‘And you’ll fight her?’ asked Georgie eagerly.
‘Nothing of the kind, my dear,’ said Lucia. ‘What do you take me for? Every now and then, when necessary, I shall just give her two or three hard slaps. I gave her one this morning: I did indeed. Not a very hard one, but it stung.’
‘No! Do tell me,’ said Georgie.
Lucia gave a short but perfectly accurate description of the gardener-crisis.
‘So I stopped that,’ she said, ‘and there are several other things I shall stop. I won’t have her, for instance, walking into my house without ringing. So I’ve told Grosvenor to put up the chain. And she calls me Lulu which makes me sick. Nobody’s ever called me Lulu and they shan’t begin now. I must see if calling her Liblib will do the trick. And then she asked me to dinner to-night, when she must have known perfectly well that Major Benjy and Diva are dining with me. You’re dining too, by the way.’
‘I’m not sure if I’d better,’ said Georgie. ‘I think Foljambe might expect me to dine at home the first night I get back. I know she wants to go through the linen and plate with me.’
‘No, Georgie, quite unnecessary,’ said she. ‘I want you to help me to give the others a jolly comfortable evening. We’ll play bridge and let Major Benjy lay down the law. We’ll have a genial evening, make them enjoy it. And tomorrow I shall ask the Wyses and talk about Countesses. And the day after I shall ask the Padre and his wife and talk Scotch. I want you to come every night. It’s new in Tilling I find, to give little dinners. Tea is the usual entertainment. And I shan’t ask Liblib at all till next week.’
‘But my dear, isn’t that war?’ asked Georgie. (It did look rather like it.) ‘Not the least. It’s benevolent neutrality. We shall see if she learns sense. If she does, I shall be very nice to her again and ask her to several pleasant little parties. I am giving her every chance. Also Georgie…’ Lucia’s eyes assumed that gimlet-like expression which betokened an earnest purpose, ‘I want to understand her and be fair to her. At present I can’t understand her. The idea of her giving orders to a gardener to whom I give wages! But that’s all done with. I can hear the click of the mowing-machine on the lawn now. Just two or three things I won’t stand. I won’t be patronized by Liblib, and I won’t be called Lulu, and I won’t have her popping in and out of my house like a cuckoo clock.’
Lunch drew to an end. There was Georgie looking so prosperous and plump, with his chestnut-coloured hair no longer in the least need of a touch of dye, and his beautiful clothes. Already Major Benjy, who had quickly seen that if he wanted to be friends with Lucia he must be friends with Georgie too, had pronounced him to be the best-dressed man in Tilling, and Lucia, who invariably passed on dewdrops of this kind, had caused Georgie the deepest gratification by repeating this. And now she was about to plunge a dagger in his heart. She put her elbows on the table, so as to be ready to lay a hand of sympathy on his.
‘Georgie, I’ve got something to tell you,’ she said.
‘I’m sure I shall like it,’ said he. ‘Go on.’
‘No, you won’t like it at all,’ she said.
It flashed through his mind that Lucia had changed her mind about marrying him, but it could not be that, for she would never have said he wouldn’t like it at all. Then he had a flash of intuition.
‘Something about Foljambe,’ he said in a quavering voice.
‘Yes. She and Cadman are going to marry.’
Georgie turned on her a face from which all other expression except hopeless despair had vanished, and her hand of sympathy descended on his, firmly pressing it.
‘When?’ he said, after moistening his dry lips.
‘Not for the present. Not till we get back to Riseholme.’
Georgie pushed away his untasted coffee.
‘It’s the most dreadful thing that’s ever happened to me,’ he said. ‘It’s quite spoiled all my pleasure. I didn’t think Foljambe was so selfish. She’s been with me fifteen years, and now she goes and breaks up my home like this.’
‘My dear, that’s rather an excessive statement,’ said Lucia. ‘You can get another parlourmaid. There are others.’
‘If you come to that, Cadman could get another wife,’ said Georgie, ‘and there isn’t another parlourmaid like Foljambe. I have suspected something now and then, but I never thought it would come to this. What a fool I was to leave her here when I went back to Riseholme for the fête! Or if only we had driven back there with Cadman instead of going by train. It was madness. Here they were with nothing to do but make plans behind our backs. No one will ever look after my clothes as she does. And the silver. You’ll miss Cadman, too.’
‘Oh, but I don’t think he means to leave me,’ said Lucia in some alarm. ‘What makes you think that? He said nothing about it.’
‘Then perhaps Foljambe doesn’t mean to leave me,’ said Georgie, seeing a possible dawn on the wreck of his home.
‘That’s rather different,’ said Lucia. ‘She’ll have to look after his house, you see, by day, and then at night he’d—he’d like her to be there.’
‘Horrible to think of,’ said Georgie bitterly. ‘I wonder what she can see in him. I’ve got a good mind to go and live in an hotel. And I had left her five hundred pounds in my will.’
‘Georgie, that was very generous of you. Very,’ put in Lucia, though Georgie would not feel the loss of that large sum after he was dead.
‘But now I shall certainly add a codicil to say “if still in my service”,’ said Georgie rather less generously. ‘I didn’t think it of her.’
Lucia was silent a moment. Georgie was taking it very much to heart indeed, and she racked her ingenious brain.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ she said at length. ‘I don’t know if it can be worked, but we might see. Would you feel less miserable about it if Foljambe would consent to come over to your house say at nine in the morning and be there till after dinner? If you were dining out as you so often are, she could go home earlier. You see Cadman’s at the Hurst all day, for he does odd jobs as well, and his cottage at Riseholme is quite close to your house. You would have to give them a charwoman to do the housework.’
‘Oh, that is a good idea,’ said Georgie, cheering up a little. ‘Of course I’ll give her a charwoman or anything else she wants if she’ll only look after me as before. She can sleep wherever she likes. Of course there may be periods when she’ll have to be away, but I shan’t mind that as long as I know she’s coming back. Besides, she’s rather old for that, isn’t she?’
It was no use counting the babies before they were born, and Lucia glided along past this slightly indelicate subject with Victorian eyes.
‘It’s worth while seeing if she’ll stay with you on these terms,’ she said.
‘Rather. I shall suggest it at once,’ said Georgie. ‘I think I shall congratulate her very warmly, and say how pleased I am, and then ask her. Or would it be better to be very cold and preoccupied and not talk to her at all? She’d hate that, and then when I ask her after some days whether she’ll stop on with me, she might promise anything to see me less unhappy again.’
Lucia did not quite approve of this Machiavellian policy.
‘On the other hand, it might make her marry Cadman instantly, in order to have done with you,’ she suggested. ‘You’d better be careful.’
‘I’ll think it over,’ said Georgie. ‘Perhaps it would be safer to be very nice to her about it and appeal to her better nature, if she’s got one. But I know I shall never manage to call her Cadman. She must keep her maiden name, like an actress.’
Lucia duly put in force her disciplinary measures for the reduction of Elizabeth. Major Benjy, Diva and Georgie dined with her that night, and there was a plate of nougat chocolates for Diva, whose inordinate passion for them was known all over Tilling, and a fiery curry for the Major to remind him of India, and a dish of purple figs bought at the greengrocer’s but plucked from the tree outside the garden-room. She could not resist giving Elizabeth ever so gent
le a little slap over this, and said that it was rather a roundabout process to go down to the High Street to buy the figs which Coplen plucked from the tree in the garden, and took down with other garden-produce to the shop: she must ask dear Elizabeth to allow her to buy them, so to speak, at the pit-mouth. But she was genuinely astonished at the effect this little joke had on Diva. Hastily she swallowed a nougat chocolate entire and turned bright red.
‘But doesn’t Elizabeth give you garden-produce?’ she asked in an incredulous voice.
‘Oh no,’ said Lucia, ‘Just flowers for the house. Nothing else.’
‘Well, I never!’ said Diva. ‘I fully understood, at least I thought I did—’
Lucia got up. She must be magnanimous and encourage no public exposure, whatever it might be, of Elizabeth’s conduct, but for the pickling of the rod of discipline she would like to hear about it quietly.
‘Let’s go into the garden-room and have a chat,’ she said. ‘Look after Major Benjy, Georgie, and don’t sit too long in bachelordom, for I must have a little game of bridge with him. I’m terribly frightened of him, but he and Mrs Plaistow must be kind to beginners like you and me.’
The indignant Diva poured out her tale of Elizabeth’s iniquities in a turgid flood.
‘So like Elizabeth,’ she said. ‘I asked her if she gave you garden-produce, and she said she wasn’t going to dig up her potatoes and carry them away. Well, of course I thought that meant she did give it you. So like her. Bismarck, wasn’t it, who told the truth in order to deceive? And so of course I gave her my garden-produce and she’s selling one and eating the other. I wish I’d known I ought to have distrusted her.’
Lucia smiled that indulgent Sunday-evening smile which meant she was thinking hard on week-day subjects.
‘I like Elizabeth so much,’ she said, ‘and what do a few figs matter?’
‘No, but she always scores,’ said Diva, ‘and sometimes it’s hard to bear. She got my house with garden-produce thrown in for eight guineas a week and she lets her own without garden-produce for twelve.’
‘No dear, I pay fifteen,’ said Lucia.
Diva stared at her open-mouthed.
‘But it was down in Woolgar’s books at twelve,’ she said. ‘I saw it myself. She is a one: isn’t she?’
Lucia maintained her attitude of high nobility, but this information added a little more pickling.
‘Dear Elizabeth!’ she said. ‘So glad that she was sharp enough to get a few more guineas, I expect she’s very clever, isn’t she? And here come the gentlemen. Now for a jolly little game of bridge.’
Georgie was astonished at Lucia. She was accustomed to lay down the law with considerable firmness, and instruct partners and opponents alike, but to-night a most unusual humility possessed her. She was full of diffidence about her own skill and of praise for her partner’s: she sought advice, even once asking Georgie what she ought to have played, though that was clearly a mistake, for next moment she rated him. But for the other two she had nothing but admiring envy at their declarations and their management of the hand, and when Diva revoked she took all the blame on herself for not having asked her whether her hand was bare of the suit. Rubber after rubber they played in an amity hitherto unknown in the higher gambling circles of Tilling; and when, long after the incredible hour of twelve had struck, it was found on the adjustment of accounts that Lucia was the universal loser, she said she had never bought experience so cheaply and pleasantly.
Major Benjy wiped the foam of his third (surreptitious and hastily consumed) whisky and soda from his walrus-moustache.
‘Most agreeable evening of bridge I’ve ever spent in Tilling,’ he said. ‘Bless me, when I think of the scoldings I’ve had in this room for some little slip, and the friction there’s been… Mrs Plaistow knows what I mean.’
‘I should think I did,’ said Diva, beginning to simmer again at the thought of garden-produce. ‘Poor Elizabeth! Lessons in self-control are what she wants and after that a few lessons on the elements of the game wouldn’t be amiss. Then it would be time to think about telling other people how to play.’
This very pleasant party broke up, and Georgie, hurrying home to Mallards Cottage, thought he could discern in these comments the key to Lucia’s unwonted humility at the card-table. For herself she had only kind words on the subject of Elizabeth as befitted a large-hearted woman, but Diva and Major Benjy could hardly help contrasting brilliantly to her advantage, the charming evening they had spent with the vituperative scenes which usually took place when they played bridge in the garden-room. ‘I think Lucia has begun,’ thought Georgie to himself as he went noiselessly upstairs so as not to disturb the slumbers of Foljambe.
It was known, of course, all over Tilling the next morning that there had been a series of most harmonious rubbers of bridge last night at Mallards till goodness knew what hour, for Diva spent half the morning in telling everybody about it, and the other half in advising them not to get their fruit and vegetables at the shop which dealt in the garden-produce of the Bismarckian Elizabeth. Equally well known was it that the Wyses were dining at Mallards to-night, for Mrs Wyse took care of that, and at eight o’clock that evening the Royce started from Porpoise Street, and arrived at Mallards at precisely one minute past. Georgie came on foot from the Cottage thirty yards away in the other direction, in the highest spirits, for Foljambe after consultation with her Cadman had settled to continue on day-duty after the return to Riseholme. So Georgie did not intend at present to execute that vindictive codicil to his will. He told the Wyses whom he met on the doorstep of Mallards about the happy termination of this domestic crisis, while Mrs Wyse took off her sables and disclosed the fact that she was wearing the order of the MBE on her ample bosom; and he observed that Mr Wyse had a soft crinkly shirt with a low collar, and velveteen dress clothes: this pretty costume caused him to look rather like a conjurer. There followed very polite conversations at dinner, full of bows from Mr Wyse; first he talked to his hostess, and when Lucia tried to produce general talk and spoke to Georgie, he instantly turned his head to the right, and talked most politely to his wife about the weather and the news in the evening paper till Lucia was ready for him again.
‘I hear from our friend Miss Mapp,’ he said to her, ‘that you speak the most beautiful and fluent Italian.’
Lucia was quite ready to oblige.
‘Ah, che bella lingua!’ said she. ‘Ma ho dimenticato tutto, non parla nessuno in Riseholme.’
‘But I hope you will have the opportunity of speaking it before long in Tilling,’ said Mr Wyse. ‘My sister Amelia, Contessa Faraglione, may possibly be with us before long and I shall look forward to hearing you and she talk together. A lovely language to listen to, though Amelia laughs at my poor efforts when I attempt it.’
Lucia smelled danger here. There had been a terrible occasion once at Riseholme when her bilingual reputation had been shattered by her being exposed to the full tempest of Italian volleyed at her by a native, and she had been unable to understand anything that he said. But Amelia’s arrival was doubtful and at present remote, and it would be humiliating to confess that her knowledge was confined to a chosen though singularly limited vocabulary.
‘Georgie, we must rub up our Italian again,’ she said. ‘Mr Wyse’s sister may be coming here before long. What an opportunity for us to practise!’
‘I do not imagine that you have much need of practice,’ said Mr Wyse, bowing to Lucia. ‘And I hear your Elizabethan fête’ (he bowed to Queen Elizabeth) ‘was an immense success. We so much want somebody at Tilling who can organize and carry through schemes like that. My wife does all she can, but she sadly needs someone to help, or indeed direct her. The hospital for instance, terribly in need of funds. She and I were talking as to whether we could not get up a garden fête with some tableaux or something of the sort to raise money. She has designs on you, I know, when she can get you alone, for indeed there is no one in Tilling with ability and initiative.’
S
uddenly it struck Lucia that though this was very gratifying to herself, it had another purpose, namely to depreciate somebody else, and surely that could only be one person. But that name must not escape her lips.
‘My services, such as they are, are completely at Mrs Wyse’s disposal,’ she said, ‘as long as I am in Tilling. This garden for instance. Would that be a suitable place for something of the sort?’
Mr Wyse bowed to the garden.
‘The ideal spot,’ said he. ‘All Tilling would flock here at your bidding. Never yet in my memory has the use of it been granted for such a purpose; we have often lamented it.’
There could no longer be much doubt as to the sub-current in such remarks, but the beautiful smooth surface must not be broken.
‘I quite feel with you,’ said Lucia. ‘If one is fortunate enough, even for a short time, to possess a pretty little garden like this, it should be used for the benefit of charitable entertainment. The hospital: what more deserving object could we have? Some tableaux, you suggested. I’m sure Mr Pillson and I would be only too glad to repeat a scene or two from our fête at Riseholme.’
Mr Wyse bowed so low that his large loose tie nearly dipped itself in an ice pudding.
‘I was trying to summon my courage to suggest exactly that,’ he said. ‘Susan, Mrs Lucas encourages us to hope that she will give you a favourable audience about the project we talked over.’
The favourable audience began as soon as the ladies rose, and was continued when Georgie and Mr Wyse followed them. Already it had been agreed that the Padre might contribute an item to the entertainment, and that was very convenient, for he was to dine with Lucia the next night.
‘His Scotch stories,’ said Susan. ‘I can never hear them too often, for though I’ve not got a drop of Scotch blood myself, I can appreciate them. Not a feature of course, Mrs Lucas, but just to fill up pauses. And then there’s Mrs Plaistow. How I laugh when she does the sea-sick passenger with an orange, though I doubt if you can get oranges now. And Miss Coles. A wonderful mimic. And then there’s Major Benjy. Perhaps he would read us portions of his diary.’