by Forrest Leo
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says.
He is short and slender and ginger-haired and beaked with the most magnificent nose I have ever seen. His dress is almost foppish, but somehow at the same time dull. His appearance is that of a boring dandy, which I had until this moment believed to be a contradiction in terms.*
‘Oh look,’ says Lancaster, sounding amused, ‘it’s Timely Hubert.’ Who is Timely Hubert, and what is he doing in my house?
‘Oh, hello Cousin Ashley, I heard you were back,’ says the intruder. ‘Your mother is quite determined to see you married, you know.’
‘Who are you?’ I demand.
‘One moment, please,’ says the little man, his attention still on Lancaster. ‘She’s frozen all your funds until you tie the knot, what?’
Lancaster looks poleaxed. ‘Good God,’ he says weakly, ‘she’s what?’
I don’t care about Lancaster’s funds, I care about my wife! ‘Who are you?’ I say again.
The interloper turns to me at last. ‘I’m Hubert,’ he says. I want to yell at him, Yes, I know you are Hubert, but who are you? But I hold my tongue, because I am well bred.* I must look blank, though, because he adds, ‘Lancaster. Hubert Lancaster. Cousin Hubert. We met at your wedding.’
I have no recollection of him. None at all. I recall my wedding, but not Hubert Lancaster. It’s really a little alarming for an entire person to have been completely excised from my mind. I am about to ask Lizzie if she remembers him, but just in time it occurs to me that she was not at my wedding, which is still I suspect a source of annoyance to her. So I do not ask her. ‘I was drunk,’ I say to Hubert, which I was. ‘What do you want?’
He looks uncertain. He takes out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wipes the sweat from his brow. I believe he must have run all the way here from wherever it is he came.* He notices Lizzie’s state of undress and the pistol in my hand, and looks perplexed. ‘Is this a bad time?’ he asks.
‘It’s a terrible time.’
‘I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to intrude. Well, I suppose I do—but I don’t wish to intrude. But you see I’m agitated. Truth be told, I’m even a little angry, what? And I apologise profusely for the inconvenience, but I’m afraid I am, well, rather obligated to demand satisfaction.’
I stare at him. Lizzie stifles a laugh, but not very well, and adjusts her blanket. Lancaster is not attending.
As none of us say anything, Hubert continues awkwardly. ‘For the wrongs committed by you against my family, and specifically my cousin Vivien, I find myself compelled to ask, I mean, demand, that you meet me on the field of honour.’
I fight the urge to laugh maniacally. ‘You— You—’ I cannot get the words out. ‘You’re challenging me to a duel?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, his eyes darting. ‘But you really have behaved very badly toward my cousin, and . . . Well, if you wouldn’t mind fighting a duel with me, I’d appreciate it.’
‘You’d appreciate it?’ I say incredulously.
Hubert nods meekly.* Lizzie’s eyes are laughing. Lancaster stares vacantly into space.
The door opens and Simmons comes in, brought no doubt by the noise. ‘Is everything alright, sir?’
‘Perfectly,’ I say. ‘Cousin Hubert here is politely attempting to request a duel. I need some tea.’
‘Very good, sir,’ says he and leaves the room.
Lancaster has been standing in shock since Hubert’s words to him, and he now finds his voice at last. ‘Hubert,’ he says, ‘did you say Mummy’s going to freeze my funds?’
‘She already has, I’m afraid,’ says Hubert.
‘But that’s illegal!’
‘If handled by an expert solicitor,’ he says, ‘it isn’t actually quite illegal.’ Lancaster cocks his head, uncomprehending. Hubert looks uncomfortable and adds, ‘Sadly, I am an expert solicitor.’*
‘YOU froze my funds!’ cries Lancaster, eyes blazing,
‘No, no, your mother did!’ says Hubert, his voice breaking. Lancaster is at least a foot taller than him. ‘I only made it possible. I’m so sorry.’
‘Traitor,’ spits Lancaster.
‘But,’ says Hubert brightly, ‘she promises to release the money as soon as you’re married!’
Lancaster’s face, which has been pale, turns positively ashen. ‘My God,’ he says. ‘I’m doomed. This is it. I’m actually doomed.’ All things considered, I think he is taking a rather narrow view.
‘I’m so sorry, Ashley,’ says Hubert.
‘Can we just pop back to me for a moment?’ I say. ‘You were challenging me to a duel?’
‘Oh yes, I’m sorry,’ says Hubert. ‘A duel. For the wrongs you’ve committed against your cousin— I mean, wife— My cousin— Vivien.’
What is he talking about? Our marital discontent has certainly not been public—neither my sister nor my wife’s brother had any notion. How is it that this strange person who calls himself my cousin is privy to information they are not? ‘How on earth do you know about any wrongs I’ve committed against my wife?’ I demand.
‘Why, she told me,’ he says with evident surprise.
‘About what?’
‘What?’
‘What wrongs?’ I am baffled. Have I unwittingly wronged Vivien in some way which is more generally known? I feel as though I am in a farce, challenged to duels left and right for unknown or unconscious slights. I say, ‘You know, I have no idea what you’re talking about. But that’s alright. I’m not going to fight you.’
‘You’re— You’re not?’ he says, looking concerned. He dabs at his brow again.
‘No,’ I say. I have an idea in my head. ‘But you’re welcome to kill me.’
‘Oh Lord,’ says Lizzie.
‘I don’t understand,’ says Hubert.
‘I have an appointment in Hell,’ I explain, ‘but I am having some difficulty getting there. As such, it would be very helpful if you’d kill me.’
Lizzie covers her face with her hands and her blanket very nearly slips off.
‘What do you mean?’ asks Hubert stupidly, blinking several times.
‘Don’t ask questions,’ I advise him. ‘It’s complicated to explain. Just kill me. Now, please.’ I begin to unbutton the top of my shirt, so that his sword may enter my heart unimpeded.
‘I can’t kill an unarmed man!’ says Hubert. ‘It’s not sporting.’
‘Then hand me that sword, then kill me,’ I say, reaching out for the second weapon.
‘Very well,’ says Hubert, and gives me the sabre. ‘But why—’
‘Don’t ask questions, just do it.’
Lancaster has retreated to a wall, slid down it, and sits on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped round his shins. His chin rests on his kneecaps and he looks absurdly like a small child. ‘My life is over,’ he moans.
‘SOME PERSPECTIVE, PLEASE!’ I shout.
He lapses into sullen silence.
‘Very well, Cousin Hubert,’ I say. ‘I neither know nor care why it is you believe yourself my cousin, but I am ready when you are.’
He is looking about for means of escape. It irks me that he goes about challenging strangers to duels but hasn’t the fortitude to run me through. He mumbles, ‘I really don’t think—’
‘Hubert!’ I say sternly.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ He gets hold of himself and raises the sabre. ‘Where should I . . . ?’
I take his point and place it between the fourth and fifth ribs on my left side. ‘Here,’ I say solemnly. ‘Steady now. Are you ready?’
‘I’m a little nervous,’ he says. ‘Might I get my snuffbox before—’*
‘HUBERT!’
‘No, no, right, I’m sorry, what?’ He refocuses. ‘Right here?’
‘Right there. And the sooner the better, if
you please.’
‘Lionel!’ says Lizzie, apparently only just realising that I am serious in my intent. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘I’VE TOLD YOU FIFTEEN TIMES!’ I say. ‘I’m killing myself to get to Vivien!’
‘To Vivien?’ asks Hubert in befuddlement.
‘Don’t speak,’ I say.
‘Sorry,’ says he.
‘Nellie, I forbid it,’ says Lizzie.
‘Should I—’ begins Hubert.
‘Ignore her,’ I say.
‘If you ignore me—’ says Lizzie.
‘Plunge home, man!’ I cry, alarmed. Once Lizzie has set her hook there is no disobeying her.
‘But—’ says he.
‘Now, Hubert!’
Lizzie has picked up the pistol that I set down. She points it at Hubert. ‘If you stab him, I’ll shoot you,’ she says calmly.
‘It isn’t loaded!’ I protest.
‘Isn’t it?’ says she.
‘Is it?’ wavers Hubert.
‘No!’ I say.
‘Care to find out?’ she says, her finger tightening on the trigger. Hubert visibly quails. I prepare to throw myself upon his sword point before he has a chance to lower it.
As I ready myself for the end, I hear the door open behind me. ‘Ah, Simmons,’ I say, ‘just in time. Goodbye for now, old chap—I won’t be needing that tea after all.’
‘I’m not Simmons,’ says a stammering voice which I have heard only once before but would recognise anywhere. ‘Simmons is in the kitchen. What are you doing, my friend?’
It is the Gentleman. He is pushing a tea service. ‘You!’ I cry.
Hubert lowers his sword with relief. Lizzie lowers her gun.
‘Hello!’ says the Devil warmly. ‘Been keeping well, I hope?’
‘Lancaster!’ I hiss. ‘It’s him!’
Lancaster is still slumped on the floor hugging himself. ‘Him?’ he says absently. ‘Him who?’
‘The— The—’ Somehow it seems improper to say it. ‘You know!’
‘Oh,’ he says, mildly interested.
‘Oh goodness!’ says Lizzie. ‘Hello, sir, I’m Lizzie—’
‘Don’t speak to him, Lizzie!’
‘I’ll speak to whomever I please.’
‘Then I hope you enjoy sleeping out of doors, for I am still master of this house and no sister of mine will have dealings with—that person!’
She stamps her foot in annoyance but says nothing. I turn back to the Gentleman, who wears a look of polite curiosity. ‘I demand you return my wife to me at once!’
He frowns confusedly and says, ‘Excuse me?’
‘Vivien Savage,’ I clarify, in case he makes a habit of this sort of thing and loses track. ‘My wife. I know I accidentally sold her to you—’
(I overhear Hubert asking Lancaster, ‘Who’s that?’ ‘I believe it’s the Devil,’ he replies, to which Hubert says, ‘My God!’)
‘—but I want her back,’ I continue.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ says the Gentleman. ‘Tea?’
‘NO I DON’T WANT TEA!’ I shout. ‘I want my wife!’
‘Where is she?’ he asks.
‘Exactly!’ I say.
‘What?’ says the Gentleman.
‘Where?’ I say.
‘Who?’ says the Gentleman.
‘What have you done with her?’
‘What have I done with your wife?’
I am losing my patience, and will do I know not what. Why is he playing dumb? I do not understand why he will not talk to me with gentlemanly frankness. If he does not want to return her, he need only say as much and I will then . . . challenge him to a duel? I laugh inwardly at the thought.
At that moment, the front door bangs open and a voice calls, ‘Hubert! Hubert, where are you!’ I know very well who the voice belongs to, but I cannot believe it. It does the most astonishing things (the voice, I mean) to my stomach, heart, lungs, and eyes. My knees weaken of their own accord and I put a hand on the desk to steady me.
A moment later my wife enters the room.
We must look a strange tableau before her. The Gentleman is trying to offer round tea, Lancaster is on the floor like a small child, Hubert and I are still holding our swords, and Lizzie is dressed only in a blanket, absently scratching her nose with the barrel of the duelling pistol.
‘Oh God,’ says Vivien, ‘I’m too late. Lionel, I don’t know what he’s said but don’t you dare fight him. He’s trying to be gallant, but you’ll just kill him and that won’t get anyone anywhere. I forbid you to kill him.’
‘I was about to kill him!’ says Hubert, a little hurt.*
‘Vivien,’ says Lancaster, still on the floor, ‘something dreadful has happened.’
Neither of them seem to grasp the obvious, extraordinary fact of her presence, but I do. ‘You’re alive!’ is all I can say.
‘Hubert,’ says Vivien sternly, ignoring me, ‘put that sword down! Hello, Lizzie!’
‘Hello, Vivien!’ says Lizzie brightly. I think it terrible breeding of them both to be so informal upon their first meeting, but I do not say anything.
I round on the Gentleman. ‘If you ever touch her again, I will drag you up from Hell and kill you with my bare hands.’
‘But I didn’t touch her,’ says the Gentleman.
‘Who’s that?’ Vivien asks no one in particular.
‘You must be Mrs Savage,’ says the Gentleman with polite interest.
‘I’m Vivien,’ says Vivien.
‘It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you,’ he says, offering her his hand.
‘Who are you?’ asks Vivien.
‘I’m— Well, I flatter myself that I’m a friend of your husband.’
I have been watching the scene in a reverie, which I abruptly pull myself out of. ‘Don’t talk to her!’ I say, slapping the Gentleman’s hand away from hers.
‘Lionel!’ says Vivien in a tone of remonstrance. ‘That’s no way to speak to your friends!’
‘He’s not my friend,’ I declare firmly.
‘I say!’ says the Gentleman, looking hurt.
‘Crumpets?’ says Simmons, entering with a tray of them.
‘Are you really the Devil?’ asks Hubert.
There is a pause. ‘Oh,’ says Vivien eventually. ‘Hello, Your Highness.’
‘Hello,’ says the Gentleman, looking a little embarrassed but also a little mollified.
‘Hello, Mistress Vivien,’ says Simmons.
‘Hello, Simmons,’ says Viv.
‘You sold your wife to the Devil?’ says Hubert, aghast.
‘If it’s any consolation,’ says the Gentleman, ‘I wasn’t informed of it.’
Hubert still looks very confused. He says, ‘But she couldn’t have been with the Devil, she was with me.’
‘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.