I, Libertine

by Theodore Sturgeon

  He placed an expression of horror upon his face and threw up his hands. “Why, Miss Axelrood!” But at the same time he winked. She made an amused moué at having been so badly caught blurting out a straight question in this curled conversation; and again they had that moment of locked glances, of complete understanding and mutual, admiring disapproval.

  He said, “You have quite captivated me, you and Miss Chudleigh. You have suggested that I might help you, and that I am prepared and empowered to do, but I should feel a cad indeed if I limited my assistance to the triviality we have discussed. I can be of much more help to you. As a matter of fact, unless I give you the ell, I think you’ll find the inch quite useless.”

  Miss Axelrood put her cheek in her palm and looked up through her lashes. “You do go on,” she murmured, “but—do go on.”

  “Thank you. Now, stated simply, the situation is this: Miss Chudleigh wishes a clear-cut annulment of her … of these rumors. She wishes this because she and the Duke of Kingston would like the freedom to wed. Surely no one would oppose such a splendid union.”

  “Surely not.”

  His eyes widened and he stabbed a forefinger down at her. “You’re wrong!”

  She was puzzled. “I don’t follow you, Lance. The Duke is the last of his line; he has no legitimate issue and the title will die with him unless of course—but I hardly think there would be any issue of this marriage.”

  “Quite probably not, but that’s beside the point. Yes, the title’s finished, but what about his estates?”

  “What about his estates?”

  “Come now, Miss Axelrood! With all the thinking you have done about this situation, you surely have not overlooked that!” When she kept looking at him blankly, he said, speaking slowly as to a child, “If, God forbid, the Duke should die tomorrow, who’d inherit?”

  “Why, I … I’m not sure. Someone in the collateral lines, I imagine, but—”

  “But suppose yourself in the shoes of that ‘someone in a collateral line.’ D’ye think the Duke’s death would find that ‘someone’ unaware of his rights? Don’t you think he is at this very moment aware of what’s coming to him when that time arrives?”

  “I suppose so. But you keep talking about what happens when the Duke passes on, and the matter in hand is not that, but his marriage. Oh!” she squeaked, and put a hand to her mouth.

  “And so it comes to you.” He nodded approvingly, deeply enjoying his moment of patronization. “There is indeed someone who would, at the very hint of a rumor that Elizabeth Chudleigh was free to take his place as next heir, cause much embarrassment. So much, that even though her current situation was cleared up, the marriage might be made impossible. … Poor Miss Chudleigh, to have come so far, to be so near her greatest desire!”

  “Oh dear. … I suppose, Captain Machiavelli, that you will prudently conceal the name of this potential heir and stoat-in-the-chicken-run.”

  “By no means. His name is Meadows.”

  “Oh good heavens!—the nephew. Hideous little stick-in-the-mud, all godly and duty-bound. I met him once. Charles.”

  “It is not. Charles is abroad just now. It is Evelyn, the other nephew, named after his uncle the Duke, and, I assure you, as fully aware of Miss Chudleigh’s movements, intentions and desires as you are. He is a mournful young man of some thirty summers who has done little for the past ten years but write bad poetry and hunger for the Kingston lands and holdings.”

  “Oh dear,” said Miss Axelrood again, “that one! He—but surely you know about him.”

  “Actually,” said Lance, “I don’t. And it doesn’t matter—I should say, it is far better that way. Because I am about to meet that young man. To know him. To become fast friends and whisk him away with me to my country place, and to keep him interested there until Miss Chudleigh is free to marry—and marries.”

  She turned upon him quite the strangest gaze he had yet seen in her. “To keep him interested … how?”

  “The resources of human invention are unlimited. My dear departed mentor Mr. Barrowbridge used to say, there’s always a way, and always an explanation. All one has to do is think of it. …Whatever Meadows enjoys I shall enjoy. Whatever he is seeking I shall seek. Whatever his need, there shall be more of it with me at my country place than anywhere else he knows. … Why do you laugh?” he demanded, for she had virtually exploded.

  “I’m sorry,” she said when she could. She slipped a scrap of lace handkerchief from her bodice and dabbed at her eyes. Inadequately she explained, “It’s your approach, dear Lance, your attack, and your confidence. They quite take my breath away. Do proceed.”

  “That is quite all. What are you thinking?”

  “I am thinking of what Miss Chudleigh’s feeling will be about this extraordinary plan of campaign.”

  “And what, in your draughts, is Miss Chudleigh saying?”

  “She is saying that the whole thing is most ingenious, but that it would be more direct for her to make arrangements about Mr. Meadows without your intervention, once the other matter was in hand. We could not, in all conscience, trouble you quite so much.”

  “But I would insist. My conscience is equally involved. One must not begin a thing and not finish it; one must not finish a thing any way but properly. I am involved, Miss Axelrood, and, as you pointed out, am also quite confident. So much so that I could not countenance having this affair handled in any other way than that I propose. I would rather have it not handled at all. I would, actually, insist that neither Miss Chudleigh’s freedom nor her marriage to the Duke of Kingston occur. Let me put it this way: if Mr. Meadows is present in London at the time of these actions, they cannot succeed. If I am in London at that time, they cannot succeed. How simple, then, how efficient it would be, if while I was keeping Mr. Meadows out of London, Mr. Meadows was keeping me out of London!”

  “I have never heard of such outright audacity!” she breathed.

  “Surely you have. And now, Miss Axelrood, you have the sum of my suggestions.”

  “Suggestions? What, Captain, is your word for a demand?”

  “A suggestion,” he said smilingly.

  She put her hands on her knees with an abrupt soft slap and looked him in the eye, wagging her head in amazement. “Then it is now my task to tell Miss Chudleigh that you have found an answer to the matter of her dealings with Mr. Hervey; that you can thereby free her to marry the Duke; that Mr. Meadows has it in his power to obstruct these matters; that you volunteer to remove Mr. Meadows from the scene and present him later with a fait accompli; and that you are doing this because of your interest in justice and the right, even to the extent of refusing the house in Holborn.”

  “I could not have summed it up better myself.”

  “There seems to be something lacking in the picture.”

  “I think not,” he said.

  She sat quiet for a moment, then, “Oh,” she said. “The country place. Captain Courtenay, tell me about your country place.”

  “Why,” he said off-handedly, “it’s a sort of shootin’-box, you know, nothing elaborate. Large enough for a party of … oh, say six, with a hovel for the servants and a bit of a stable and carriage house; but small enough to be almost lost in a map of England. And as I say, not elaborate. Comfortable, that’s the word, as might suit any young gentleman of reasonable means, excellent background, and favorable prospects.”

  “Are you suggesting that the Duke might even now have such a holding, and would permit—”

  “My dear Miss Axelrood, have I not yet made myself clear? I am not interested in placing myself in anyone’s town house or country place, to live on expectations of my benefactor’s continued generosity. Nor would I, in the circumstances, endanger this enterprise of ours by leaving myself—us—all of us open to such an accusation: ‘Courtenay? Ah yes, the chap who held young Meadows prisoner while his uncle married Miss Chudleigh. Held him, mind you, at one of the Duke’s own properties.’ … Ah no, Miss Axelrood; the less connection bet
ween the parties of this action, and me, the better. If all goes well—and it shall—even Meadows will never be aware that we know one another.”

  She rose, and paced, watching him as she turned and turned again. Then she settled again on the ottoman. “Up to now,” she confessed, “I have been willing to hear you out as one listens to a child’s story of a dream—only to see how fantastic it can be. But at last I am beginning to feel the substance of your plan. This does not delude me, however, from the fact that you are asking a great deal in return for … well, for your ingenuity, on the grounds that it is ingenious. You ask me to take your word for it that the action you have in mind for freeing Miss Chudleigh will be effective, and also to believe that you can and shall do this and that … to the end that you shall have your own country place, purchased, no doubt, with hard gold sovereigns in your name.”

  “I would not insist on anything so magnificent!” he assured her. “A letter of credit from a commercial bank here would be ample.” He laughed into her amazement until she had to join him. “As to your accepting my word for all this, of course I expect nothing of the kind. Has Miss Chudleigh a solicitor whom she can trust, who has a wide knowledge of law, and who could be here a week from today to conclude this matter?”

  “Yes; I rather think Mr. Beasley would serve.” She chuckled. “I think you will astonish Mr. Beasley. What would he be expected to do?”

  “First, to inspect my plan for the court action. If—and only if—he agrees that it will succeed, and that the only possible objection to it could be raised by Mr. Meadows, then we may discuss the matter of the shootin’ box, the details of which I shall have with me. It would be best if Mr. Beasley could draw up the letter of credit then and there. After that—why, Mr. Beasley may proceed with the case at his earliest convenience, and my good friend Mr. Evelyn Meadows and I shall meanwhile repair to my little place in the Surrey Downs. I think it’s the Surrey Downs,” he added blandly. “Is there anything more to discuss?”

  “If there is,” she said ruefully, “my poor woolly head will burst its seams.”

  “It has been a pleasure to discuss things with your poor woolly head,” he said in his rumbling whisper. “I do believe you think as well as a man.”

  “All women think as well as men. If you had said I think like a man, however, I should have denied it. … Where may I reach you, in order to give you Miss Chudleigh’s decision?”

  “I may not be reached. Tomorrow morning I am off to look at some holdings, and also to see what can be done immediately in the matter of Mr. Meadows, his joys and preoccupations. I cannot say at this moment where I shall be, except that I shall return here in a week, at the same hour, ready to talk to your solicitor.”

  “And supposing your lofty confidence is misplaced, Captain, and Miss Chudleigh refuses to pursue your plan?”

  “I do not even consider it,” he said immediately. “I shall be back here in a week, and should the affair not be concluded at that meeting, I shall not return. The misfortune would be Miss Chudleigh’s, not mine. What is your name?”

  “Lilith,” she said immediately.

  “Thank you … aha! Adam’s first love, as I remember.”

  “And, some say, the devil’s sister.”

  “You would not tell me before.”

  “No,” she said, “but I am coming to like you.”

  “Then I shall take advantage of that fact, and salute it properly.” And he quickly slid his arms about her.

  She put her hands on his shoulders and averted her face, laughing. “No, please—no!”

  “But why not?”

  “I have told you; I am coming to like you.”

  He held her lightly and thought this out, in view of what had passed between them … was it only last night? She no longer had her face turned away, but faced him, reading his eyes alertly and with great attention.

  “But only last—” and he could not finish, for she put her hand on his lips. “I told you you would ask me that again,” she whispered. “And I said, too, that the answer was: Because I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Ah yes. And after understanding that, I was supposed to be angry.”

  “With yourself.”

  “I remember.” He put her by and stood up. “I am to understand that it is not possible for you to talk to me without—”

  “It is not possible for a woman to talk to a man (unless it is herself she wishes to talk about) without first bringing about a condition one might call ‘afterwards’ … otherwise the very air is befogged with pressures and conjectures and doubles entendres, in which the point of any separate discussion may well be lost. So … I wanted to talk to you.”

  “And yet, tonight, you—”

  “Tonight,” said Lilith, “It was you who wanted to talk, and not about me.”

  “You are very frank.”

  “You are very angry.”

  He turned to her hotly, and was met with an expression of such cool amusement, mixed with such genuine liking and admiration, that he was stopped short. “I suppose I am,” he floundered. “It’s just that I’m unused to … that is, I naturally felt that … what I mean to say is that it isn’t you I’m angry at, but … damme, girl, you’re right,” and he began to laugh.

  “That’s better.” She gave him her long cool hand. “I shall miss you, Lance. And though I am, in a way, ranged against you, still, I wish you luck. I hope that this whole complicated matter turns out to Miss Chudleigh’s advantage; there are a number of people who have attempted to best her and who bitterly regret it.”

  “My dearest hopes are synonymous with her success,” he intoned.

  “Get along with you,” she smiled. He kissed her hand and left the library.

  “Pendleton.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “My cloak. … is my carriage outside?”

  “No, sir. Your coachman asked me to hand you this.”

  It was the hardy threadbare cloak, the Bermondsey cloak, made up into a tight neat package. Inside one might feel the flat carven plaques of the Courtenay escutcheons.

  Behind him, Lilith Axelrood made a slight sound—Lance thought, an amused sound. He turned. She stood at the foot of the great staircase, ready to mount, one long hand on the newel post. “So the coachman has passed on too, Captain?”

  He had nothing to say. He felt his ears redly burning.

  “Pendleton,” said the girl, “ask Haines to come round with the trap and take the Captain where he wants to go. I think he will remember the way. Good night, Captain.”

  The butler went away, and Lance Courtenay stood in the door, watching the pink flame of her dress rising up the cold white sweep of the stair.

  7.

  HE FOUND HIM IN an alehouse, in a corner away from the light, hunched over the boards, both hands on a great brown stone mug. His eyes and his shoulders were set too close together, his jaw was too long and oddly edged straight up the front of his nether lip, as if, like a ram-bowed warship, a keel had been shaped upward to form a prow. He wore his hair tied back in a tight club, but it grew double-crowned and defied such discipline. His clothes were good, but he sat, he moved, he held himself in ways which held neatness in perpetual abeyance.

  “Mr. Meadows? Mr. Evelyn Meadows?”

  Meadows slowly withdrew his gaze from the bubbles in his mug and looked up and sidewise without moving his head. His whole aspect was one of uncertainty and suspicion; any true student of Balthazar Gracian could see them clearly, like two great handles thrust out and forward. Lance grasped them eagerly. “I know you,” he murmured. He slid onto the bench opposite, fixed Meadows with a bright gaze, and waited.

  “I don’t know you,” said Meadows in a high breathy voice.

  “Ah. But I know you,” reiterated Lance. He waited again.

  Meadows dropped his eyes from Lance’s to his brown ale. He raised the mug to his lips, seemed to study some puzzling conformation of bubbles within, and then put it down again without drinking. He flicked his e
yes up and away as if to see if he was still being impaled; he was. “Well then.” When Lance still would not speak, he wet his lips and said, “Well then, I mean, how? Y’know, dash it all,” he added for reasons of his own, and urgently, as if he must.

  Slowly Lance brought up his gloved hand; slowly he removed the glove. It was a theatrical gesture which would have justified the introduction of a solid gold hand, or a mangled hand, or no hand at all, and Meadows watched it, fascinated. Lance swung his index finger in a short swift semicircle and aimed it between Meadows’ eyes, which converged slightly to contain it. “You,” said Lance, “are the author of A Defence of Albertus Magnus.”

  “Why, I say, yes,” said Meadows, and tittered. “I say. Y’know, dash it all. However did you know?”

  Lance knew, the way he knew where and how Meadows lived, what books he bought, where he had been to school and how he had fared there, how well he paid his bills and roughly their extent. Tradesmen, booksellers, landlords—anyone who would gossip, and virtually anyone does. As to the Albertus Magnus piece, Lance had heard of that from an amused old scoundrel who read proof for The Monthly Review and who was sometimes called in to filter the leas from the huge masses of submissions that lively journal received unsolicited. “Dammit, nobody’s attacked Albertus Magnus, not since 1280 anyhow. This idiot Meadows read somewhere that Albertus had been called the Ape of Aristotle and got frightfully ruffled about it. God, Lanky, I wish the government would supply people like that with a bright purple stamp to affix to their work, so one would know in advance it should be sent back unread. Come to think of it they ought to have the stamp on their foreheads as well. Ever talk to the fool?”

  “A splendid work,” said Lance sincerely. “Far too good for the times. Too early or too late. Too early, probably. One has hope.”

  “I say. I mean, hang it. What did you say your name is?”

  Lance told him, ordered a pint of bitter, and had the girl freshen Meadows’ stone mug. Lance, who had had old Barrowbridge in an orgy of research for the past three days, simply tossed out names the way one would throw cubes of beef to a terrier, this way, that way: Roger Bacon, Paracelsus, Arnoldus Villanovanus, Vincent of Beauvais; and Meadows scurried about and snapped them up and begged for more. Phlogiston, prima materia, aquae fortis et regis, and the Philosopher’s Stone. For Meadows, heaven help him, wanted to be an alchemist.