There are moments in a gentleman’s life when the familiar contours of one’s existence begin to chafe ever so slightly, like a well-tailored suit that has inexplicably become snug. This evening was such a moment.
I had just departed from Mr. Bernard’s esteemed tailoring establishment, the final adjustments to my winter wardrobe having been made with the usual precision. The late September night air was crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and the distant hum of the city’s relentless energy. As I walked along the cobblestone streets-my preferred route, avoiding the harsher glare of modern thoroughfares-I couldn’t help but notice the world around me with a curious detachment.
Couples strolled arm in arm, their laughter mingling with the soft glow of street lamps. Groups of friends gathered outside cafés, their conversations animated, their faces alight with expressions of unguarded joy. There was a vitality to it all, a sense of ease and connection that seemed, at once, both foreign and strangely alluring.
For all my adherence to the principles of decorum and propriety, I found myself pondering a disconcerting thought: amidst the rigor of my routines and the solemnity of my social circles, was I, perhaps, missing something essential? After all, Aunt Beatrice has decidedly not been one to adhere to the strict and somewhat anti-modern stance that the rest of my social circles have long since accepted. As she entered my mind. I found myself recalling a conversation with my Aunt, a woman of keen intellect and, with her unwavering disdain for tradition, a mind inclined toward progress.
During our last tea, she had fixed me with her discerning gaze, that sort of look which seemed capable of seeing right through one’s best defenses. She had remarked, “Percival, it’s 2021, you are 33 now, and life offers more than the echo of one’s own footsteps through familiar, well trodden corridors. Perhaps it is time you considered stepping beyond those paths, if only to meet a suitable woman worthy of your regard.”
“Yes, Aunt Beatrice, but the women in our circles are such delicate-frankly-bores,” I countered, my words clipped with irritation. Her raised eyebrow, sharp and knowing, warned me that she wasn’t one for indulging excuses. Still, I pressed on. “Take Patricia Harkley, for instance. I called upon her just the other day, and I swear she scarcely looked up from her blasted cell phone the entire visit. Not a word of real substance passed between us.”
Aunt Beatrice’s expression remained impassive, her silence urging me to elaborate.
“The only time she bothered to show the faintest interest,” I continued, “was when I mentioned my family’s estate affairs. Then, and only then, did she come alive-like a cat spotting a bird through the window. It was painfully clear what held her attention.” I exhaled sharply, leaning back in my chair. “It’s a wonder I bothered calling on her at all. Modern trifles like these devices seem to erode what little decorum remains.”
She pursed her lips thoughtfully, her shrewd gaze assessing me in that way only Aunt Beatrice could. “And yet,” she began, her tone laced with measured calm, “you’re so entirely certain that the problem lies with them? With their trifles and manners? Not, perhaps, with the expectations of the gentleman calling on them?”
Her wry smile tugged at her lips. “Ah, Percival, a Humphreys to clutch every inch of the old ways. But have you ever stopped to consider what precisely it is you’re preserving? I doubt the Harkleys-or the rest of your so-called peers-offer much of the connection you’re yearning for. Break out from this mold, Percy.”
I frowned, the weight of her words settling uncomfortably. “Tradition offers a solid foundation, Aunt Beatrice. These modern distractions-cell phones, constant socializing-none of it seems to have much substance.”
Her eyes softened then, and for a moment, I saw something akin to pity in her expression. “Your father is much the same,” she said quietly. “But even he has his moments of… flexibility.”
I stiffened, but she pressed on, her tone gentle but firm. “I daresay your unwavering resistance to change, dear nephew, may be rooted in something more than just principle. The world doesn’t stop because you ignore it. And as for those modern distractions-” she gestured lightly, “-there are many benefits. I’ve had a cell phone for years. I can assure you it hasn’t consumed me, nor does it have to consume you.”
My frown deepened. There were subjects Aunt Beatrice knew better than to broach too directly. I glanced down at my teacup, swirling its contents with the practiced delicacy of a man maintaining his poise. “I think the matter, Aunt, is not of my refusal to change but of the world’s relentless rush to forget itself.”
She laughed then, a full, genuine sound that seemed out of place in the serious atmosphere of our tea. “Oh, Percival. The world isn’t forgetting itself. It’s just moving on, and perhaps you should as well.” She paused, leaning forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “You never know what-or whom-you might find if you step outside the confines of what’s familiar.”
She paused, then said softly, “You know, what happened 15 years ago shouldn’t stop you from living in the now, Percival.”
It was an invitation, thinly veiled as advice. And though I resisted showing it, something in her words seemed to stir an echo within me-something I wasn’t yet ready to face.
“Good evening, Lord Humphreys!” called out a familiar voice, jolting me from my recollection.
Startled, I turned to see Thomas, my family’s long-standing chauffeur, enjoying a leisurely stroll with his wife. I tipped my hat in acknowledgment, exchanging the customary pleasantries, yet even this interaction felt somehow distant, like an echo of my more routine existence.
The sound of rustling and hurried whispers drew my attention to a darker corner of the street. Two children, perhaps no older than twelve, were crouched over a purse, rifling through its contents with an urgency that spoke of mischief-or worse. I hesitated for a brief moment before striding toward them.
“Excuse me, young men,” I said, my voice firm but measured. The taller of the two froze, his eyes wide with alarm, before snatching a handful of cash from the purse and darting off down the street. His companion, evidently less prepared for flight, scrambled after him, leaving the purse abandoned on the wet pavement.
I retrieved the bag, my gloves brushing against the damp leather. Inside, I found a wallet, now missing its cash and credit cards, along with other personal effects-a compact, a few receipts, and a day planner. The planner had been discarded in the commotion and lay open on the ground, its pages faintly illuminated by a nearby streetlamp.
I picked it up and noticed the page for today. Several neatly penned appointments were listed, but one stood out: Meet Ruby & Blake at The Tipsy Beaver – 8 PM. The name matched the Massachusetts driver’s license tucked neatly into the wallet. The picture-Jessica Whitaker showed a woman with an easy, bright smile. I checked my pocket watch. It was ten past eight.
For a moment, I considered simply leaving the bag at the nearest constabulary or attempting to contact her at a later time. But a gentleman does not delay in returning a lady’s belongings, particularly one far from home.
With a resigned sigh and a renewed sense of purpose, I set off toward the address listed in the planner.
The façade of The Tipsy Beaver was modest yet inviting, its sign glowing warmly in the damp evening air. Laughter and conversation spilled out onto the wet street, a stark contrast to the subdued formality of my usual haunts. I paused briefly, adjusting my scarf, the damp chill seeping through my gloves. This was not my usual territory. My evenings were typically reserved for the club or the occasional soirée-places of refinement and predictability. Yet here I was, bag in hand, duty-bound to see this errand through.
The interior was a blend of polished wood and soft lighting, the air alive with the hum of conversation and the faint strains of jazz. It was neither ostentatious nor overly casual-a balanced milieu that seemed, unexpectedly, agreeable. I scanned the room, my gaze settling on her.
She was seated at a corner table, laughing with two companions who matched the names listed in the planner. Her energy seemed to brighten the space, her movements animated as she gestured mid-story. For a moment, I hesitated. This was not how I’d intended to spend my evening, and she certainly didn’t look as though she needed rescuing from her stolen belongings. Still, I adjusted my cufflinks and approached the table.
I tapped her on the shoulder, “Excuse me, Miss - ”
She interrupted, barely glancing up from her drink. “If this is about my number, I’m flattered, but not interested.”
“Yes, well, I just wanted to inform you that-”
She cut me off, her voice edged with impatience. “Look, I’m not trying to be rude, but I’m not here to be hit on. I’m just trying to relax with my friends.”
The man beside her, whom I presumed to be Blake, smirked as he leaned back. “Better luck next time, mate.”
They exchanged knowing looks, and I felt a flare of indignation rise, though I kept my expression calm. “I apologize for this disturbance and misunderstanding,” I said, my tone clipped, “but I believe this belongs to you.” I extended the bag. “I came across it in the possession of two rather mischievous boys. Unfortunately, some of its contents have gone missing, but the rest appears to be intact.”
Jessica blinked, her laughter fading as she took in my words. Her brow furrowed, a faint blush creeping across her cheeks. “Wait, you’re serious?” She reached for the bag, her voice dropping into genuine embarrassment. “Oh my god, I could just… vanish right now. I am so, so sorry. That was beyond rude of me.”
“I assure you, there’s no need to apologize,” I replied evenly, though a faint trace of my earlier indignation lingered. Still, there was something about her—something refreshingly different, a contrast to the women I had grown accustomed to in my circles. It was unpolished, unguarded, and entirely disarming.
Her friends exchanged awkward glances, and Ruby quickly piped up. “Well, to be fair, you did kind of swoop in out of nowhere. Not that we’re excusing her,” she added with a teasing grin aimed at Jessica, “but this does make for a great story.”
Jessica groaned, covering her face with one hand. “Great. ‘The time Jess assumed the worst of a literal gentleman.’ Put it on my highlight reel.” She blinked, then laughed-a light, airy sound that was entirely unexpected. “Well. Thank you.” Her fingers brushed mine as she took the bag. “I’m Jessica. And you are?”
“Percival Nigel Humphreys III,” I said, bowing my head slightly. “Though Percival will suffice.”
Her friends-Ruby and Blake, I presumed-shared a glance before Ruby leaned forward, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “A Humphreys III? Fancy. What are you doing in a place like this?”
“I-” I began, faltering slightly under their curious stares. “I was merely ensuring the bag was returned to its rightful owner.”
Jessica smiled, more warmly this time, her initial suspicion melting away. “Well, Percival, thank you for going out of your way. Please, let me buy you a drink to repay your trouble.”
I hesitated. This was hardly my usual sort of crowd or venue, but it would be discourteous to refuse. “A whiskey sour, but I think you might find it easier for me to buy this round,” I said finally, allowing myself a faint smile, “Unfortunately I believe your purse no longer contains any cash or credit cards.”
The conversation flowed in a casual way for the next hour, the light-hearted banter punctuated by moments of genuine curiosity about one another’s lives. Eventually, Blake and Ruby excused themselves, offering warm farewells and teasing glances as they departed. Jessica, to my quiet surprise, chose to remain, ordering another drink and settling back into her seat with an easy smile.
For my part, I agreed to stay, finding that I had little desire to leave. There was a subtle shift within me—an unspoken realization that this conversation, unexpected as it was, might be precisely the thing I had been unconsciously seeking.
She tilted her head, studying me as if trying to decipher a puzzle. “So…‘The Third,’ huh? Is that something your family does?”
“It’s a long-standing tradition in my family for the eldest son to take their father’s name forward. My grandfather often spoke of carrying the family name as both a privilege and a weight, though I’ve yet to understand the full burden of it.”
“Only the third though? Doesn’t sound very long-standing to me”
“My grandfather’s older brother unfortunately passed away young before he had any progeny of his own, leaving my grandfather to be the oldest living son, and the legacy started anew. Otherwise perhaps you would be speaking with George Orson Humphreys XII. Though I’ve never really felt like I’m a George. Or Orson, for that matter.” She smiled with amusement.
We spoke then of various subjects - the unpredictability of the weather, the commonalities and differences of the Americans and the British, the peculiarities of modern art. I found her to be insightful and engaging, her perspectives refreshingly unencumbered by the pretensions that so often colored the discussions within my usual circles. We even animatedly debated putting fruit on a pizza.
She revealed, with an admirable blend of modesty and resolve, that she was undertaking advanced studies in the field of economics at the London School of Economics. I must confess, her revelation left me momentarily wide-eyed. Regaining my composure, I responded with heartfelt admiration, “Most impressive, Jessica! A great institution, indeed.”
“My passion is the stage though.” She mentioned her involvement in local theater, her eyes lighting up with passion as she described an upcoming production. “It’s just a small role,” she said modestly, “but I love being part of it. That’s where I met Ruby and Blake.”
“Art in all its forms enriches society,” I replied earnestly. “To contribute to that is no small thing.”
She smiled appreciatively. “Thank you, Percival. Not everyone sees a 28 year old grad student and part time actress as something to strive for.”
“Balancing acting and school must be challenging,” I observed.
She gave a small, wry laugh. “That’s one way to put it. I’ve got my responsibilities and my passion, and honestly, it’s a juggling act. Some days it feels like I can’t do either justice.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “I can understand the struggle of balancing passions with responsibilities. It can be daunting, but I have no doubt you’ll succeed.”
Her gaze lingered on me for a moment, her expression softening further. “Thank you, Percival. It’s nice to be reminded that there are still people who believe in optimism.” There was a comfortable pause, the kind that invites possibility. Gathering my resolve, I ventured further.
Aunt Beatrice’s words still rung in my head, Perhaps there was merit in stepping beyond the familiar, even if only to see where it led. The conversation was already head and shoulders more interesting than with Miss Harkley last week.
“Jessica,” I said, “I realize this may be rather forward, but I find our conversation most enjoyable. Perhaps… perhaps we might continue it another time?”
She tilted her head slightly, a playful glint in her eye. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
The term caught me off guard—a ‘date’—but I recovered quickly. “Yes,” I admitted, “I suppose I am.”
She considered me for a moment, her expression inscrutable yet not unkind. “You know,” she said finally, “there’s something decidedly old-fashioned about you. In a good way.”
I chuckled softly. “Guilty as charged. Though I’m beginning to think that embracing the new doesn’t necessitate abandoning the old.”
“Well said,” she replied. “Alright, Percival. I’d like that.”
A sense of genuine delight washed over me. “Wonderful. Perhaps we could attend a matinee performance?”
“Oh, that sounds nice, and there’s this movie I’ve been meaning to see playing near my apartment. How about that?"
Of course, I agreed readily. “A sound idea. I shall fetch you around half noon tomorrow; I will escort you to the theater.”
Jessica laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Here, give me your number and I’ll text you the address.”
I hesitated, then confessed, “Alas, Jessica, I currently do not own a device that would receive these ‘texts’ people are so fond of mentioning.”
Her eyes widened. “You don’t own a phone?”
“I am a man of means, madam,” I assured her, “and of course I own a phone. It sits proudly on my occasional table beside my armchair.”
She shook her head, clearly amused. “Wow. You’re probably the only person I know without a cell phone. Why don’t we meet at the theater then?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it!” I exclaimed, mildly horrified at the idea of allowing her to arrive unescorted. “I shall fetch you from your residence. Simply write down your address, and I shall be there promptly.”
Jessica raised an eyebrow but scribbled her address on a napkin and slid it across the table. “You know,” she said, grinning, “you might just be the most peculiar guy I’ve ever met.”
“Thank you, Jessica,” I replied, accepting the napkin with an air of accomplishment. “I take that as the highest praise.”
Stepping back into the night, the rain had eased to a gentle mist. The city seemed somehow different—more alive, more connected. And perhaps, just perhaps, so was I.
As I made my way home, I couldn’t help but reflect on the serendipity of the evening. What began as a simple mission to return a stolen purse led to an encounter that might very well change the course of my well-ordered life. I shook my head and marveled at meeting an aspiring American actress in a British pub that was far from my usual haunts.
Perhaps Aunt Beatrice was right, I mused aloud, the thought accompanied by a faint smile. “There is merit in stepping off the beaten path.”
And with that, I walked on, the glow of streetlights guiding me toward whatever awaited in the unwritten chapters ahead.