t aware of any exchange having taken place. But it doesn’t sound nearly the same to say that I gave my wife to the Devil, or that he took her — that makes me sound, well, rather passive. I suppose I may have exaggerated the situation for dramatic effect. And there was a possibility, I thought, that he would restore to me my poetic gift — which would have been a sort of transaction!’

They all look at me like I am a creature you might find living in a bog. Viv says, ‘Lionel, you have before you a choice.’

The sound of her voice makes the breath catch in my chest. ‘What is the choice?’ I ask.

‘You may face, for your crimes, trial by jury or by combat.’

‘What crimes?’ I ask.

They all look at me again with that flat look they are so fond of. Even Kensington does not seem eager to defend me. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Those crimes.’

‘Combat or jury?’ Viv says again.

‘I don’t know!’ I say. I don’t want to stand trial. It is an absurd notion. ‘Who is the jury?’

‘They are before you.’

I glance at the faces of my friends. They are not soft. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘that is clearly not an acceptable option. Whom must I fight?’

‘You choose combat, then?’ presses my tenacious wife. Was she always so? I do not know. The truth is, I know very little of her personality. I had thought she had none; apparently this is not the case.

‘Wait a minute!’ I say. ‘I don’t know! You didn’t answer — who am I to fight? Because if it’s Ashley, that’s obviously not a good option either.’

‘I require no champion,’ says Vivien haughtily.

‘You mean I’m to fight you ? Very well, let us begin!’

Vivien is not a small woman; she is in fact very nearly as tall as I. But she is a woman all the same — and after all, I am become in the last two days quite a duellist.

‘If you will, let it be so,’ says she. A flash in her eyes makes me abruptly uncomfortable. It is what I have come to identify as the Lancaster Look — the same one her brother had when he stood over me pugilistically, and when he hurled the rock at the policeman. Hubert seems not to possess it.* ‘Ashley, Lizzie, Simmons, Mr Kensington, Your Highness*—you will serve as our judges, and ensure that the combat is conducted honourably upon both sides. My husband fights to prove his love and remove the blemish from his name. If he falls, his love is false and his name besmirched forever.’

I try to laugh at her little speech, but it comes out chalky in my mouth. No one else laughs. Lizzie and Kensington and the Gentleman sit down side by side on the sofa. After a moment’s deliberation, Hubert joins them. There is not room enough, and they sit with shoulders touching like sardines in a can. Lancaster leans against a bookshelf. Simmons stands at ease. They are prepared, it seems, for a spectacle. Their looks are intent and I feel awkward, uncertain what to do with my hands. I wonder if this is what it is like to appear upon a stage.

My wife removes her coat and hat. She hands them to Lizzie, then takes from Hubert his sword. I realise that I am still holding the other. So it is to be swords. I was not certain what she meant by trial by combat, but it now becomes clear. I prepare to fight my fourth duel in as many days. (Does my encounter with Hubert count as a duel?* Perhaps not. Nor I suppose does our run-in with the police. But they felt like duels, which is I believe the most important thing.)

Vivien tests the weight and balance of the sword with alarming professionalism. It had not occurred to me that perhaps she knows how to use it. Is such a thing possible? Surely not — I suppose she is simply repeating a procedure she has read in a novel.

Then she attacks, and I am proved quite wrong.

I defend myself as best as I am able, but I am no swordsman. I flail about wildly as she leaps and dances with the blade, flashing first this way then that, darting and lunging and displaying such skill as I have never witnessed. I should marvel at it, were I not doing my best to avoid being spitted.

As she presses her attack, she says, ‘You married me for my—’ (lunge) ‘— money . You never even—’ (thrust) ‘— tried . You never even—’ (swashing blow) ‘— pretended to like me. You never—’ (another thrust) ‘— spoke to me. Never—’ (slash) ‘— looked at me. And then, you sold me to the—’ (riposte) ‘— Devil . You are the worst husband—’ She disarms me. ‘ Ever .’ My weapon spins across the room, hits a bookshelf, knocks over a bust of Ovid, and falls to the thickly carpeted floor with a thud.

Her sword is at my throat. She is breathing heavily, her hair has come slightly undone, her cheeks are pink, her eyes are bright, and she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen upon this earth.