Lucia rose.
‘And cocktail-parties, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Well, well, one must expect one traces to be removed by the hand of time. That wonderful sonnet of Shakespeare’s about it. Olga mia, will you excuse me till dinner-time? Some housing plans I have got to study, or I shall never be able to face my Council on Monday.’
Lucia came down to dinner steeped in the supposed contents of her tin box and with a troubled face.
‘Those riband-developments!’ she said. ‘They form one of the greatest problems I have to tackle.’
Olga looked utterly bewildered.
‘Ribands?’ she asked. ‘Things in hats.’
Lucia gave a bright laugh.
‘Stupid of me not to explain, dear,’ she said. ‘How could you know? Building developments: dreadful hideous dwellings along the sweet country roads leading into Tilling. Red-brick villas instead of hedges of hawthorn and eglantine. It seems such desecration.’
Georgie sighed. Lucia had already told him what she meant to say to her Council on Monday afternoon, and would assuredly tell him what she had said on Monday evening.
‘Caterpillars!’ she cried with a sudden inspiration. ‘I shall compare those lines of houses to caterpillars, hungry red caterpillars wriggling out across the marsh and devouring its verdant loveliness. A vivid metaphor like that is needed. But I know, dear Olga, that nothing I say to you will go any further. My Councillors have a right to know my views before anybody else.’
‘My lips are sealed,’ said Olga.
‘And yet we must build these new houses,’ said the Mayor, putting both her elbows on the table and disregarding her plate of chicken. ‘We must abolish the slums in Tilling, and that means building on the roads outside. Such a multiplicity of conflicting interests.’
‘I suppose the work is tremendous,’ said Olga.
‘Yes, I think we might call it tremendous, mightn’t we, Georgie?’ asked Lucia.
Georgie was feeling fearfully annoyed with her. She was only putting it on in order to impress Olga, but the more fervently he agreed, the sooner, it might be hoped, she would stop.
‘Overwhelming. Incessant,’ he asserted.
The hope was vain.
‘No, dear, not overwhelming,’ she said, eating her chicken in a great hurry. ‘I am not overwhelmed by it. Working for others enlarges one’s capacity for work. For the sake of my dear Tilling I can undertake without undue fatigue, what would otherwise render me a perfect wreck. Ich Dien. Of course I have to sacrifice other interests. My reading? I scarcely open a book. My painting? I have done nothing since I made a sketch of some gorgeous dahlias in the autumn which Georgie didn’t think too bad.’
‘Lovely,’ said Georgie in a voice of wood.
‘Thank you, dear. My music? I have hardly played a note. But as you must know so well, dear Olga, music makes an imperishable store of memories within one: morsels of Mozart: bits of Beethoven all audible to the inward ear.’
‘How well I remember you playing the slow movement of the “Moonlight Sonata,” said Olga, seeking, like Georgie to entice her away from Mayoral topics. But the effect of this was appalling. Lucia assumed her rapt music-face, and with eyes fixed on the ceiling, indicated slow triplets on the tablecloth. Her fingers faltered, they recovered, and nobody could guess how long she would continue: probably to the end of the movement, and yet it seemed rude to interrupt this symbolic recital. But presently she sighed.
‘Naughty fingers,’ she said, as if shaking the triplets off. ‘So forgetful of them!’
Somehow she had drained the life out of the others, but dinner was over, and they moved into Olga’s music-room. The piano stood open, and Lucia, as if walking in sleep, like Lady Macbeth, glided on to the music-stool. The naughty fingers became much better, indeed they became as good as they had ever been. She dwelt long on the last note of the famous slow movement, gazing wistfully up, and they all sighed, according to the traditional usage when Lucia played the ‘Moonlight’.
‘Thank you, dear,’ said Olga. ‘Perfect.’
Lucia suddenly sprang off the music-stool with a light laugh.
‘Better than I had feared,’ she said, ‘but far from perfect. And now, dear Olga, dare I? Might we? One little song. Shall I try to accompany you?’
Olga thought she could accompany herself and Lucia seated herself on a sort of throne close beside her and resumed her rapt expression, as Olga sang the ‘Ave’ out of Lucrezia. That solemn strain seemed vaguely familiar to Lucia, but she could not place it. Was it Beethoven? Was it from Fidelio or from Creation Hymn? Perhaps it was wiser only to admire with emotion without committing herself to the composer.
‘That wonderful old tune!’ she said. ‘What a treat to hear it again. Those great melodies are the very foundation-stone of music.’
‘But isn’t it the prayer in Lucrezia?’ asked Georgie. Lucia instantly remembered that it was.
‘Yes, of course it is, Georgie,’ she said. ‘But in the plainsong mode. I expressed myself badly.’
‘She hadn’t the smallest idea what it was,’ thought Olga, ‘but she could wriggle out of a thumb-screw.’ Then aloud:
‘Yes, that was Cortese’s intention,’ she said. ‘He will be pleased to know you think he has caught it. By the way, he rang up just before dinner to ask if he and his wife might come down to-morrow afternoon for the night. I sent a fervent “yes”.’
‘My dear, you spoil us!’ said Lucia ecstatically. ‘That will be too delightful.’
In spite of her ecstasy, this was grave news, and as she went to bed she pondered it. There would be Cortese, whose English was very limited (though less circumscribed than her own Italian), there would be Olga, who, though she said she spoke Italian atrociously, was fluent and understood it perfectly, and possibly Cortese’s wife knew no English at all. If she did not, conversation must be chiefly conducted in Italian, and Lucia’s vivid imagination pictured Olga translating to her what they were all saying, and re-translating her replies to them. Then no doubt he would play to them, and she would have to guess whether he was playing Beethoven or Mozart or plainsong or Cortese. It would be an evening full of hazards and humiliations. Better perhaps, in view of a pretended engagement on Monday morning, to leave on Sunday afternoon, before these dangerous foreigners arrived. ‘If only I could bring myself to say that I can neither speak nor understand Italian, and know nothing about music!’ thought Lucia. ‘But I can’t after all these years. It’s wretched to run away like this, but I couldn’t bear it.’
Georgie came down very late to breakfast. He had had dreams of Olga trying through a song to his accompaniment. She stood behind him with her hands on his shoulders, and her face close to his. Then he began singing, too, and their voices blended exquisitely … Dressing was a festival with his tiled bathroom next door, and he debated as to which of his new ties Olga would like best. Breakfast, Grosvenor had told him, would be on the verandah, but it was such a warm morning there was no need for his cape.
The others were already down.
‘Georgie, this will never do,’ said Olga, as he came out. ‘Lucia says she must go back to Tilling this afternoon. Keep her in order. Tell her she shan’t.’
‘But what’s happened, Lucia?’ he asked. ‘If we start early to-morrow we shall be in heaps of time for your Council meeting.’
Lucia began to gabble.
‘I’m too wretched about it,’ she said, ‘But when I went upstairs last night, I looked into those papers again which I brought down with me, and I find there is so much I must talk over with my Town Clerk if I am to be equipped for my Council in the afternoon. You know what Monday morning is, Georgie. I must not neglect my duties though I have to sacrifice my delicious evening here. I must be adamant.’
‘Too sad,’ said Olga. ‘But there’s no reason why you should go, Georgie. I’ll drive you back to-morrow. My dear, what a pretty tie!’
‘I shall stop then,’ said he. ‘I’ve nothing to do at Tilling. I thought you’d like
my tie.’
Lucia had never contemplated this, and she did not like it. But having announced herself as adamant, she could not instantly turn to putty. Just one chance of getting him to come with her remained.
‘I shall have to take Grosvenor with me,’ she said.
Georgie pictured a strange maid bringing in his tea, and getting his bath ready, with the risk of her finding his toupet, and other aids to juvenility. He faced it: it was worth it.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ he replied. ‘I shall be able to manage perfectly.’
9
Lucia was in for a run of bad luck, and it began that very afternoon. Ten minutes before she started with Grosvenor for Tilling, Cortese and his wife arrived. The latter was English and knew even less Italian than she did. And Cortese brought with him the first act of his new opera. It was too late to change her plans and she drove off after a most affectionate parting from Olga, whom she charged to come and stay at Tilling any time at a moment’s notice. Just a telephone-message to say she was coming, and she could start at once sure of the fondest welcome … But it was all most tiresome, for no doubt Cortese would run through the first act of his opera to-night, and the linguistic panic which had caused her to flee from Riseholme as from a plague-stricken village, leaving her nearest and dearest there, had proved to be utterly foundationless.
For the present that was all she knew: had she known what was to occur half an hour after she had left, she would certainly have turned and gone back to the plague-stricken village again, trusting to her unbounded ingenuity to devise some reason for her reappearance. A phone-call from the Duchess of Sheffield came for Madame Cortese.
‘Poor mad Cousin Poppy,’ she said. ‘What on earth can she want?’
‘Dressed crab,’ screamed Olga after her as she went to the telephone, ‘Cortese, you darling, let’s have a go at your Diane de Poictiers after dinner. I had no idea you were near the end of the first act.’
‘Nor I also. It has come as smooth as margarine,’ said Cortese, who had been enjoined by Madame to learn English with all speed, and never to dare to speak Italian in her presence. ‘And such an aria for you. When you hear it, you will jump for joy. I jump, you jumps, they jumpino. Dam’ good.’
Madame returned from the telephone.
‘Poppy asked more questions in half a minute than were ever asked before in that time,’ she said. ‘I took the first two or three and told her to wait. First, will we go to her awful old Castle to-morrow, to dine and stay the night. Second: who is here. Olga, I told her, and Cortese, and Mr Pillson of Tilling. “Why, of course I know him,” said Poppy. “He’s the Mayor of Tilling, and I met him at Lucrezia, and at lunch at the Ritz. Such a lovely beard.” Thirdly –’
‘But I’m not the Mayor of Tilling,’ cried Georgie. ‘Lucia’s the Mayor of Tilling, and she hasn’t got a beard –’
‘Georgie, don’t be pedantic,’ said Olga. ‘Evidently she means you –’
‘La barba e mobile,’ chanted Cortese. ‘Una barba per due. Scusi. Should say “A beard for two,” my Dorothea.’
‘It isn’t mobile,’ said Georgie, thinking about his toupet.
‘Of course it isn’t,’ said Olga. ‘It’s a fine, natural beard. Well, what about Poppy? Let’s all go to-morrow afternoon.’
‘No: I must get back to Tilling,’ said Georgie. ‘Lucia expects me –’
‘Aha, you are a hen-peck,’ cried Cortese. ‘And I am also a hen-peck. Is it not so, my Dorothea?’
‘You’re coming with us, Georgie,’ said Olga. ‘Ring up Lucia in the morning and tell her so. Just like that. And tell Poppy that we’ll all four come, Dorothy. So that’s settled.’
Lucia, for all her chagrin, was thrilled at the news, when Georgie rang her up next morning. He laid special stress on the Mayor of Tilling having been asked, for he felt sure she would enjoy that. Though it was agonizing to think what she had missed by her precipitate departure yesterday, Lucia cordially gave him leave to go to Sheffield Castle, for it was something that Georgie should stay there, though not she, and she sent her love and regrets to Poppy. Then after presiding at the Borough Bench (which lasted exactly twenty seconds, as there were no cases) instead of conferring with her Town Clerk, she hurried down to the High Street to release the news like a new film.
‘Back again, dear Worship,’ cried Elizabeth, darting across the street. ‘Pleasant visit?’
‘Delicious,’ said Lucia in the drawling voice. ‘Dear Riseholme! How pleased they all were to see me. No party at Olga’s; just Cortese and his wife, très intime, but such music. I got back last night to be ready for my duties to-day.’
‘And not Mr Georgie?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘No. I insisted that he should stop. Indeed, I don’t expect him till to-morrow, for he has just telephoned that Duchess Poppy – a cousin of Madame Cortese – asked the whole lot of us to go over to Sheffield to-day to dine and sleep. Such short notice, and impossible for me, of course, with my Council meeting this afternoon. The dear thing cannot realize that one has duties which must not be thrown over.’
‘What a pity. So disappointing for you, dear,’ said Elizabeth, writhing under a sudden spasm of colic of the mind. ‘But Sheffield’s a long way to go for one night. Does she live in the town?’
Lucia emitted the musical trill of merriment.
‘No, it’s Sheffield Castle,’ she said. ‘Not a long drive from Riseholme, in one of Olga’s Daimlers. A Norman tower. A moat. It was in Country Life not long ago … Good morning Padre.’
‘An’ where’s your guid man?’ asked the Padre.
Lucia considered whether she should repeat the great news. But it was more exalted not to, especially since the dissemination of it, now that Elizabeth knew, was as certain as if she had it proclaimed by the town crier.
‘He joins me to-morrow,’ she said. ‘Any news here?’
‘Such a lovely sermon from Reverence yesterday,’ said Elizabeth, for the relief of her colic. ‘All about riches and position in the world being only dross. I wish you could have heard it, Worship.’
Lucia could afford to smile at this pitiable thrust, and proceeded with her shopping, not ordering any special delicacies for herself because Georgie would be dining with a Duchess. She felt that fate had not been very kind to her personally, though most thoughtful for Georgie. It was cruel that she had not known the nationality of Cortese’s wife, and her rooted objection to his talking Italian, before she had become adamant about returning to Tilling, and this was doubly bitter, because in that case she would have still been on the spot when Poppy’s invitation arrived, and it might have been possible (indeed, she would have made it possible) for the deputy Mayor to take her place at the Council meeting to-day, at which her presence had been so imperative when she was retreating before the Italians.
She began to wonder whether she could not manage to join the ducal party after all. There was actually very little business at the Council meeting; it would be over by half-past four, and if she started then she would be in time for dinner at Sheffield Castle. Or perhaps it would be safer to telephone to the deputy Mayor, asking him to take her place, as she had been called away unexpectedly. The deputy Mayor very willingly consented. He hoped it was not bad news and was reassured. All that there remained was to ring up Sheffield Castle, and say that the Mayor of Tilling was delighted to accept Her Grace’s invitation to dine and sleep, conveyed to Her Worship by Mr Pillson. The answer was returned that the Mayor of Tilling was expected. ‘And just for a joke,’ thought Lucia, ‘I won’t tell them at Riseholme that I’m coming. Such a lovely surprise for them, if I get there first. I can start soon after lunch, and take it quietly.’
She recollected, with a trivial pang of uneasiness, that she had told Elizabeth that her duties at Tilling would have prevented her in any case from going to Sheffield Castle, but that did not last long. She would live it down or deny having said it, and she went into the garden-room to release Mrs Simpson, and, at the same time, to provide fo
r the propagation of the tidings that she was going to her Duchess.
‘I shall not attend the Council meeting this afternoon, Mrs Simpson,’ she said, ‘as there’s nothing of the slightest importance. It will be a mere formality, so I am playing truant. I shall be leaving Tilling after lunch, to dine and sleep at the Duchess of Sheffield’s, at Sheffield Castle. A moat and I think a drawbridge. Ring me up there if anything occurs that I must deal with personally, and I will give it my attention. There seems nothing that need detain you any more to-day. One of our rare holidays.’
On her way home Mrs Simpson met Diva’s Janet, and told her the sumptuous news. Janet scuttled home and plunged down into the kitchen to tell her mistress who was making buns. She had already heard about Georgie from Elizabeth.
‘Don’t believe a word of it,’ said Diva. ‘You’ve mixed it up, Janet. It’s Mr Georgie, if anybody, who’s going to Sheffield Castle.’
‘Beg your pardon, ma’am,’ said Janet hotly, ‘but I’ve mixed nothing up. Mrs Simpson told me direct that the Mayor was going, and talking of mixing you’d better mix twice that lot of currants, if it’s going to be buns.’
The telephone-bell rang in the tea-room above, and Diva flew up the kitchen-stairs, scattering flour.
‘Diva, is that Diva?’ said Lucia’s voice. ‘My memory is shocking; did I say I would pop in for tea to-day?’
‘No. Why?’ said Diva.
‘That is all right then,’ said Lucia. ‘I feared that I might have to put it off. I’m joining Georgie on a one-night’s visit to a friend. I couldn’t get out of it. Back to-morrow.’
Diva replaced the receiver.
‘Janet, you’re quite right,’ she called down the kitchen-stairs. ‘Just finish the buns. Must go out and tell people.’
Lucia’s motor came round after lunch. Foljambe (it was Foljambe’s turn, and Georgie felt more comfortable with her) was waiting in the hall with the jewel-case and a camera, and Lucia was getting the ‘Slum Clearance’ tin box from the garden-room to take with her, when the telephone-bell rang. She had a faint presage of coming disaster as she said, ‘Who is it?’ in as steady a voice as she could command.