Forrest Leo - The Gentleman

Lizzie is perversely calmed by my anger, and becomes at once logical. ‘Nellie,’ she says sternly, ‘I really think there were better financial alternatives than marriage.’

‘Believe me, Lizzie, I wracked my brains and at the end of the day the only alternative was selling you into prostitution, which would never have worked.’

‘That isn’t funny, nor is it— Why wouldn’t it have worked?’

‘No one would have bought you.’

Her unnerving calm is shattered. ‘PEOPLE WOULD HAVE BOUGHT ME!’

‘No,’ I say, ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Would people have bought me, Simmons?’

‘Indubitably, miss.’

Simmons is the bravest man I have ever met, but in this one respect he is a coward. He never can bear to hurt Lizzie, even at the expense of telling her the truth. But Lizzie is rather a magical creature who exerts a strange pull over mere mortals, and I resolve not to think less of Simmons.

I find I must continually stop myself from contemplating her dalliance. I am not a prudish man, let it be understood. This age of morality is not one I have an affinity for, nor is it one I deem good.* But be that as it may, when one hears that one’s sister is— As I say, I must stop myself from thinking on it. It is best unthought, unspoken, and unheard.

Lizzie meanwhile seems pleased to have found an ally, and appeals to his good sense on the matter at hand. ‘How could you have let him do this, Simmons?’

‘I cautioned him against it, Miss Elizabeth,’ he says. ‘Indeed, I did my uttermost to dissuade him, but he was resolute.’

Lizzie looks at me with a mixture of pity and annoyance. ‘Nellie,’ she says, ‘I’ve never thought of you as stupid, but you’re forcing me to reconsider.’

‘Her parents were desperate for a poet. If I didn’t marry her, Pendergast would have.’ It is my last-ditch vindication, and I expect it to carry weight.

It doesn’t.

‘Where is she?’ demands Lizzie without acknowledging that I have spoken.

‘Who?’

‘Your wife.’

I wince at the word. I do not like the word. I do not like the woman, and so I do not like the word. ‘Out,’ I say.

‘Out where ?’

‘She’s throwing a party tonight. She’s picking up her costume.’

Lizzie’s eyes light up. ‘A fancy dress party?’ It occurs to me that she has probably never been to one.

‘I recognise that may sound fun,’ I say, ‘but let me assure you it isn’t.’ My wife has a passion for fancy dress parties. It is a passion I do not understand. Everyone wears masks, so no one has any notion to whom one is speaking. She says she finds it exciting and that the masks return some mystery to life in an age when nearly all the mysteries have been or are being solved, but I say that does not make sense. Masks muddle things. I have not infrequently found a top hat or a cane or even a pair of men’s gloves left about after such parties. This is to me proof of the muddlement — society men only leave their things lying about when they are muddled or when they are embarked upon affairs of passion, and as no one lives at Pocklington Place save for myself and my wife and Simmons and some footmen and a few exceedingly plain maids and Mrs Davis the cook who frightens me to death, I doubt that gentlemen are having affairs of passion here.

Lizzie ignores my remark. I am not sure she even heard me. She is already far away, somewhere in the Orient no doubt, dreaming of silks and turbans. She is distractible. ‘What’s she like?’ she asks.

‘Who?’

‘Your wife.’

I am surprised by her single-mindedness. She is usually more lively of thought; I wonder if school has begun to soften her wits. I answer her honestly, all the same: ‘Rich.’

She glares at me. ‘When I think that you make your living through your verbal prowess, it shocks me. What’s she like, Simmons?’

I can see that Simmons is about to say something other than what he should — but as I believe I have stated before, Simmons is the best butler in Britain and perhaps the world: so he says instead, ‘Given the circumstances, miss, I think it best if I don’t answer that question.’

Lizzie narrows her eyes, and it is quite plain that she has no intention of letting the matter lie. ‘What is going on ?’ she demands. ‘What’s her name?’

I tell her.

‘Vivien what?’ she asks.

‘What?’

‘What’s her last name?

‘Savage!’

‘What was her last name?’ she snaps back, and I realise what she meant but do not apologise. I am not in an apologetic mood. Lizzie is wearing on my nerves today in a manner she usually does not. I wonder if it is because she is older than when I last saw her (which thought makes me laugh to myself, for it occurs to me that every time one sees any one, he is older than when one last saw him), but I am not sure if this is the reason. I try to remember myself at sixteen, but I cannot. I was doubtless very much the same.

‘Lancaster, Miss Elizabeth,’ says Simmons. ‘Her name was Lancaster.’

‘Lancaster,’ repeats Lizzie, tasting the former name of her sister-in-law. ‘Vivien Lancaster.’ Then her eyes light up again. ‘Wait,’ she says, as though I were going somewhere. ‘ The Lancasters? You married into the Lancasters?’

I had hoped that by some miracle she would be unfamiliar with the family. ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I say, but she carries on.

‘You married Ashley Lancaster’s little sister?’

‘Yes.’ I feared it would come to this. It always does when the Lancasters are brought up.

‘Ashley Lancaster is my— Is my brother-in-law . Oh my God. Oh my God .’

‘Don’t curse,’ I tell her.

‘I’ll curse if I damn well please! Have you met him?’

‘Who?’

‘Ashley!’

‘No,’ I say. ‘He’s in Africa somewhere. Or South America. I forget. Where is he, Simmons?’

‘Tibet, I believe.’ says Simmons. ‘Or is it Pago Pago?’

‘Yes, that’s it,’ I say. I do not know if it really is it or not, and I do not care to know.* It is likely somewhere very cold or very warm, and likely all in all very unpleasant. I do not understand why a person would subject himself to such travails, and I understand still less why a country would follow with bated breath reports of said unpleasantries. I recall when he sent back dispatches from his time among the horsemen of central Mongolia — they were the talk of the town, and I found myself quite baffled why anyone should care.*

Lizzie has stopped listening to Simmons and me, and is babbling again on a predictable path. ‘My brother-in-law is the greatest explorer who ever lived. Nellie, have I told you that I love you?’

Her obsession with the man wearies me. This country’s obsession with him wearies me. I refuse to believe that he is truly the paragon the newspapers make him out to be. No one is so tall, so broad, so handsome, so generous of spirit, so full of life, so ready to do whatever must be done despite the danger and hardship and weather. I simply refuse to believe it. Lizzie is now discussing my wife.

‘Is she very much like him? She must be. Is she very tall? I’ll bet she is. And beautiful. I’m sure she’s beautiful. Is she very beautiful? I don’t have anything to wear. What am I going to wear? The Lancasters! That means we must be very rich, doesn’t it? Are we very rich?’

‘Yes, little sister,’ I tell her. ‘Whatever else we may be, we are now very, very rich.’

‘I don’t care about the money, of course,’ she goes on. ‘But it is nice to have, isn’t it? I’m so glad. She must be very intelligent. I hope she likes me. Will she like me, Nellie?’