Forrest Leo - The Gentleman

‘How do you know about the Cirrus ?’ I demand.

‘Ashley and Simmons and Lizzie told me all about it when I was here this morning. It sounds very grand.’

‘I— Oh.’ In my state I cannot wrap my mind around everything. I give up.

‘Am I to understand that you have access to a flying machine?’ asks the Gentleman.

‘Yes!’ exclaims Lizzie, looking at Kensington proudly. ‘Will invented one! It’s what he landed on the roof.’

‘But that’s perfect!’ says the Gentleman. ‘Would he be amenable to…?’

‘There is nothing I should like more!’ says Kensington, flushing at Lizzie’s obvious pride in him.

The Gentleman claps his hands delightedly. ‘Then it’s decided! And I don’t mean to rush you, but I am in fact on a bit of a schedule — would you be offended, Mrs Savage, if we didn’t stay for tea?’

‘Not in the least,’ she replies.

‘I need to dress,’ says Lizzie. ‘I’ll meet you on the roof.’ She hurries out of the room.

Lancaster does some hasty packing, I call for Simmons, and we make our way upstairs. The airship is perched elegantly between two chimneys. It has a few bullet holes, but somehow they only serve to increase the distinction of the craft. Vivien and the Gentleman are suitably impressed by it, and say as much. Kensington blushes, and in tearing spirits vaults onto the bridge and begins warming up the engine.

Lancaster arrives, changed into high boots, canvas trousers, and a sturdy-looking coat belted at the waist. He carries a rucksack and a rifle, and has rakishly tucked a machete in his belt. Lizzie emerges a moment later, fully clothed (for which I am immeasurably grateful) and vibrating with excitement.

She and Lancaster and the Gentleman face us for farewells.

Lancaster steps forward first. I extend my hand, but he ignores it and sweeps me up into a bone-crushing Krakatoan hug.* ‘If you hurt my sister again,’ he says in my ear, ‘I will eat your heart.’

‘And if you let mine into harm’s way,’ I say into his, ‘I’ll eat yours.’

He sets me down and grins at me warmly. I believe we are friends. He embraces Viv and says something to her, but I do not attend — for the Gentleman is pumping my hand enthusiastically and expressing his fervent wish that we meet often. I quite genuinely echo the sentiment.

While Lancaster helps the Gentleman into the machine, Lizzie steps forward. ‘Vivien,’ she says, ‘I am sorry that we’ve had only such a short time to meet. But I promise you we’ll be wonderful friends someday.’

‘Oh, I am quite sure of it,’ replies Viv, smiling.

Lizzie turns to me. ‘Nellie,’ she says sternly, ‘when I return I expect my room to be vacated.’ She hesitates. There is a glimmer in her eye, and she adds imperiously, ‘And I want a violin!’* Then she smiles, flings her arms around my neck, and says, ‘I love you.’

‘And I love you,’ I say, squeezing her for all I’m worth. ‘Look after them — they need someone sensible.’

‘So they do,’ she says. I set her down. She kisses Vivien, kisses Simmons, and hurries to the machine. Lancaster boosts her up and Kensington helps her over the rail. I am gratified to see the solicitousness with which they both treat her.* Once she is aboard, Lancaster tosses in his rucksack and hauls himself up after it.

Kensington throws a lever and the wings accelerate into a blur. He appears again at the rail. He grins at us, bows slightly, and pulls on his goggles. Slowly, the machine begins to take on the appearance of weightlessness; then it rises. I am wonderstruck anew. I have learned by my acquaintance with the young inventor that there are two types of Progress in the world — and if one is deplorable the other is just the opposite. Lizzie, Lancaster, and the Gentleman are waving to us like madmen. Kensington does something to another lever, and the airship takes off like a shot.

It soars up over the rooftops of London, higher and higher until it is just a speck. Then the speck disappears into the fog.

Simmons and Viv and I stand in silence for what feels like a very long time, hands still raised in farewell. Eventually, I ask a question that has been on my mind: ‘Simmons, was it you who alerted Scotland Yard?’

‘I’m afraid so, sir,’ he replies. ‘I was worried that otherwise you would attempt to fly yourself into a volcano.’

‘That was good of you, Simmons.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I cannot, however, approve of “Alec Rubeum.”* In the future, should you be called upon to invent anarchist splinter cells, I shall hold you to a higher standard.’

‘Yes, sir. I fear I was in rather a hurry. I shall endeavour to do better next time.’

‘I don’t doubt it, Simmons. I have always said that you are a paragon, and I’m damned proud that you condescend to call Pocklington Place your home.’

‘Thank you, sir. And sir, if I may say, I’m damned proud to call you my employer.’

I am so touched by that I fear I might cry. But I do not, for I am an Englishman. After a moment, Simmons discreetly removes himself, muttering something about mounting the swords upon the wall.

Viv and I are left alone.

‘Well,’ I say at last.

‘Well,’ she echoes.

‘Does this mean,’ I ask, thinking of Lizzie’s emptying room, ‘that you’ve forgiven me?’

‘Lionel Savage,’ says she, ‘you ignored me for six months and then sold me to the Devil. I doubt very much if I shall ever forgive you.’ My heart drops. ‘But for better or worse,’ she continues, and my spirit rises like Kensington’s machine, ‘I am your wife.’

My heart soars. She turns her face toward mine and looks solemnly into my eyes. We stare at one another, seeing before us a very long future filled with innumerable adventures.

Then she says with a dev’lish twinkle, ‘Free verse isn’t the absence of structure.’

And at last, I kiss her.

The bundle of pages in your left hand is, I fear, riddled with faults — anachronisms, inconsistencies, and infelicitous turns of phrase. The responsibility for these is mine alone. But I hope there are merits, too — and these are thanks to a bunch of really generous and brilliant people.

Mitchell Waters is the best agent a boy can have. Big thanks to him, Steven Salpeter, Anna Abreu, Holly Frederick, Jonathan Lyons, Sarah Perillo, and the whole Curtis Brown crew. Ed Park’s deft, patient, and gentle editorial hand is a thing of beauty. I’m beholden to Annie Badman’s tireless good humor, and to everyone at Penguin Press. Mahendra Singh’s illustrations are basically everything I’ve ever wanted. Sarah Crichton’s kind mentorship is Virgilian in its guidance. Olivia Birdsall suffered through more unfortunate pages of my writing than anyone should ever have to, and taught me a great deal.

This book began life as a play, and its first director was my dear friend Saheem Ali. Thanks to Pipeline Theatre Company for facilitating that first reading; Laura Braza, for astute direction of the subsequent workshop; the casts, for bringing it all to life; and Kristina Makowski, for shaping the world with her costumes. Special thanks to Tom Oppenheim, Libby Jensen, and the Stella Adler Studio of Acting for their exhaustive support.

Sophia, Isabella, and Molly Kensington have been very generous in allowing me access to their family papers. I owe them a great debt.

This book wouldn’t and couldn’t exist without the support of my family. Ma has been unstinting in her help and her encouragement. She’s the smartest and the kindest person in the world. My big brothers are awesomeness personified, and I still want to be them when I grow up. Amanda and Kai gave me hope for the future and made sure I ate. Grandma Dee instilled in me an appreciation for art: it’s thanks to her that I know the difference between Bosch and Breughel and can tell you with relative certainty who painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.