The Deconstruction of an English Gentleman

by 'quite musical and curiously soothing'

3.

Alistair managed to slip into the house and up to his rooms without encountering his parents. He shut the door behind him with a sigh of relief and began to sort out some of the things he intended to pack. It was a very few things indeed, but the knife Mahmoud had given him, he still had. He found it in its secret hiding place and stroked the ivory handle. Then he drew it and enjoyed the feeling of holding it again -- the knife was like an extension of his hand. He carefully touched the edge. It was dull, but it wouldn't be for much longer.

The months after their return to England had been the worst in his entire life. Marsh was swept into the crisis at Justice Hall, while Alistair went to Cambridge. They saw each other less than Alistair would preferred, and the letters from Marsh were short and uncommunicating. Full of frustrations, Alistair went to London with some fellow students on a drinking spree and ended up in a house in a red light district. He didn't realize what the place was until the doors shut behind him and the heavy smell of sweat, perfume and raw excitement hit him. He felt sick, and when one of the ladies of the house put an arm around his neck and he noticed that she looked like his sister Rose in a half-naked and somewhat vulgar version, he brushed her away and fled the establishment. He had wandered the streets of London restlessly until he could get back to Cambridge on the first train in the morning.

He returned to his books. His companions never commented on his behaviour and they never invited him again. Alistair isolated himself, studied hard, went to a lot of lectures and looked forward to the short letters from Marsh as the only glimpses of light in a growing darkness.

One day Marsh suddenly appeared in Alistair's rooms in Cambridge. Alistair suppressed an Arabian urge to throw his arms around him. Something in Marsh's bearing and looks made him expect the worst.

Marsh began:

"I've come to tell you that I'm marrying Iris..."

Alistair's fist hit Marsh clear on the jaw. Marsh fell backwards, hit the door with a crash and sank to the floor. In his fury Alistair stormed into the adjoining room, then hesitantly turned back and saw Marsh sitting somewhat confused on the floor with his eyes closed, carefully examining his jaw. Marsh opened his eyes and said:

"I guess I deserved that. Good Lord, Ali, you act as if you're being..."

The wild look in Alistair's eyes made Marsh break off the sentence, reach out his hand and continue on a quite different note:

"Ali, my brother... let me explain."

Hesitantly Alistair took his hand and let Marsh drag him down on the floor by his side. Marsh, still holding Alistair's hand, continued:

"My family is putting pressure on me to marry. My father fears that Henry and Sarah never will get any children and, as you know, I'm the reserve. I don't want to get married. Iris is in the same situation, she's being pressed too. We've agreed to shut them all up by getting married and escape to Paris."

"To Paris?"

"Officially to Paris," Marsh confirmed. "Iris wants to go and live in Paris, I continue to Palestine as soon as possible. If all goes as planned, you and I can spend the next summer together in Egypt or Palestine or wherever you want."

"But what about Iris?" Alistair asked "What will she say, when you abandon her like that?"

Marsh laughed quietly and gave Alistair's hand a squeeze:

"Don't you see that Iris doesn't want to get married because she prefers women?"

Alistair sighed. Suddenly he felt very stupid and very relieved.

On a foggy October day shortly thereafter, while the family of Justice Hall was shooting with friends in Scotland, Alistair and a skinny friend of Iris' witnessed Marsh and Iris being wed in the small chapel at Justice Hall.

Afterwards they had a lot of champagne up in Marsh's rooms. The skinny friend of Iris' left Justice after a single glass and a long, mumbling conversation with Iris by the door. Alistair, flushing, withdrew a few hours later, when Marsh and Iris entered into a unrestrained and laughing discussion on whether to consummate the marriage or play billiards.

Unfortunately they choose the first and Alistair did not go to spend his summer vacation in the Middle East.

Once more he was awoken by Marsh, who, with his specialty of passing through locked doors, showed up in Alistair's Cambridge bedroom one night in January. A strained Marsh paced the floor while Alistair tried to wake up.

"I'm not here at all," Marsh began, nervously. "I'm not in England, I'm in Paris. But I had to see you. Something has come up, we have to change our plans. Iris is pregnant."

Alistair closed his eyes and fell back into the bed while his life collapsed upon him. Then he opened his eyes and said bitterly:

"This time I really ought to knock you out."

Marsh reached out to him, apologetic:

"Ali..."

"Oh, go to hell!" Alistair hissed and pushed Marsh's hand away:

"What's next? Henry's being run over by a couple of bolting horses and you taking over Justice Hall? You'll be perfect -- the man who produces heirs on a string as soon as he gets enough champagne?"

"Ali, my brother, maybe this crazy situation will be our ticket to freedom in the end. Iris and I are having a baby neither of us want. Henry and Sarah are desperate to have one they can't get. If we all keep a low profile, Henry and Sarah suddenly have the baby they want, Iris and I don't, the succession of Justice Hall is secured and nobody cares if I am in Cairo or the Himalayas to the end of my days. Henry's trying to persuade Sarah, and if he succeeds, the four of us go to Italy until the baby is born. It's expected by the end of July."

Alistair, whose future seemed pitch black, was not convinced:

"And what if it's a girl? Then you and Iris will have another bottle of champagne and yet another joyous roll in the hay?"

Marsh closed his eyes and Alistair suddenly saw how tired and worn he looked, as he said:

"It simply has to be a boy."

It was a boy. When Henry and Sarah returned to Justice Hall in October with the infant Gabriel, Marsh was back in Palestine and let Alistair know that he was expected there for the Christmas holidays. The two Hughenfort families, who thought Marsh was with Iris in Paris, let Alistair go, convinced that they kept an eye on Marsh through Alistair. As Ali and Mahmoud they enjoyed themselves by making up smokescreens on the cool nights by the fire.

They spent their days exploring the Judean Hills hand in hand the Arabian way, while Ali's Arabic became more fluent and Mahmoud earned their daily, frugal fare by writing letters and contracts up for the illiterate villagers and bedus in the area.

"How come this is such a happy life?" Alistair wondered aloud one night by the fire. And Mahmoud said:

"Life here is simple. Sometimes cold, sometimes rough and dirty, but wonderfully simple..."

And so the remains of Alistair's years as a student at Cambridge had passed: the vacations brought him to Palestine, where soon he was as warmly greeted by the inhabitants as Mahmoud was. And all his prospects seemed bright and happy, until...

Alistair finished sharpening his knife. He carefully tested the edge and cut his thumb, put it in his mouth and tasted the salty blood. Honoria...

After four years at Cambridge, Alistair had fulfilled the expectations of his family. In Arley Holt a summer of social gatherings awaited. He felt obliged to participate, as he planned to pull his vanishing act immediately thereafter. Marsh' stepmother, who enjoyed entertaining, had a large summer festivity planned in early August. She stressed that she expected Alistair to be there together with all the young people of their social circle. His parents eagerly seconded her invitation and he gave in, not knowing that by doing that he headed directly towards the steamhammer of Honoria St. John.

Before the great summer festivity there were a number of smaller parties. Alistair participated, physically at least. His feet had danced, his hands fetched refresments and his mouth had spoken equal parts of polite phrases and indifferent remarks to an unknown number of young men and ladies who had passed him in a steady flow. His thoughts had been in Judea, more occupied with who Mahmoud spent his time with than with the person with whom he moved around on the dance floor. When he passed on a glass of champagne, he saw Mahmoud passing him a cup of his strong and spicy coffee. When he politely greeted other guests, he longed for Mahmoud's Arabian greeting... Alistair did not notice that a certain face had been in his sight more often than others, and he didn't see two blue eyes decisively secure themselves to him. Until the night at the Duchess' grand party at Justice Hall...

Honoria's hand slipped under his arm as if it had done it forever. He had danced with her, because she was there and saved him the trouble of seeking out a partner. She kept hanging at his arm and his mind was in Palestine and that was too far away for him to notice her hanging there, until Honoria -- after yet another turn at the dance floor, since he didn't know what to say to her -- insisted on getting a breath of fresh air. He escorted her out into the park, she set straight off towards a bench pretty far from the lights and the guests, sat down and patted the empty seat by her side with an eager smile on her face.

Then -- and only then -- the total disaster became clear to Alistair Hughenfort. The blood left his face, only to return on full scale. Honoria smiled encouraging and said:

"Alistair dear, there's no reason to be afraid of little me."

But I am, he thought. And for very good reasons.

"Do sit down. It's wonderfully cool here," Honoria chirped.

"I... er... I think I prefer to stand up," he stuttered.

Honoria's eyes widened in expectation. Alistair looked desperate for an escape: would anybody please come this way and disturb this agonizing tête-a-tête? But the highnumbered party stubbornly kept to the lighted area near the house infinitely far behind him. He couldn't just walk away and leave her here -- and he certainly couldn't stay.

"I think it's time to go back," he said lamely.

Honoria's look changed from expectation to decisiveness:

"Alistair! Sit down!"

She sounded like his mother. He sat.

She took his hand and let out a long, quivering sigh: "Oh Alistair...!"

Carefully he withdrew his hand, while feverishly ransakcing his brain for some words that would make the whole scene evaporate into thin air. His brain was absolutely devoid of anything, and Honoria once again reached out for him:

"Alistair dear, don't you think I've noticed how you have preferred me for a long time? You are so careful, so unobtrusive, and that is very sweet, but you don't have to... I mean, I'm right here now and we're finally alone..."

He sat paralysed, with his gaze fixed to the ground, and now she began to sound insecure:

"Alistair? Is something the matter? Are you dumb-struck? Alistair, talk to me!"

He drew in a deep breath. Honoria's blue eyes once again became expectant. He gulped once, twice, ten times... he looked down on their joined hands: his dark one squeezed between her slim, white ones and he tried to pull away, but she hold on.

"Honoria," he began, "I don't know what you hope for, but I... can't."

"What do you mean?" she whispered. He noticed a bit of uncertainty in her voice.

"This... will not do!" he exclaimed. "We have to go back. Now. Immediately!"

"Alistair," she said, stifling sobs, while squeezing his hand even harder. Her pianist fingers were unusually strong and her fingernails bored into his flesh. Maybe the pain finally made him act. He jumped up, violently pulled his hand out of her grasp and almost made her tumble down from the bench.

"I do realize that we have been dancing together a lot lately, but it doesn't mean that you should even think of ordering your wedding dress," he said and the moment the words slipped out of his mouth he knew he was being brutal. And he didn't care.

"Come here, we have to go back!"

But Honoria hid her face in her hands, her slim body shook, she gasped and cried:

"Oh my God, this can't be true... You can't do this to me, Alistair Hughenfort!"

She had him nicely caught. He knew -- and she knew. Fury raged in him, he grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet:

"Now, dry your eyes and let us go back."

She gasped, staggered and fell into his arms. Instinctively he caught her and wished a split second later that he had let her fall, because she threw an arm aound his neck and breathed yet another. "Oh Alistair!"

He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her away: "That's enough!"

Then he dragged her along, she stumbled behind him, until they was almost back at the house and the party. Then she suddenly stopped, and he turned to see if she had fallen.

She stood there, very straight, with glaring blue eyes, and then she hit him: a well-placed slap in his face that made his head spin. Instinctively he raised his hand to strike back and she saw it; the anger in her eyes fled for fear, she gasped. They stood face to face, breathing heavily in the darkness. She spoke first, very low:

"Do you know that you have just ruined my life?"

As Alistair didn't know what to say, he chose the easy way out: he bowed silently -- and ran.

He had gone home through the darkness, had packed a few belongings and considered heading straight for Palestine. But his respect towards the family, both his own and Marsh's in Justice Hall, had made him change his mind. He had gone to London, stayed at his club and strolled around the summer-sleepy city for a week before returning this morning to Arley Holt to balance the accounts.

The house was beginning to stir. The sun rose and Alistair hadn't slept a wink. Benjamin knocked and brought him a cup of tea, offered to make a bath ready. Alistair accepted and sipped his tea slowly, while watching the countryside through the open window. His heart was saying goodbye.

"Alistair! Father wants a word, when you've had braskfast."

Alistair nodded and calmly looked at Rose, who sent him an almost invisible smile across the breakfast table.

"Yes, it's time we had a talk," he said.

He met his father in his office and this conversation took a different turn.

"I've been considering all this," his father said. "Honoria St. John... is a lovely young lady from a good family. She even has a nice inheritance awaiting. We have known her and her mother forever, and it has been made absolutely clear to me that an alliance between Honoria and you would be a dream come true to Honoria and to your respective mothers."

Alistair let the silence grow, until it had built an almost visible wall through the room. Then he spoke:

"But it wouldn't be my dream. Honestly, father, I wouldn't know what to do with her..."

His father frowned:

"What exactely do you mean by that?"

His voice was thick with unspoken questions. Alistair rose, went to stand by the fireplace and turned to his father:

"Listen to me. I've just left Cambridge. I've been looking forward to travel and I have an appointment to meet Marsh in Paris. I'm not even 22 yet and now you will marry me to a cunning 19-year-old doll, who has not a penny-worth of brains under her blonde curls."

"Engage, Alistair. Marriage can wait."

"Do you sincerely believe that Miss Honoria St. John will be able to wait for anything?" Alistair exploded and started pacing the floor:

"She is stupid, greedy and spoiled. The poor man who proposes to her will be forced to set a date before he gets up from his kneeling position. If I should be so unhappy as to be married to her, she will move into this house and send you and my dear mother poisonous looks until you both drop dead and she can take over as the lady of the house."

Alistair's father studied the surface of his desk for a long time.

"I understand that you have no intention of ever marrying Miss Honoria."

Alistair snorted. William Hughenfort looked up and watched his son, who had got all the gallic traits that ran in the family: the swarthy skin, the black, unruly hair, the flashing eyes and equally flashing temper.

"I must say that I'm pleased to hear that you haven't fallen for the unmistaken charms of this young lady. No matter how much your mother wants this match, I'm as convinced as you that it would not ensure happiness to any of you. But I have been very worried lately," William Hughenfort said.

Alistair drew in a quick breath:

"If I have ever given you any reason to think... what have I done? What have you noticed...? I've never..."

"Easy now, son. There has been a flutter of whisperings and rumours, both here and at Justice Hall. But I have never seen you behave towards Honoria in a way that could lead anyone to suspect any kind of understanding between you and her. You have been unusually absentminded since you returned, but the reason of you distraction has not been Honoria St. John, as far as my observations go. And belive me, I have kept both of you under close observation since the rumours reached me."

Alistair was dizzy with relief.

"On the other hand," his father continued." Honoria's behaviour towards you I'm not so sure of."

Alistair met his father's look:

"I know what I have to do and I'll do it today. But then I go directly to Paris and I will not return for a very long time."

"I know, son. I'm sorry that you have to do it, but it's for the best. And I know you can do it. You are, after all, a gentleman."

Alistair snorted once again.

After this conversation, Alistair carefully dressed, combed his unruly and uncut curls and set off on Victory for Justice Hall. The butler, Ogilby, let him in and sent him a pitying look before he let him into the library, where the family and its guest sat. The youngest heir in the house, three-year-old Gabriel, came running:

"Uncle Alistair!"

Alistair caught the boy and gave him a swing that made him yell from pleasure. Then he gave him a quick hug, studied his face to imprint every feature, and let him go. Alistair greeted the rest of the family: Sarah, Marsh's father the Duke, his brothers Henry and Lionel, their stepmother Evelyn with nine-year-old Phillida by her side, before he finally turned to greet Honoria's formidable mother, Mrs. St. John.

When Alistair saw her, a thought ran through his mind: This is how Honoria will look in 30 years -- and he shivered.

"Are you cold, young man?" Mrs. St. John asked sharply.

"No, Mrs. St.John," Alistair said, and met her eyes calmly before turning to the whole party:

"I've come to say goodbye, before I leave for Paris. I had hoped to see Miss St. John among you. I've heard she has been unwell -- hopefully she's better?"

A few uncertain looks was shared among the family, before Mrs. St. John said:

"Honoria is up today, but not yet down."

Alistair asked:

"Would it be possible for me to talk to her?"

Mrs. St. John looked as if she had bitten something bitter. Then she slowly rose, gathered her crocheting and said:

"I'll go ask her," leaving a ringing silence behind her.

After a while Sarah finally said:

"So you're meeting Marsh in Paris?"

Alistair felt definitely uncomfortable: he was passing thorugh Paris, but not exactly meeting Marsh there. He said something wavering and Henry, who took pity on him, took over to say something about the continuous sunshine this summer. The entire party spoke warmly and for a long time about the weather in England this summer and the summer before and wondered if it was just as warm in Paris.

Finally, Mrs. St. John opened the door:

"Honoria will see you in the long gallery."

Mrs. St. John went in front of him up the impressive marble stairs of Justice Hall. Alistair's heart sank a bit with every step. Halfway down the long and sunny gallery Honoria sat decorously draped on a golden chaiselong. Mrs. St. John continued down the gallery and seated herself on a chair within hearing distance below a portrait of one of Marsh's martial ancestors and took up her crocheting.

Honoria was her usual lovely self. The golden locks curled, the blue eyes looked, large and innocent, at him through the long lashes. Her pianist fingers clenched a ridiculous lacey handkerchief. She smiled bravely at him, and he suddenly understood that if he kneeled and asked for her hand there and now -- she would accept. His heart sank yet another bit. He marked a shadow of a bow towards her:

"I hear you'd been taken ill," he began. "I'm pleased to see you're looking so well."

"Thank you," she whispered. She didn't even try to take the pressure off him.

He looked for the words he had prepared on his way to Justice. They were gone. He clenched his fists in front of him and said:

"I want to apologize for my behaviour towards you when we met last. I hope you can forgive me."

Hypocrite, he thought, I really wish I had returned that slap in the face.

Honoria considered. Then she gracefully reached out her hand and smiled a lovely smile that would have knocked the feet away under any young man she had bestoved it upon -- except Alistair. He shivered, carefully took her hand, gave it the smallest possible shake and let it go as if he had burnt himself. Honoria looked confused. He felt Mrs. St. John holding her breath further down the gallery.

"Alistair?" Honoria said. "I have already forgotten all that. I sincerely hope everything now will be as it was."

"What exactly do you mean?" he asked sharply and Honoria looked away, trying to keep her countenance.

"Oh, Alistair, you and I have always been such special friends," she said with a note of hope in her voice, and he cut her off:

"Have we?"

She gasped. Further down he could hear Mrs. St. John move. He had to put an end to this scene. Now.

"I'm leaving for Paris today to meet Marsh Hughenfort, and I will not return for a very long time, maybe years," he said in a businesslike voice.

"Marsh Hughenfort?" Honoria repeated the name in a contemptuous voice. "What is that man doing after all? They say he lives in Paris, but no one ever sees him there. What do you want with him? They say you and he are doing God knows what together and God knows where you're doing it..."

Alistair furiously leant forward, grabbed Honoria's lily-white arm, pulled her halfway up from the chaiselong and shouted into her face:

"I don't know what you're insinuating, but I will not tolerate you slandering Marsh Hughenfort under this roof, you vicious little bitch!"

She screamed and he let go of her arm with a push. She slid down from the chaiselong and landed upon the floor in a whirl of skirts, sobs and tears, while he stormed out of the gallery and down the stairs. He stopped for a moment in the hall to gather his composure before entering the library and facing the Hughenforts. He stopped just inside the door:

"I'm afraid my encounter with Honoria St. John did not run very smoothly this time either," he declared. "I sincerely apologise for all this disturbance. It never was any intention af mine to create such a stir in a house, to which I owe so much. But it is most urgent that I pay my respects to you and leave."

The Duke looked at him for a long time, then he nodded. There was a hint of a smile in his eyes:

"Send our love to Marsh. And have a safe journey, Alistair."

Alistair bowed and left Justice Hall.

Ali didn't tell Mahmoud the whole story until he had been in Palestine for some weeks. Mahmoud had noticed that something kept nagging Alistair, something he had left behind and which still gnawed like a pebble in his boot. When Ali had finished his tale, Mahmoud roared with laughter and slapped his shoulder:

"Oh, women, Ali! You and I will never understand them."

Ali, who had been whittling while talking, looked critically at the small wooden donkey in his hand. It bore a striking resemblance to Honoria St. John:

"It suits me fine to be in a country where women are dressed in burkahs and generally kept behind drapes," he said.

He threw the donkey into the fire and rose to check on the mules. Behind him he heard Mahmoud pick up the coffee pots and disappear into the tent. Ali looked up into the starry sky. Then Mahmoud returned, taking his hand:

"Did you really call her a vicious little bitch?"

"Yes, I'm afraid I did."

Mahmoud's stout body was shaking with laughter as he hugged him:

"Oh God, Ali, my brother! I wish I'd been there...!"

The End