The Last Sigh of the Moor
Lauryn Christopher
Published by Camden Park Press
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Lauryn Christopher
The dishes from the evening meal at long last cleared away, the gentlemen of the Philosopher’s Club retired to the richly paneled library for their customary glasses of port or brandy, the smoking of fine cigars, and – there being no political controversy that begged to be politely, if at times fervently, discussed (arguing a point being the province of lesser men) – the telling of tales.
For Christopher Mallory, third son of the Earl of Dunkirk, lately returned to London from a season on the Continent, it was all he could do to feign the air of quiet reserve demanded of members of the Club. Christopher was not, himself, a member of the Club, but had come as a guest of his uncle, Thomas Mallory, who had promised to put him forward if the opportunity should present itself.
“Whatever you do, boy, be confident,” his uncle advised him as they rode over in Thomas’ elegantly appointed phaeton. “If you are asked a question, do not hesitate in your answer. Better to be wrong than to be indecisive, particularly in this company. Your place in society is hardly secure at this moment. Acquit yourself well here, and many doors will open for you.”
And so Christopher suffered through the dinner, the quality of the linen napkins, heavy silver utensils, and fine china noticed only peripherally; the excellent meal tasting little better than sawdust in his mouth as he fielded the barrage of questions put to him by his uncle’s peers, testing his knowledge of politics and social issues, quizzing him on his views of the double-edged blade of religion and science.
“Your uncle tells us that your recent travels included a visit to Moorish Spain,” said one of the gentlemen, a tall, silver-haired scion standing near the elaborately carved fireplace, where a blaze danced merrily on the hearth, the only source of cheer in the otherwise somber room, in Christopher’s estimation, yet even the flames seemed to lean away from the distinguished gentleman in deference. The other members of the club referred to this gentleman deferentially as “the Colonel;” his name, Christopher recalled, was Brookings.
“Yes, sir,” Christopher answered with a nod toward the Colonel. “It was a fascinating tour, indeed.”
“What… inspired you to go… to that godless land?” asked Arthur Bellingham, asking the question around the initial draws on a cigar already clenched tightly in his teeth. Bellingham was a solicitor of middle years whose belly tested the buttons on his finely tailored brocade waistcoat.
“It was the writings of the American folklorist, Washington Irving,” Christopher replied without pause. “Copies of his monograph, ‘The Tales of the Alhambra’ were circulating among my set during my last year at University–”
“Yes, I remember that booklet,” said Bellingham with a nod, dropping his bulk heavily into a large, leather-covered chair. “A lot of romantic nonsense. Caused quite a stir. That was two years ago?”
“Three, sir,” said Christopher. “He had visited the Andalus region of Spain some three or four years before, but only released his papers in 1832, just before leaving London to return to the United States. I read his account – which was quite fascinating, even if somewhat chaotic in its presentation, but quickly forgot about it in preparation for my exams.”
“A much more worthwhile pursuit,” said another voice, from off to Christopher’s left. He raised his brandy glass in the speaker’s direction, by way of acknowledgment, even though he could not tell which of the dozen or so gentlemen now seated in the various chairs and couches scattered around the room had made the remark.
“So I believed at the time – and still do,” Christopher replied. “After I completed my studies, I came to live at my uncle’s house, here in the city,” he nodded at Thomas, who inclined his head in return. “About a year ago, I happened to meet an old acquaintance from my University days who had just returned from a tour of the Continent – and who regaled us with tales of his visit to Granada, among other places.”
It seemed to Christopher that the light around the edges of the room was growing increasingly dim the more he spoke, forcing all eyes to focus on him. He shook of the feeling, and continued enthusiastically.
“My interest in the region was again piqued, and I determined that I must see this place for myself the following season, as I had been told that it was preferable to wait until the winter had passed before making the journey.”
“Sensible,” said someone from the far side of the room. Several heads nodded, while not a few voices murmured in agreement.
“In the meantime,” continued Christopher, “I managed to procure another copy of Mr. Irving’s monograph, and acquainted myself quite thoroughly with his account of his travels – or such sense as I could make of them. From this study, I devised the itinerary for my upcoming travels.”
“And did you discover the treasures of the Moors?” asked the Colonel.
“Alas,” Christopher replied, “I did not.” He smiled at the collective sigh that whispered over the sipping of brandy and coiled upward on wisps of cigar smoke to dance along the inlaid panels of wood on the ceiling. “Like Irving, I, too, befriended a guide from one of the old families, who told me many fantastic tales.”