by Forrest Leo
‘It’s a pleasure, sir,’ he says. He has a trace of a northern accent. ‘I have a brother who is a great admirer of your poetry.’ He looks awkward, and hastens to add, ‘Which isn’t to say that I am not—I am sure it is quite good as poetry goes, only, I do not know much about poetry and so cannot judge. Algernon, though, is a great scholar and says it is excellent, which is why I only say that he admires it.’
I cannot but smile at his open-faced sincerity. ‘No offence was taken,’ I assure him. Then I ask, on a notion, ‘You are not related to Kensington the inventor, are you? I believe he is from the North.’
He blushes and says, ‘I have been called inventor.’
‘You are he?’ I cry. ‘I have read of your experiments with the greatest delight!’
‘Have you indeed?’ he says, blushing deeper. ‘I am glad of it.’
‘But your name—?’ I say.
‘Fitzwilliam-Lewis is not a fit name for a young man,’ he replies. ‘It was a curse from a misguided grand-aunt. I much prefer Will.’
I smile again. ‘Well then, let it be Will Kensington,’ I say. ‘I am very happy to meet you.’
‘And I you,’ he says, returning my smile a little shyly.
‘You must tell me all about your experiments!’ I say, looking to distract myself from any consideration of my wife and the odd sensations in my chest.
‘Oh,’ says he, ‘I would not know what to say. I believe the press have misrepresented things.’
‘They have that habit,’ I say with a touch of ruefulness. I recall the many notices of praise my own work has received.
‘Indeed they have!’ he exclaims. ‘I feel as though I no sooner build something than there are a dozen articles hailing it as the future of British excellence and ingenuity, and all the while I am searching high and low for my poor eyebrows, which have vanished in a puff of smoke, and then there are articles of rival inventors and the ascendency of coal and the importance of our South African interests and so on and so forth and I have still not managed to regrow my eyebrows and certainly have not had time to devote toward making the invention that started the whole clamour in the first place actually work!’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ I tell him, laughing. I like this Will Kensington very much—he reminds me of Lizzie. I must introduce them. ‘It’s just the same with poetry.’
‘Oh, I have no doubt!’ he says. ‘Algernon says that is the case. He is very wise about such things.’
‘But what are you doing in London?’ I ask.
He looks embarrassed. ‘Truthfully,’ he says, ‘I crashed.’
‘You crashed?’ I repeat, not sure I heard correctly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I have been working on a flying machine for some time,’ he says reluctantly. I do not think he wants to talk about it, but he does so from politeness. It would be good form to change the subject, but I am interested and I am selfish and I am momentarily distracted from my own plight, which is a feeling I like immensely. Besides, this is almost inconceivably wonderful news.
I say, ‘A flying machine?’
‘Yes,’ says he. ‘Of sorts. Thomasina helped.’
‘Who is Thomasina?’
‘Oh! Thomasina is my sister.’*
‘I have a sister,’ I say.
‘Do you?’ says my young friend. ‘That’s splendid! I think sisters are excellent. Is she older or younger?’
‘Younger,’ I say. ‘By six years. Yours?’
‘Oh, older,’ he says. ‘I’m the baby of the family. I have another brother, too—Bernard. Have you any brothers?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Only Lizzie. But you were speaking of your flying machine . . . ?’
‘Oh yes,’ says he. He seems more willing to talk about it, now that we are on intimate terms. ‘Well, Thomasina and I have been building it for ages. She taught me everything I know, you know.’
‘I didn’t know,’ I say.
‘Oh yes—the press never mentions her because she’s a girl, but that’s a crime—everything I’ve ever done I’ve done with her. It was she who first posited the usefulness of steam. She makes the most amazing clockwork gadgets you’ve ever seen!’
‘I have never seen a gadget,’ I say, unfamiliar with the word. I do not like to seem ignorant, but I am compelled to ask after an awkward pause, ‘What is a gadget, exactly?’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry—it’s a word of Thomasina’s; I believe she stole it from the French or something. She uses it to mean a little mechanical device.’
‘“Gadget,”’ I say again. ‘It is a good word. I believe I shall use it in a poem someday.’
‘That will make Thomasina monstrously happy!’ says Will Kensington. ‘Algernon, too.’
‘So you and your sister built a flying machine,’ I say. ‘Is it a balloon, or what?’
‘Not at all! You can’t steer a balloon! It is much similar to— Well, you are familiar with da Vinci’s devices, no doubt?’
‘No,’ I say. I am not well acquainted with art in general—words have been my domain, not pictures. They seem to me to have much greater value on the whole. Whoever said that a picture is worth a thousand words has clearly never read good words.
‘Well, da Vinci drew all sorts of ingenious gadgets, many of them for flight,’ says the boy. ‘Not balloons at all, but things more like mechanical birds. The trouble was, none of his flying machines quite worked. They were all human-powered, but you see, humans don’t actually have the strength to make them fly.’
‘So you substituted steam for humans?’ I ask, beginning to catch on. It seems incredible, but after the events of the last twenty-four hours I am prepared to accept anything.
‘Exactly!’
‘And it worked?’
He looks a little embarrassed again, and chooses his words carefully: ‘I hope that one day it will work better.’
‘So you came to London to test this machine?’
‘Oh no, I flew from York.’*
‘You flew from York to London?’
‘Yes,’ he says without a trace of pride. ‘I had hoped to make it to Paris, but something went wrong and I crashed in a field not far outside of town.’
‘You flew from York!’ I exclaim. ‘That’s astonishing, Kensington!’
‘No, no,’ he says modestly, ‘it’s really not. It was rather— It was rather an ignominious end. I’m afraid my poor Cirrus—that’s her name—is in pretty awful shape.’
‘Where is it?’ I ask.
‘In a barn outside of town.’
‘Why haven’t I heard about this? Tompkins, did you know anything about it?’
‘Hmm?’ says Tompkins. He has reopened his book and is lost again.
‘I prefer not to get the press involved,’ says Will Kensington. ‘They have that beastly habit we spoke of earlier.’
‘Of course, of course,’ I say. ‘Beastly.’ I am in my head already halfway through the composition of a paean to this young aeronaut.* He has quite captured my imagination.
‘But you were speaking of your wife?’ he says. From his tone I can tell he has been wishing to mention it for some time, but held himself back from good breeding.
‘Indeed,’ I say. ‘My wife.’
‘I didn’t mean to overhear. But I did, and it can’t be helped now, and I believe I should die of curiosity if I kept silent. Did you really sell her to the Devil?’
‘I did,’ I sigh. ‘I am not proud of it. But what was it you were saying earlier—that she hadn’t the heart to tell me she loved me?
‘Yes, yes, exactly!’ he says. ‘If I may offer an observation . . . ?’ I nod. ‘Well,’ he goes on, ‘would you give voice to a love you knew to be unreturned?’
‘But I did love her!’ I cry. It is a strange thing that I am sitting in Tompkins’s shop discussing my most intimate problems with a
complete stranger; but somehow that makes it easier. I believe what I have needed all along is someone quite unacquainted with the whole issue.
‘If you loved her,’ says the young inventor, ‘why didn’t you tell her so?’
‘Because— Because— I don’t know! Because she seemed so cold! How could I tell her I loved her when she so obviously didn’t care a jot for me!’
‘But you mentioned some letters—proof that she indeed did love you.’*
‘Yes,’ I say, at a loss. I am furious. Not with Will Kensington, who is doing his best to help me navigate a frightfully complicated situation, but with the situation itself. It just doesn’t seem fair. I tell him so.
‘No,’ he says, ‘it’s absolutely not fair. But isn’t that what’s so wonderful about love? I mean, I don’t really know because I’ve never been in love—but that’s what I’d imagine, from hearing about it. My brother Bernard is often in love, and he says that’s what makes it such a grand thing—that you never really know what anyone else is thinking and so all you can do is trust that when they say they love you, they really do.’
‘But she didn’t say she loved me!’
‘She married you,’ he points out.
‘Damn it, Kensington, don’t turn sophist on me.’*
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘No, no,’ I say, at once sorry myself, ‘I didn’t mean to aim that at you. I’m just— I’m rather down lately. I apologise.’
‘I understand,’ he says.
We stare at the fire in moody silence for a while. From time to time Tompkins turns a page of his book. The feline stalks me.
‘Kensington,’ I say eventually, ‘I’m glad I’ve met you.’
‘And I you, sir,’ he replies. ‘Algernon will be quite jealous.’
The clock on the mantel strikes, and my stomach plummets. I rise abruptly. ‘I need to go,’ I say. ‘I intend to see you again, Kensington.’
‘I’d like that, sir,’ he says.
‘Goodbye, Tompkins,’ I say, setting down my teacup.
‘Hmm,’ he says, and turns the page. From his engrossed demeanour and the subtle way he hides the title of the book, I gather that he is reading about Elizabeth Bennet. She is a great favourite of his.
I shoulder open the door and vanish into the fog.
I walk blindly. My mind is stormy, but my steady feet take me home. I cannot tell whether or not I am satisfied with my sortie. I am certainly glad to have encountered Will Kensington—he may be the most poetical person I have ever met. I would very much like to continue our acquaintance. I do not remember the last time I felt the stirrings of friendship, and now I have felt them twice within twenty-four hours. Perhaps the day is not as dreadful as I had imagined.
I reach Pocklington Place, let myself back in, tiptoe up the stairs, creep into my room, and flop down on my bed which I still do not like. I still do not know what to do. I still do not know if I hate my wife or not.
How is it that she could have loved me? Or (this occurs to me abruptly and unpleasantly) is this all some elaborate hoax—is Ashley Lancaster tormenting me deliberately? I do not think it possible; I have known him only an afternoon, but I do not believe he is capable of subtlety.* No, I am forced to believe that Lancaster believes his intelligence is sound. If this is the case, then—
Then I am a cad. Worse than a cad. But how can it be true? I do not believe it. During the last six months we have said barely six words to each other. She cannot love me. I could barely tolerate me! I do not believe it is possible that another human could have loved me.
But if she did. If, defying reason, sense, and all wisdom, if Vivien truly loved me, then I am a lost soul.
I have deciphered the feeling in my chest. It is passion. Passion such as I have never felt before. Passion of the sort one reads about in poems, but such as I have never myself been able to write. Passion of the old-fashioned sort, passion true to its roots—from the Latin patior, to suffer. It is not what might be called a pleasant feeling. It is rather as though my skin has been flayed from my bones and my entrails have been used as boot laces by a troop of soldiers walking through the mud in the rain at midnight. It is a horrible experience.
I gasp for breath, inhaling the musty air of my bedroom in great, gulping mouthfuls.
Good God, I think to myself, as the awful realisation strikes me with its full weight. There can be no other explanation but that*
Seven
In Which I Very Nearly Fight a Duel.
I LOVE HER!’ I have flown down the stairs, crashed through my study door, and hurled myself into the room. ‘LIZZIE! SIMMONS! ASHLEY! I LOVE MY WIFE!’
‘Oh God,’ says Lizzie. Lancaster is not there. I do not know where he is. I do not care where he is, but if he were present I should embrace him as a brother and beg him to share in my joy.
‘Lizzie, this is extraordinary!’ I cry. ‘I was lying on my bed, trying to figure out the peculiar thing happening in my chest. I thought I was dying. I thought, “Oh dear, twenty-two and it’s all over.” But the longer I lay there not dying, I began considering alternate possibilities, and finally I realised. I love her! It’s the only possible explanation! And do you know what’s awful? I think I’ve got quite a bad case of it! I think I love her more than anything in the world. I don’t know how this could have happened. How could I never have noticed? My God. This is—’
I am cut off by Lancaster’s voice. It breaks like thunder and rolls from the foyer down the hall and through the study door. ‘SAVAGE!’ he bellows. His person follows upon the heels of his voice. He is carrying an intricately carved wooden box. I do not know what it contains. I do not care. I am transported.
‘Ashley!’ I exclaim, ready to fling my arms around him.
‘Mr Savage,’ he says stiffly, ‘as a brother and an Englishman—’
‘Ashley!’ I say again. I care not for brothers or Englishmen. ‘I’ve just made the most spectacular discovery! It turns out I’m in love with your sister!’
‘Would you hold these?’ he asks Lizzie, handing the box to her. He is not smiling, which I find peculiar. How is it possible that anyone should not smile on this great day?
‘Isn’t that marvellous?’ I continue. ‘I’ve only just realised, but I think—’
Lancaster punches me in the face. It hurts. I fall down.
‘Oh God!’ cries Lizzie.
‘Sorry,’ Lancaster says to her.
‘Carry on,’ replies the traitoress.
‘Bully!’ he says.
I’ve never been in a fight before. I have often had cause, but never inclination. It has occurred to me more than once that I am not physically suited to it. My legs are the size of most men’s arms, and my arms flail like ropes in a breeze.
‘Get up,’ says Lancaster, standing over me. He really is a tremendously large person. It’s like looking up at the chap from Rhodes.
‘Not really able to, old boy,’ I tell him. I have no idea why he has hit me, but my face hurts prodigiously. I believe it will bruise. My jaw seems to work, though, which is something. Not even unprovoked physical abuse can dampen my spirits. I am in love! I feel startling goodwill toward all men—even this angry one.
‘You sold my sister,’ he says with menace, peering down at me spitefully. I now understand why I am lying on the floor. I suppose Lizzie must have told him the truth of my exchange with the Gentleman while I was with Tompkins. That was bold of her, and not altogether sisterly. Someday I will discuss the matter with her.
‘You sold my sister,’ Lancaster says again.
‘Well, yes,’ I admit, ‘in a manner of speaking. But—’
‘You sold my sister—to the Devil!’
‘Now wait just a minute!’ I wish I could make him understand what a ghastly mistake the whole thing was. I feel like Romeo talking to Tybalt. I say, ‘Things have changed significan
tly in the last quarter hour or so. Help me up and I’ll explain everything.’
‘By all means,’ he says, and offers me his hand. I am gratified that he will listen to reason after all. He helps me to my feet. I have scarcely begun to mention the virtues of civilised converse when he hits me again. This time it’s one of those instances where his right fist hooks around from behind his head and whistles with the speed of its approach.
I renew my acquaintance with the floor. Lizzie is watching with one eyebrow raised, but does not intervene. She seems amused. Her eyes twinkle. She is amused, damn her.
‘You lied to me,’ says Lancaster. ‘You said you were happy.’
‘She lied to you!’ I protest. I grow weary of looking up at him from below. (Of course, even when I’m on my feet I must still look upward; never mind.) ‘She said we were happy! All I did was fail to deny it.’
‘You said she was stolen. Abducted. Taken. Not bloody sold. Get up.’
‘Why?’ I demand. ‘So you can hit me again?’ I do not respond to the obvious truth of his accusation. That was an atrocity committed in a time of war; but it was long ago, and things are much different now!
‘I can’t hit a man when he’s down, it’s not sporting,’ Lancaster complains. ‘Get up.’
‘No! I’m sorry, but dash it all, I’m a POET. If I wanted to be punched I’d have been a boxer.* Stop hitting me and let me explain.’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Lancaster. ‘Damn it, man, I’m not a violent sort of chap by inclination, but see here. You’ve impugned my sister’s honour, lied to me, and generally been a blackguard of the highest order. Now GET UP.’ It is true. I cannot deny it. But that’s not the point. The point is that I’ve had an epiphany!
He helps me up again, then punches me again. Surprisingly, I do not fall. Even more surprising to us both, I hit him, and knock him down. I would not have thought it possible. When he lands, the entire house trembles.
‘There we go, by Christ!’ he exclaims from his back. ‘Now you’re showing some spirit! I could like you yet. I demand satisfaction.’
My hand hurts tremendously,* and I am not sure I heard him correctly. ‘Excuse me?’