In the King's Arms (6 page)

“No, it’s not that,” said Lily hastily. “Nobody does ‘Boxing Day’ in America.”

“Oh,” said Archibald. “Oh, I see. How very strange.” He was trying to coax a brussels sprout into Timothy’s mouth. “How very strange.”

“Stwange!!” said Timothy sternly. “Vewy stwange!”

Archibald wiped the baby’s chin and cleared his throat. “At any rate, young Julian, harumm!! If he should happen to miss Christmas Day, Helena, I do not think it advisable to give him his present. One should not reward a show of disrespect.”

“No pwezzy!!” Timothy kicked his legs gleefully under the table. “Naughty boy!” Quite a sturdy kid, thought Lily, feeling the blows under her vibrating plate. The accountant laid his hand firmly across the child’s ankles. “Let his father get him a present out there in France, if he can’t abide by the rules of place and time.”

“Oh, darling, he’ll surely be here,” said his wife. “He’s getting to be quite a grown-up and responsible young man. I shouldn’t think he’d want to miss Christmas with his brothers.”

“Well,” grumbled Archibald, “he certainly won’t have a proper Christmas out there. Do the Holy Romans have a Boxing Day, I wonder? I rather doubt it.”

“At any rate, he’ll be here soon,” said Helena, ignoring this tirade against the Catholics. “All tall and straight and handsome.”

“Handsome is as handsome does, Helena, as you know.”

“Yes, dear. Yes, you’re quite right.” She stared distractedly at the pretty young girl Peter had invited. “He does begin to take after his father in certain distressing ways,” she added quietly, as though to herself.

“I haven’t told him that I’ve brought the Beauty home,” said Peter, reading his mother’s mind.

“Would you like some more lamb, dear?” Mrs. Kendall asked Lily. “There’s quite a lot left, and it’s especially tender.

W
HISK, THE FAMILY CAT, was a survivor. As soon as he discovered that the guest’s bed stayed warm from the electric blanket, he began to make a habit of spending his long, lazy afternoons in unheard-of comfort. Each evening, Lily would find him sighing contentedly in the deep rhythms of a good sleep. His soft white fur glowed from the country moon outside the window. Each evening, Whisk reluctantly awoke, yielding to Lily with a dignity that shamed her. She felt uneasy for several minutes after the cat padded, tail aloft, into the cold shadowy stairway, as though he had witnessed enough of her chronic selfishness. By the time Lily came shivering downstairs for breakfast, Whisk would already be lapping the “top of the milk” from a Beatrix Potter bowl. The bowl said: “Peter sat down to rest. He was very damp with sitting in that can.”

Once, she touched Whisk’s fur as he lapped industriously away. It was freezing, a fact that Whisk communicated nonchalantly, without having to look at her. He continued to nourish himself, offering no sign of acknowledgment. Lily stroked Whisk until, finally, a slow warmth began to rise, to respond, from the pink flesh below his fur.

Timothy, rubbing his eyes sleepily, wandered in. He stopped short, planted himself, and said: “Whisk is my cat,” in a small voice
that had no argument in it. He was stating a fact. His face, lunar in its roundness, completely filled Lily’s field of vision. She was crouching at Whisk’s side. She stared into the three-year-old’s enormous eyes, which seemed, at that range, to waver into a single ocular glow. He was terrifyingly simple and right.

Peter said something mollifying, but whatever it was, it escaped Timothy, who kept glaring at the girl. She thought she noticed a puckering in his chin, the beginnings of a wobble in his chubby lower lip. It amazed her that she could not read the child’s face well enough to say whether or not he would actually start to cry. Lily unfolded her body to the full, adult height, relinquished her claim on his animal, and gazed down at the top of Timothy’s soft yellow hair.

“My cat,” he repeated, down below.

Of course. Yours. Not mine, thought Lily. Your house, too. Your country. Your world. What native authority. She did not really like this creepy kid. How well he had adapted to the given. And so much had been given. An endless vocabulary of placement. Timothy was a piccolo, was he? One day a bassoon? A very orchestra to nestle into, conducted by a sceptered hand.

“Which
Peter and the Wolf
instrument am I, then?” she suddenly asked Peter. If you had to ask, you really didn’t play. But Peter had an answer on hand:

“A jew’s harp?” Eyes alive with presumption.

Being Peter, he meant no harm. Lily laughed cooperatively. Even Timothy caught the mood and shook from belly up like an old man, laughing, and Whisk rolled onto his back and stretched his legs majestically.

A
RCHIBALD PLAYED THE PATERFAMILIAS with a pure concentration. It was easy to see that he’d come upon love in middle age; he expected perfect loyalty. This he received from Timothy, who was as reliable as any of his father’s idiosyncrasies demanded. From the day that ceremonial cigars had been handed out with a bountiful flourish, Timothy had inspired his father to elaborate his happiness in formal terms. It was for his sake that Archibald lectured by the fireside for hours, that he gave voice to all his private moral constructions.

“Timothy, sit here on my lap. There’s a good boy. I shall tell you about our Queen.”

Lily listened too. His tone was calming, conversational and earnest. God’s in his heaven. All’s right with the world.

“The Queen is beautiful and good. Don’t you think she looks beautiful in this picture, my boy? Her crown is gold, with many precious stones in it. That red one is a ruby.

“She is head of our Church, Timothy, the very top, just as the crown is at the very top of the Queen.”

Timothy laughed, even though Archibald had not intended to amuse him. He patted his boy’s head and went on. “It is called the Church of England, where we go to pray on Sunday. Good, Timothy! Yes, this is England, same as the Church. You are quite correct in noticing that. And we, Timothy, you and I, are Englishmen.

“Yes, my love, it is England everywhere we roam, in your room, in the fields, and yes,” he smiled at Timothy’s suggestion, “even on the treetop.

“What? Oh, yes, darling, you’re quite right, we have not only Queens but Kings. Some day, we shall have one again. No, darling,” said Archibald, laughing, “I am not going to be the King!” He drew his baby up into his arms and kissed his brow.

“Lily, would you like a sherry? Perhaps we’ll all have a wee dram.” Peter wandered in and out, ignoring his stepfather and giving Lily looks that said: what a royal arse.

“Well, now,” continued Archibald, “Timothy seems to want a taste of sherry as well. All right, darling, you may have a sip of mine, a small bitty one, but then we must say our prayers, mustn’t we, and go to bed.”

Usually, Timothy coyly resisted bedtime. His wriggling and whine were always followed by a luxurious limpness when his father folded him tenderly in his arms and plodded up the stairs. If Archibald had been a touch less exact, their love would have lacked its ritual completeness. It was flawless, within and without, constant and unblushing. As for the offers of sherry, these were but the meekest emblem of Archibald’s role. It was his way to unwrap towering canisters of Glenfiddich and be-ribboned boxes of Bombay Gin in the Christmas season, and make a nightly offering of either (just
before Cook rang the bell for dinner). Lily learned that these treats, along with after-dinner mints, candied violets, and powdery Turkish Delight, were offered in the spirit of
noblesse oblige
. Being the head of a household had made Archibald noble. Holding out a tissued box of Belgian chocolates, the father’s pride was that of the hunter with his catch: he had brought down a Christmas that stuck to the ribs. Timothy would never forget a Christmas spent under his Daddy’s impenetrable roof.

And only a few years ago, this man was completely alone, thought Lily, discovering the wonderful liqueur secreted in her bon-bon.

T
HREE DAYS LATER, Julian arrived in Gloucestershire. He spotted Lily ambling alone in the countryside and watched her for a while. She seemed absorbed and happy. She was wonderful to look at.

He yelled out suddenly: “Startle easily?”

She jumped up in the air, and then she saw him.

He laughed aloud at the pretty confusion in her face.

She joined him, laughing.

“The famous Julian.”

He nodded. She extended her hand in mock formality, as though wanting a handshake. He gripped it in his, then snaked his fingers through hers. Looking at his face, she tightened her own grip.

The wild horse she’d seen before was running in the distance; she grew conscious of the faint thundering of its hooves. It was running toward them, she thought.

She turned her head and saw it galloping. It was looking at them. She looked at Julian. He seemed perfectly calm. She looked back at the horse. It was galloping closer and closer.

“Aren’t you scared?” she said. Julian felt her tense through the arm, and pulled her toward him, pressed her head down against his chest, and blinkered her eyes with his free hand.

“Mm hm,” he answered.

She felt his heart pounding through his coat. He smelled wonderful, of the frost and the smoke and the bracken. Opening her eyes, she could see only the weave of his tweed and one leather button. His hand against her face smelled like soap, and the parted fingers made the world seem rose-orange. She didn’t care what the horse did.

It had slowed to an amiable trot, and was circling around them. Innocently, as though to say: “Who, me? Scare you? Just playing!”

Julian stretched out a hand to the horse and patted its head. It wasn’t a wild horse at all. It was docile and plain. Its head was long and mute. Lily suddenly found the beast very touching.

“Poor little horsey,” said Julian, as he patiently stroked the enormous nose. “Lily was frightened of you. Can you imagine? She doesn’t know what a lonely life you lead. Well, we’re here now, Lily and I. Break open the bubbly!”

“And pass the sugar lumps,” she added. But she wasn’t really listening. Around them, she felt the countryside envelop her. She could feel the benign spreading forth of rolling meadows, of mist-heavy trees and puffy clouds. The vague lushness welcomed her. She looked at Julian. He was different than the last time.

He looked at her with the eyes of a forest creature, illumined by a shaft of light. Pupils dissolving into pinpoints as he turned and stared into her. Round black dots that fixed her neatly, and his hair around his face like an ink-cloud. He released the horse and it trotted away.

They sat down by a little stream.

“You look different,” she said.

“I do? I feel happy today. I knew I’d see you. Peter told me. I was really excited.”

“You were?”

“As soon as I got home, I looked for you. Peter told me you were out on a ramble. I flew out the door.”

“I wonder what ‘they’ thought of that.”

“’They’ weren’t the least bit surprised. But you can never tell, really.

“That’s because they’re spooky old turds,” he allowed.

“Well, Peter’s all right, don’t you think?”

“I love my brother.”

“But he is a jealous one,” Lily continued. “I think he’ll kill me over you assuming there is a you to get jealous about. He’s kind of possessive of me. Says I’m his domestic-but-not-tame animal.”

“Too bad for Peter. He can go rot. And by the way,” said Julian, “
I’ll
tame you.”

“Oh, sure, go ahead and try.”

“I mean it,” said the Boy, deepening his timbre.

“O.K., I believe you,” she answered, her voice lowered to meet his serious tones.

“I
want
you to love me,” he insisted. “Only me and forever. No one ever has before. Do you know why?”

She shook her head.

“Because I wouldn’t let them in. I want you to love me, because you have a power over me. You’ve infiltrated, somehow. Did you realize that?”

“No, I didn’t,” she said, struggling not to burst with happiness. She loved his exposition; she wanted it to go on, slowly, deliciously, forever.

“I don’t believe you, Lily. I’ll bet you know every little thing. You’re doing it right now.”

“Doing what?” She was smiling.

“Making me feel . . . mad, sort of. I don’t know what I’ll do about you.”

“Oh, come on. Stop exaggerating.”

“I’m not. I’m not. I’m being more honest than I like to be. I’ve been thinking about you ever since I saw you in the pub. This has never actually happened before. It feels uncomfortable. I don’t know what it is. I can only describe how it feels: I feel a warm numbness, and a sense of infinity.

“Glib,” she whispered, listening for more.

His flattery made her pious, drunken. Love could be their private religion, their pure, untouchable credo. Her cheeks blazed as he touched them, and then she admitted, “You have that power, too. Over me. I feel greedy and anxious, like I won’t have my fill. I can’t get there fast enough. And there you are, looking at me. I’m crazy, too, Julian. Can you help me?” Her voice was naive and seductive.

“Honestly?”

“Very honestly. Put your arm around me the way you did when the horse came charging at us.”

“You look different, too, Lily,” he said, holding her in both his arms. “Not as tense. You look so . . . amazing.”

They ambled around and came to a large wood full of skeletal trees, both standing and fallen at their feet. They promptly lost their way amongst the cracked branches, wandering inward, deeper and deeper, circling toward the center of the wood.

They happened on an enormous stump. Lily stared at it for a minute, as though it were holy, a Stonehenge. Then she stretched herself out, bulky coat, boots and all. She raised her arms upward, as though inviting the embrace of some universal love. Julian entered this embrace, his weight, like a burden, releasing into hers, and into the stump.