by Forrest Leo
‘For the offences you have done me and my family, I demand satisfaction.’ He says it with a feral grin which two hours ago I would have thought him quite incapable of. The laughing-eyed sun god is gone, replaced by something altogether more fearsome. I had thought his divinity Grecian—I see now that it is Norse.
‘Are you—’ I break off. My hand hurts like the Dev’l, but I am strangely elated. ‘Are you challenging me to a duel?’ To fall in love and within ten minutes have an opportunity to fight a duel for it is more than any poet could ask for.
‘No, I’m inviting you out for oysters. What the deuce do you think I’m doing?’
‘I’ve always wanted to fight a duel!’ I say. ‘Never thought I’d get the chance!’ As a boy I engaged in magical duels with rival magicians I concocted out of dreams and dust motes, but I have never actually duelled a real person. I always half-supposed that sooner or later Pendergast or I would say something truly dreadful to one another and a duel would be required, but I never seriously considered it. It was more the sort of happy sleepythought that brings a smile to one’s face as one drifts off at night. The closest we ever came to an altercation was at Lady Whicher’s dinner party when I threw his review into the fire and he responded by throwing my most recent book in after it. I tried to challenge him on the spot, but a piece of ham was lodged in my throat.
Lancaster has taken the wooden box from Lizzie and laid it on my desk. He now opens the lid. Within lies a matched set of duelling pistols. My heart begins to beat with excitement. They are exquisite objets d’art, entwined with gold filigreed vines and each bearing upon its hilt, if that is the word for the handle of a gun, which it probably isn’t, a lion proudly rampant.
‘There,’ he says. ‘The pistols are identical, but the choice is yours.’
I take one of the weapons eagerly. I have never held a gun before. It is cool to the touch, and fits in my hand with a feeling that is alarmingly sensual. The thing hypnotises me, and I stare at it as though in a trance. Lancaster takes its mate and walks to the far side of the room.
‘Now hold on a minute,’ I say, considering. ‘A duel sounds marvellous in theory, but the thing is, I don’t actually want to kill you.’ I realise I’d never really thought it through.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says, with that feral look in his eye. ‘You won’t.’
‘Don’t be naïve—if we’re fighting a duel, one of us isn’t going to leave this room alive. Isn’t that how a duel works?’
‘It is.’
I suddenly grasp his meaning. ‘And you think that the chances of you being the man on the floor are . . . marginal.’
‘I do.’
‘In which case, I would be the man on the floor.’
‘That’s more or less how it works, yes.’
‘Well,’ I say, intrigued, ‘this is a conundrum. Because the fact of the matter is, I don’t want to kill you; but I also don’t want you to kill me. And of course you don’t want to die, and I don’t believe that you truly want to kill me, either. Whatever I may have done, you don’t strike me as a bloodthirsty fellow. Yet you feel it your fraternal duty to challenge me, and as an Englishman and a poet I am honour-bound to accept your challenge. If either one of us could avoid the whole thing we would, but our social standing, nationality, and chosen professions forbid it. This really is a philosophical paradox.’ I study the gun. ‘Is this where the bullet goes?’ I observe him load his weapon, and follow suit. I make a mess of it of course, and he is forced to cross the room and do it for me. I watch his feet on the carpet and imagine poor Simmons trying to scrub out my blood.
Lizzie, who has been supervising the proceedings in silence, stands up. ‘Give me the guns,’ she says. Well, she is too late. If she had planned to intervene, the time to do it was back when Lancaster was batting me about like a toy. Now, however, we are in the realm of gentlemen.
‘Lizzie,’ I say, ‘you’re out of your depth. This is a matter of honour, and far beyond—’
‘Shut up,’ she says. ‘Ashley, give me your gun.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ he says. Your brother is right—where honour is concerned—’
Lizzie stamps her foot. ‘Honour be damned! I’ve sat here and watched you two hit each other for the sake of your silly honour for the last ten minutes, and it was perfectly amusing, but now you’ve had your fun and quite frankly my patience is exhausted. It’s time for both of you to grow up. Give me the guns.’
Lancaster and I glance at each other. Then at Lizzie. She eyes us flatly. Her jaw is set and her nostrils are flared.
We give her our weapons.
‘Careful,’ says Lancaster as he hands his to her. ‘They’re still loaded—’
Lizzie brandishes the pistols with some negligence, and both Lancaster and I drop to the ground. Lancaster mutters unprintable things, and I cry out.
‘I don’t trust you not to try to hit each other,’ she says, ignoring our terror. She gestures to me with one of the guns. I cower. ‘Lionel, hands to yourself!’ She points to Lancaster with the other. ‘Ashley, go over there.’
‘WOULD YOU STOP POINTING THOSE AT US!’ he cries. ‘For God’s sake, unload them!’
‘Ashley,’ says Lizzie, ‘you know I haven’t the slightest idea how to do that. You’ll please to stay on your side of the sofa. Nellie—’
Lancaster interrupts her. ‘If you promise not to point them at me, I’ll explain how to unload them. First, you’re going to very carefully—’
‘Sorry, Ashley, I haven’t the patience.’
Lizzie spreads her arms and fires both pistols at once. Plaster flies from the walls and the simultaneous reports make my ears ring.*
‘Well now, that wasn’t so complicated after all. Oh do get up,’ she says, ‘you look so silly down there.’ We rise. ‘Now. It seems there are some things you two need to discuss, only I’d rather the discussion didn’t include one of you getting shot. So because someone has to be an adult, I hereby decree that we are going to sit down right now and have a family meeting.’
Simmons used to make us have family meetings when one or both of us had misbehaved. They were never my favourite activity, and usually ended with deeper feelings of resentment than they began.
Lancaster and I give voice to our displeasure. Lizzie stamps her foot again. There is as much threat in the stamp of that little foot as in the negligent handling of two loaded weapons.*
‘Don’t speak,’ she says. ‘Sit over there.’ She directs me to a chair on the near side of my desk. ‘Ashley, you go there.’ He sits on the sofa where she points. ‘And now we’ll talk like civilised human beings.’
We object again.
‘Oh shut up!’ she cries. ‘You are children! Here. Only the person holding the magic gun may speak. Ashley’s the guest, so he goes first.’
She hands one of the pistols to him. ‘Thank you, Lizzie,’ he says smugly.
‘Don’t call her Lizzie!’ I say for no particular reason.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I’m holding the magic gun.’
‘Oh, for the love of—’
‘NELLIE!’ says Lizzie. I stop speaking. She says, ‘You were saying, Ashley?’
‘I was saying that Lionel married my little sister for her money and sold her to the Devil. And then lied to me about it.’ All of which is true, but had I the power of speech I should add that that was all a very long time ago, and that things are significantly different now.
‘Anything else?’ asks Lizzie.
Lancaster takes his time considering. I believe it is only because he enjoys holding the magic gun. At last he says, ‘Not at the moment.’
‘Very well,’ says Lizzie, ‘then give the magic gun to Lionel and let’s hear what he has to say for himself.’
Lancaster hands me the gun.
‘Am I allowed to speak in my own study now?’ I
demand sulkily.
‘Don’t pout,’ says Lizzie.
I am resolved to be the bigger man. I turn to Lancaster. I say, ‘Ashley, listen to me. You’re right—’
Lancaster cuts me off. ‘You’d bloody well—’
‘LIZZIE!’ I cry. ‘I have the gun!’ He is breaking the rules, and if he thinks he is going to get away with it then he does not know Elizabeth Savage.
‘Ashley,’ she reprimands, and there is a dangerous set to her dainty shoulders.
Lancaster holds up his hands in mute apology.
‘You’re right,’ I continue, ‘I have behaved . . . badly. But something incredible has happened. I have discovered that I am in fact overwhelmingly in love with your sister. And I will do anything in my power to get her back.’
I think it is very handsomely said, but Lancaster grabs the gun from me and says, ‘Listen, Savage, it’s all well and good to be contrite, but for heaven’s sake—’
I snatch the gun back, if only to shut him up. ‘I know that what I’ve done is unforgiveable. I’m not asking for your forgiveness. All I’m asking is that you let me help to look for her. Anything after that . . . Well, we can only engage one problem at a time. Like Horatius.* But in the meantime let me remind you that your sister has been taken by the Dev’l, and that for all we know he’s doing horrible things to her.’ I do not mention that he seems on the whole quite a decent, rather bookish chap. It seems at the moment to be extraneous information.
Lancaster takes the gun and says, ‘I trust you’re aware that if a single hair on her head is harmed, I’m going to end your life with a roll of baling wire and a dull spoon.’
‘I’d assumed as much, yes,’ I say when the gun is again in my hands.
He takes it back. ‘And when we find her, if she hates you I’m not going to say a word in your favour. And if she wants me to kill you I will. And if she wants to kill you herself I’ll load the gun for her. And if she wants you to take her place in Hell, I will personally escort—’
I grab the gun. ‘Yes, yes, you’ve made yourself quite clear!’ I say, and hand it back.
He thinks, then he says, ‘Very well, then.’
We both look at Lizzie. She nods. Lancaster puts the gun down.* We enjoy the silence, knowing we once more have the ability to say anything we choose at any time we choose. At length Lancaster holds his hand out to me and says, ‘Help me move in my things from the foyer—I’m going to be staying here indefinitely.’
My heart, which was for a moment brought down to earth by the punching and the duel and the accusations, is once more borne aloft by thoughts of my wife. She really is the most wonderful woman in the world, I reflect—and that I should devote the rest of my life to winning her back from Hell, if it should take that long, sounds perfectly marvellous. My equanimity restored, I am inclined to once again look favourably upon Ashley Lancaster. Far from ruining my good opinion of him, the past quarter hour has made me view him as a much more interesting human than I had hitherto supposed. I wonder if perhaps I could not make three friends today.
‘Very well,’ I say, and shake his hand warmly. (I believe my knocking him down raised me up in his eyes also.) ‘Lizzie, we need to know all there is to know about how to retrieve one’s wife from the Devil. I leave it in your keeping, and put my library at your disposal.’
She looks at the shelves for a moment, then says, ‘I’m not entirely sure how we’re going to go about this, Nellie.’
I hesitate. ‘To be honest, neither do I. It sounded so simple in theory. Gather the troops and march right into Hell and grab my wife. Didn’t think about that fact that you need to find the bloody place first.’
‘It is an interesting dilemma,’ says Lancaster. ‘Makes you wish you could talk to Dulle Griet, doesn’t it?’
‘Who?’ says Lizzie.
‘Dulle Griet,’ he repeats. ‘Mad Meg? The woman who rounded up the peasant mothers and stormed the gates of Hell to reclaim the souls of their sons that were killed in battle.’
I am drawing a blank, and I can see from Lizzie’s face that she is, too. She says, ‘Who wrote it?’
‘Oh, no, it’s a painting,’ says Lancaster. ‘Bruegel, I think—or is it Bosch?’*
There is a brief silence. At length, Lizzie says, ‘I don’t know,’ in a small voice.
I don’t either. It is unlike us not to know something. I move forward quickly. ‘Here’s what we’ll do,’ I say. ‘Together we’ll pull out all the books which might have information on Hell, the Devil, supernatural abductions, and missing wives. We’ll split them up into three stacks, and we’ll look until we find something. I’m in love and I’ve the best private library in Britain. I have never known books or love ever to fail, so I don’t see why they’d do so now. Come on, Lancaster, let’s get your things.’
As we head toward the foyer, he says almost to himself, ‘Never thought I’d have to break in to Hell.’
Eight
In Which Lancaster Discovers a Breach in Lizzie’s Defences for Which I Am Unjustly Held Responsible, & We Search for a Way to Hell.
Lancaster’s things are in the spare bedroom, and we are once more in my study. Books are strewn everywhere. It is very late at night. I sit at my desk, paging through Paradise Lost. Lizzie and Lancaster lounge on the sofa. I am trying to concentrate, but I cannot because they are chattering wantonly. (I like Lancaster, but I do not approve. Lizzie I believe needs a hiatus from men.) They reach the subject of his expeditions, about which he is very eager to talk, and Lizzie no less so. They do their best to impress one another.
‘I’ve read all about your expeditions!’ gushes Lizzie. ‘It must be so wonderful. I’ve never been out of England. Except in my head, of course. And in books. I think that should count, but for some silly reason it doesn’t. You must tell me all about it! Simmons said you were in Tibet, but that’s not right, is it? I read you were heading north, looking for Hyperborea. What did you find? Did you find it? Is it wonderful? Where exactly did you go? Tell me about the north! Does it really never get dark?’ Answer me in one word, she could add. I smile to myself.
‘Not in the summer,’ says Lancaster. ‘You see, the earth’s axis is tilted so that— Well, the higher you go—the higher in degrees, that is—latitude degrees, you know—’ The poor man is quite at sea. I wonder when he last carried on a tête-à-tête with an attractive woman. Lizzie seems to be wondering the same.*
‘Are you trying to explain to me why in Arctic latitudes the sun never sets during the summer months?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’
‘You really have no idea how to speak to a woman, do you?’
‘No. You see, I have not been in polite company for some time. I apologise if I am— I should really just stop talking. I’m sure to be at once completely boring and horridly coarse.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, Ashley! May I call you Ashley? I’m going to call you Ashley. “Mr Lancaster” just sounds so stodgy. You couldn’t bore me if you tried—I’ve been in love with you since I was a little girl.’
I am too tired to tell her off, and not sure I have the inclination. Lizzie seems to be enjoying his discomfort and Lancaster chokes on his tea—so I am gratified.
‘Well never mind,’ she continues. ‘We’ll teach you to speak to women yet! In the meantime, try to think of me as a man.’
‘I’m afraid that’s going to be quite impossible,’ says Lancaster, wiping tea from his trousers. He casts me a sidelong glance. I think it makes him uncomfortable that I am present while Lizzie attempts to flirt with him. No more than I, I want to tell him—no more than I.*
‘Oh, very well,’ says Lizzie. ‘But at least don’t try to explain things to me. It’s very sweet of you and almost unbearably charming, but I promise you that although I must seem a very young girl I am not ignorant.’
‘No, God, no, I didn’t mean to imply that—’
&nb
sp; Lizzie wearies quickly of people who are slaves to propriety. In this she is still my sister, misplaced affinity for society parties or no. She cuts off his apology and says, ‘Do you want to know a dreadful secret? I was expelled!’
‘Oh,’ says Lancaster, unsure how else to respond. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s a perfect scandal!’ says Lizzie with a twinkle. ‘You see, I was caught having a dalliance with the dean’s son.’
Oh good Lord, there it is. I can only bury my face in my book and wonder how I am ever to find her a husband.
‘Good Christ!’ cries Lancaster.
‘That’s what I said!’ says Lizzie. ‘They claim to be concerned with educating you, but they leave such glaring gaps—and when you attempt to rectify the situation and learn for yourself what they refuse to teach you, they behave as if you’ve killed someone. It’s a disgrace.’
Lancaster’s mouth opens and closes, but no words emerge. The trouble with Lizzie is, she does have a certain logic to her misbehaviour. What’s worse, we think enough alike that when she explains something I cannot but wonder if she isn’t right.
Lancaster’s mouth still moves soundlessly. ‘I’ve shocked you,’ says Lizzie with pert accusation.
‘A bit,’ mutters Lancaster.
‘I see,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry.’ She doesn’t sound sorry. Or at any rate, she sounds sorry only that he is not more liberal in his thinking.
She is being deliberately cruel, and he has not yet noticed. I am passing proud. I have said that Simmons raised us, which is true—but I like to think that, being so much older than she, in a large part it was I who raised Lizzie.
‘I didn’t mean to make you angry,’ flails Lancaster.
‘I’m not angry,’ she replies with a dying fall. ‘Just disappointed.’
Lancaster looks as though he’s going to cry.
‘Oh come now!’ says Lizzie, breaking out in a charming little smile. ‘Laugh! If I’d dreamed at thirteen you’d be this stodgy my heart would have broken.’
