Page 33 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
“You’re lucky you still have your youthful looks about you,” Richard says, sipping on brandy. “God only knows how you manage to spend all your time outdoors and maintain the spryness of a man two-thirds your years.”
“It’s the elixir of eternal life,” I jest. “Didn’t I tell you I discovered it on my last trip to the Qing Empire? Why, the elixir of eternal life is the reason the queen knighted me.”
Richard smiles at my joke. “You selfish rotter, you’ve been keeping this secret all this time? I could have used a dose or two of your elixir.”
“Oh no, dear friend. You’re much too far gone for it to do you any good.”
Richard guffaws. “All the better, I suppose. I wouldn’t want to live forever anyway.”
“No?” I pour myself another drink from the bar cart. “Not even for the promise of discovering a species that had previously only been a myth?”
“Such as a unicorn?”
“Why not, for these hypothetical purposes. A unicorn, Richard! Would you live forever if you knew you’d discover unicorns and go down in history a legend?”
Richard takes a long pull from his tumbler as he thinks it over. After two more sips, he shakes his head. “Not even for everlasting glory. Can you imagine how much my joints would torture me when I was 550 years old?”
I laugh. “Fair enough.”
“I reckon that you, on the other hand,” Richard says, shifting the blanket over his legs to better cover them, “still have an adventure or two left in you. Do you seriously mean to retire from your professorship here at Oxford for a life of dull leisure in the countryside?”
“Would it be so bad?”
“You excel at many things, Charles. But being idle is not one of them.”
“Funny you should say that,” I reply. “I was actually considering a move overseas. To the former colonies.”
“My word, that would be fascinating,” Richard leans forward in his armchair. “To observe a still-young nation growing from the roots up—”
“Well, I would continue to focus on actual botany,” I say, “rather than metaphorical political ones. The northeastern coastal forests, in particular, interest me.”
“A fine pursuit. When would you go? Next year? The year following?”
“Actually…I’ve already booked passage on a ship. I leave next month.”
Richard nearly drops his glass. “You don’t dally about, do you?” He swirls the remains of his drink and examines his swollen knuckles that clutch it. “Well then, Charles, I wish you Godspeed. I shall miss your witty companionship, but perhaps in the Americas, you’ll finally find a woman who suits you.”
“Doubt it, my friend.”
“I’ll wager you a unicorn that you’re wrong.”
“A unicorn?” I smirk at the circle of our conversation. “How so?”
“The loser must send a unicorn to the winner.”
“You’re mad, old chap.”
“Madness is a benefit of age,” he quips. “So what do you say? Will you accept the wager?”
“I’m not one to back away from a bet,” I say.
“As I suspected.” Richard lifts his glass in a salute. “Then cheers to you and your new adventure. And to women, and to unicorns. Do write me, please. I shall live vicariously through you.”
A year later, I post a letter from Chautauqua Lake in upstate New York to Oxford. Enclosed in the envelope is a small, carved wooden unicorn.
Dear Richard,
I hate to admit you were right, but you were right. I thought myself immune to the charms of the female species, but that was before I encounteredthe women of these new United States of America. They have been forged by the spirit of revolution; there is a feisty hardiness to them that differs from our British kinfolk, who have lived in relative stability for generations.
