Hugo in London

by Marina J. Neary

Scene 12

A bedroom inside a Westminster mansion. Wynfield, dressed in a gentleman’s clothes, is asleep on a bed. Jocelyn, dressed in a silk robe, her hair loosened, cradles his head. Barclay watches them with a mixture of self-complacency and disapproval.

BARCLAY: Are you pleased, Duchess? Have you gotten what you wanted?

JOCELYN (strokes Wynfield’s hair): I’ll know soon enough.

BARCLAY: Don’t complain that I’ve never done you any favors.

JOCELYN: It’s for the good of England. It’s sacred.

BARCLAY: And your personal amusement.

JOCELYN (unabashedly): That’s just as sacred. Oh look, he’s waking up.

WYNFIELD (rises on his elbow and runs his hand over his eyes): Is this Purgatory?

JOCELYN: No — Westminster.

BARCLAY (reproachfully): Every good Protestant knows that there is no Purgatory.

WYNFIELD (runs his hand over his neck): Where’s the noose?

JOCELYN: On someone else’s neck. What does it matter? I simply couldn’t let you go to the gallows. Your life’s much too precious to England — and me.

BARCLAY: Now Jocelyn’s inheritance is one thousand pounds lighter.

WYNFIELD (with genuine fascination): Is this how much my life is worth?

JOCELYN: No, that’s how much it cost me to bribe the judge. Your life’s worth much more — thirty thousand pounds a year. Come, I have something to show you.

She helps him up, her arm on his waist, and leads him to two portraits on the wall.

JOCELYN: Look at these two men, two former friends. The on the left is King William, my father. And the one on the right is Lord Hungerton, your father.

BARCLAY: The old thief wasn’t lying. I’ve been to his cell a few times. I’ve known about your origin all along but kept silent, for it wasn’t my secret to disclose.

JOCELYN: It’s true. You are Lord Hungerton’s heir, the golden child of anarchy.

WYNFIELD (looks at his hands): I’ve always known these hands weren’t for lifting boxes at the docks. My mates would joke: “These are gentleman’s hands!” And Dr. Grant was amazed how long it took for my wounds to heal. He believed that a commoner’s flesh healed faster than that of an aristocrat. He was right after all.

JOCELYN: And we have grand plans for you!

WYNFIELD (with alarm and reluctance): More plans?

BARCLAY (spitefully): What a simpleton! You thought that we saved you from the gallows so that you could rejoin riffraff? Young man, we’re about to assign your life a new meaning. Here’s your chance to do something worthy for England!

WYNFIELD: What’s required of me?

BARCLAY (casually): Oh, nothing extraordinary — only to kill a man.

Wynfield sits on the edge of the bed, staring vacantly. Jocelyn sits by his side, arm around his shoulders. Barclay hovers over him.

JOCELYN: The task is not as daunting as it sounds. And once you learn who he is, you’ll have no qualms about doing away with him.

BARCLAY: His name is Lord Cardigan. He was appointed over the Light Brigade.

JOCELYN: The man is nothing but trouble for England. He must be stopped.

WYNFIELD (timidly): I could break his legs.

BARCLAY: That wouldn’t suffice. He’ll have the power to give out commands and drive our soldiers to their deaths. He must be done away with, permanently. And we trust you to do the honors. It’s what your father would’ve wanted.

JOCELYN: Befriend Cardigan. Use your charm. Tell him jokes and show him card tricks. He’s known for being an ogre, but even he won’t resist your boyish ways.

BARCLAY: He’ll be in the Parliament tomorrow night, delivering a speech on his upcoming campaign. And you’ll be there too. As a rightful heir, you can enter the Parliament. The Chancellor and I... have an understanding. He won’t bother you with questions about your prolonged absence.

JOCELYN: And if they ask you what you’ve been doing all these years, just tell them the truth — the more palatable portion of it. Tell them you’ve studied theater but then decided to resume your legislative duties. Everyone loves those prodigal son stories.

BARCLAY: You’ll show great interest in Cardigan’s campaign and ask him to train you in private. Everyone will rejoice that Lord Cardigan has found such an ardent follower. Then, one day an accident will happen. You’ll show great distress over the death of your new friend. You’ll grieve demonstratively.

WYNFIELD: My, you’ve considered everything, except for one trifle. What if I refuse?

JOCELYN: Why would you refuse?

WYNFIELD: I’m afraid I’m not suitable for the role. You see, I’m not a murderer.

JOCELYN (dismissively): Ah, we’re all murderers! We’ve all been brushed by the same demon — some on the surface, and others a bit deeper.

WYNFIELD: I don’t need more blood on my hands. Officer McLean’s was enough.

BARCLAY: This is your chance for redemption. By destroying a corrupt general, you’ll repay your debt.

WYNFIELD (jumps to his feet and grabs his head): Not another word of this! Give me fifty pounds for the road, and I’ll vanish, leave England. You’ll never see me again.

JOCELYN (categorically): I’m afraid that’s not a possibility.

WYNFIELD: Then send me back to prison, back to the gallows.

JOCELYN (clutches his arm): But that would grieve me deeply.

WYNFIELD: My lady, I’m not worth a thousand pounds, or even ten shillings. I’m of no use to your cause. You’ll have to find yourself another ally.

JOCELYN (releases him): It is unfortunate that you choose to be my enemy. I would’ve preferred to have you for a lover.

WYNFIELD: My lady, tempting as your last offer sounds, western civilization doesn’t need another Beauty and the Beast story.

Jocelyn leaves the room; Barclay follows. At the last moment he pauses and turns.

BARCLAY: Young man, I pray you come to your senses — if not for your own sake then for the sake of those pitiful creatures dwelling at the Golden Anchor. (Pause) Supper will be served in an hour. You have plenty of time to rethink your obstinacy.

Wynfield, still clutching his headl collapses on the bed. Enter Hugo.

HUGO: Congratulations! This is your Hernani moment.

WYNFIELD (jerks his head up): You find this amusing?

HUGO: Very! Your adventures mirror the plot of a play I wrote in 1830 — a rich woman infatuated with a blue-blooded thief. Jocelyn has a strange way of showing affection. For my birthday she gave me a bottle of scotch — the “elixir of heroes.” Poor child! She still believes she can outrage this jaded society. Forbidden trysts, assassinations... She’s read too many of my books. I must put an end to our friendship. It’s gone too far. But I’m pleased to see you alive.

WYNFIELD: I don’t want any trouble to befall my family. Barclay hinted...

HUGO: Nothing will happen. I’ve grown to love your kin, Diana in particular. I can’t part with her. So I’m inviting the three of you to come to Guernsey. What do you say?

WYNFIELD: Is this a joke?

HUGO: No, just a whim of a literary genius. I want to be your friend, a witness to your happiness. If the Hauteville House doesn’t suit your tastes, I’ll have one built just for you. Imagine: no taxes, no police — just the sea, the cliffs and an occasional dinner at my table. But, before you say ‘yes’, there’s just one little favor I ask of you. I have a message for the English nobility, and you’re my only mean of delivering it.

Hugo leans over and whispers to Wynfield, whose face suddenly lights up.

WYNFIELD: Wicked, brilliant... The greatest prank every played.

HUGO: Go to the Parliament and put on a show they’ll never forget. In the meantime, I’ll fetch your family. There’s a ship sailing to Guernsey at midnight. By this time tomorrow we’ll be at the Hauteville House, drinking wine from my personal cellar.

They shake hands furtively and stand up.

HUGO: Oh, Mr. Barclay, please come in!

BARCLAY (comes in, hands behinds his back): You have something to tell me?

HUGO: I was able to persuade Wynfield. An inspirational speech from me did wonders.

WYNFIELD (bows slightly): Forgive me my reluctance earlier. The revelations of the past few hours left me overwhelmed. I’ll be honored to do what’s asked of me.

BARCLAY: Splendid! Jocelyn will be overjoyed to hear that. (To Hugo) Allow me to thank you on England’s behalf. I’ve underestimated your powers of persuasion.

HUGO (with false modesty): Don’t mention it.

WYNFIELD: There’s one problem: I don’t like this waistcoat. The pockets are too small. My cigars won’t fit.

BARCLAY: Smoking isn’t allowed in the Parliament. But here’s a flask of morphine for your headache.

WYNFIELD: But I don’t have a headache.

BARCLAY: Not yet. Trust me, you will. And here is a map of Westminster Palace. It’s easy for a newcomer to get lost. (Gives Wynfield the flask and the map)

To be continued...