‘You then, Mr Wyse, if Major Benjy gives up,’ said Elizabeth, getting anxious. Though the suspected cause of Lucia’s illness was disproved, it still looked as if she had never had influenza at all, and that was something.
‘My ingenuity, I am sure, will not be equal to the occasion,’ said Mr Wyse very politely. ‘You will be obliged to tell me. I give up.’
Elizabeth emitted a shrill little titter.
‘A dressing-gown,’ she said. ‘A bathing-costume. And she was skipping! Fancy! With influenza!’
There was a dreadful pause. No babble of excited inquiry and comment took place at all. The Contessa put up her monocle, focused Elizabeth for a moment, and this pause somehow was like the hush that succeeds some slight gaffe, some small indelicacy that had better have been left unsaid. Her host came to her rescue.
‘That is indeed good news,’ said Mr Wyse. ‘We may encourage ourselves to hope that our friend is well on the road to convalescence. Thank you for telling us that, Miss Mapp.’
Mrs Bartlett gave one of her little mouse-like squeals, and Irene said: ‘Hurrah! I shall try to see her this afternoon. I am glad.’
That again was an awful thought. Irene no doubt, if admitted, would give an account of the luncheon-party which would lose nothing in the telling, and she was such a ruthless mimic. Elizabeth felt a sinking feeling.
‘Would that be wise, dear?’ she said. ‘Lucia is probably not yet free from infection, and we mustn’t have you down with it. I wonder where she caught it, by the way?’
‘But your point is that she’s never had influenza at all,’ said Irene with that dismal directness of hers.
Choking with this monstrous dose of fiasco, Elizabeth made for the present no further attempt to cause her friends to recoil from the idea of Lucia’s skippings, for they only rejoiced that she was sufficiently recovered to do so. The party presently dispersed, and she walked away with her sketching things and Diva, and glanced up the street towards her house. Irene was already standing by the door, and Elizabeth turned away with a shudder, for Irene waved her hand to them and was admitted.
‘It’s all very strange, dear Diva, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘It’s impossible to believe that Lucia’s been ill, and it’s useless to try to do so. Then there’s Mr Georgie’s disappearance. I never thought of that before.’
Diva interrupted.
‘If I were you, Elizabeth,’ she said, ‘I should hold my tongue about it all. Much wiser.’
‘Indeed?’ said Elizabeth, beginning to tremble.
‘Yes. I tell you so as a friend,’ continued Diva firmly. ‘You got hold of a false scent. You made us think that Lucia was avoiding the Faraglione. All wrong from beginning to end. One of your worst shots. Give it up.’
‘But there is something queer,’ said Elizabeth wildly. ‘Skipping—’
‘If there is,’ said Diva, ‘you’re not clever enough to find it out. That’s my advice. Take it or leave it. I don’t care. Au reservoir.’
CHAPTER 7
Had Miss Mapp been able to hear what went on in the garden-room that afternoon, as well as she had been able to see what had gone on that morning in the garden, she would never have found Irene more cruelly quaint. Her account of this luncheon-party was more than graphic, for so well did she reproduce the Contessa’s fervid monologue and poor Elizabeth’s teasings over what she wanted them all to guess, that it positively seemed to be illustrated. Almost more exasperating to Miss Mapp would have been Lucia’s pitiful contempt for the impotence of her malicious efforts.
‘Poor thing!’ she said. ‘Sometimes I think she is a little mad. Una pazza: un po’ pazza… But I regret not seeing the Contessa. Nice of her to have approved of my scribbled note, and I dare say I should have found that she talked Italian very well indeed. Tomorrow—for after my delicious exercise on the lawn this morning, I do not feel up to more to-day—tomorrow I should certainly have hoped to call—in the afternoon—and have had a chat with her. But she is leaving in the morning, I understand.’
Lucia, looking the picture of vigour and vitality, swept across to the curtained window and threw back those screenings with a movement that made the curtain-rings chime together.
‘Poor Elizabeth!’ she repeated. ‘My heart aches for her, for I am sure all that carping bitterness makes her wretched. I dare say it is only physical: liver perhaps, or acidity. The ideal system of callisthenics might do wonders for her. I cannot, as you will readily understand, dear Irene, make the first approaches to her after her conduct to me, and the dreadful innuendoes she has made, but I should like her to know that I bear her no malice at all. Do convey that to her sometime. Tactfully, of course. Women like her who do all they can on every possible occasion to hurt and injure others are usually very sensitive themselves, and I would not add to the poor creature’s other chagrins. You must all be kind to her.’
‘My dear, you’re too wonderful!’ said Irene, in a sort of ecstasy. ‘What a joy you are! But, alas, you’re leaving us so soon. It’s too unkind of you to desert us.’
Lucia had dropped on to the music-stool by the piano which had so long been dumb, except for a few timorous chords muffled by the unsustenuto pedal, and dreamily recalled the first bars of the famous slow movement.
Irene sat down on the cold hot-water pipes and yearned at her.
‘You can do everything,’ she said. ‘You play like an angel, and you can knock out Mapp with your little finger, and you can skip and play bridge, and you’ve got such a lovely nature that you don’t bear Mapp the slightest grudge for her foul plots. You are adorable! Won’t you ask me to come and stay with you at Riseholme sometime?’
Lucia, still keeping perfect time with her triplets while this recital of her perfections was going on, considered whether she should not tell Irene at once that she had practically determined not to desert them. She had intended to tell Georgie first, but she would do that when he came back tomorrow, and she wanted to see about getting a house here without delay. She played a nimble arpeggio on the chord of C sharp minor and closed the piano.
‘Too sweet of you to like me, dear,’ she said, ‘but as for your staying with me at Riseholme, I don’t think I shall ever go back there myself. I have fallen in love with this dear Tilling, and I fully expect I shall settle here for good.’
‘Angel!’ said Irene.
‘I’ve been looking about for a house that might suit me,’ she continued when Irene had finished kissing her, ‘and the house-agents have just sent me the order to view one which particularly attracts me. It’s that white house on the road that skirts the marsh, half a mile away. A nice garden sheltered from the north wind. Right down on the level, it is true, but such a divine view. Broad, tranquil! A dyke and a bank just across the road, keeping back the high tides in the river.’
‘But of course I know it; you mean Grebe,’ cried Irene. ‘The cottage I am in now adjoins the garden. Oh, do take it! While you’re settling in, I’ll let Diva have Taormina, and Diva will let Mapp have Wasters, and Mapp will let you have Mallards till Grebe’s ready for you. And I shall be at your disposal all day to help you with your furniture.’
Lucia decided that there was no real danger of meeting the Contessa if she drove out there: besides the Contessa now wanted to avoid her for fear of showing how inferior was her Italian.
‘It’s such a lovely afternoon,’ she said, ‘that I think a little drive would not hurt me. Unfortunately Georgie, who comes back tomorrow, has got my car. I lent it him for his week by the sea.’
‘Oh, how like you!’ cried Irene. ‘Always unselfish!’
‘Dear Georgie! So pleased to give him a little treat,’ said Lucia. ‘I’ll ring up the garage and get them to send me something closed. Come with me, dear, if you have nothing particular to do, and we’ll look over the house.’
Lucia found much to attract her in Grebe. Though it was close to the road it was not overlooked, for a thick hedge of hornbeam made a fine screen: besides, the road did not lead anywhere par
ticular. The rooms were of good dimensions, there was a hall and dining-room on the ground floor, with a broad staircase leading up to the first floor where there were two or three bedrooms and a long admirable sitting-room with four windows looking across the road to the meadows and the high bank bounding the river. Beyond that lay the great empty levels of the marsh, with the hill of Tilling rising out of it half a mile away to the west. Close behind the house was the cliff which had once been the coastline before the marshes were drained and reclaimed, and this would be a rare protection against northerly and easterly winds. All these pleasant rooms looked south, and all had this open view away seawards; they had character and dignity, and at once Lucia began to see herself living here. The kitchen and offices were in a wing by themselves, and here again there was character, for the kitchen had evidently been a coach-house, and still retained the big double doors appropriate to such. There had once been a road from it to the end of the kitchen garden, but with its disuse as a coach-house, the road had been replaced by a broad cinder path now bordered with beds of useful vegetables.
‘Ma molto conveniente,’ said Lucia more than once, for it was now perfectly safe to talk Italian again, since the Contessa, no less than she, was determined to avoid a duet in that language. ‘Mi piace molto. E un bel giardino.’
‘How I love hearing you talk Italian,’ ejaculated Irene, ‘especially since I know it’s the very best. Will you teach it me? Oh, I am so pleased you like the house.’
‘But I am charmed with it,’ said Lucia. ‘And there’s a garage with a very nice cottage attached which will do beautifully for Cadman and Foljambe.’
She broke off suddenly, for in the fervour of her enthusiasm for the house, she had not thought about the awful catastrophe which must descend on Georgie, if she decided to live at Tilling. She had given no direct thought to him, and now for the first time she realized the cruel blow that would await him, when he came back tomorrow, all bronzed from his week at Folkestone. He had been a real Deus ex machino to her: his stroke of genius had turned a very hazardous moment into a blaze of triumph, and now she was going to plunge a dagger into his domestic heart by the news that she and therefore Cadman and therefore Foljambe were not coming back to Riseholme at all…
‘Oh, are they going to marry?’ asked Irene. ‘Or do you mean they just live together? How interesting!’
‘Dear Irene, do not be so modern,’ said Lucia, quite sharply. ‘Marriage of course, and banns first. But never mind that for the present. I like those great double doors to the kitchen. I shall certainly keep them.’
‘How ripping that you’re thinking about kitchen-doors already,’ said Irene. ‘That really sounds as if you did mean to buy the house. Won’t Mapp have a fit when she hears it! I must be there when she’s told. She’ll say “Darling Lulu, what a joy,” and then fall down and foam at the mouth.’
Lucia gazed out over the marsh where the level rays of sunset turned a few lowlying skeins of mist to rose and gold. The tide was high and the broad channel of the river running out to sea was brimming from edge to edge. Here and there, where the banks were low, the water had overflowed on to adjacent margins of land; here and there, spread into broad lakes, it lapped the confining dykes. There were sheep cropping the meadows, there were seagulls floating in the water, and half a mile away to the west the red roofs of Tilling glowed as if molten not only with the soft brilliance of the evening light, but (to the discerning eye) with the intensity of the interests that burned beneath them… Lucia hardly knew what gave her the most satisfaction, the magic of the marsh, her resolve to live here, or the recollection of the complete discomfiture of Elizabeth.
Then again the less happy thought of Georgie recurred, and she wondered what arguments she could use to induce him to leave Riseholme and settle here. Tilling with all its manifold interests would be incomplete without him, and how dismally incomplete Riseholme would be to him without herself and Foljambe. Georgie had of late taken his painting much more seriously than ever before, and he had often during the summer put off dinner to an unheard-of lateness in order to catch a sunset, and had risen at most inconvenient hours to catch a sunrise. Lucia had strongly encouraged this zeal, she had told him that if he was to make a real career as an artist he had no time to waste. Appreciation and spurring-on was what he needed: perhaps Irene could help.
She pointed to the glowing landscape.
‘Irene, what would life be without sunsets?’ she asked. ‘And to think that this miracle happens every day, except when it’s very cloudy!’
Irene looked critically at the view.
‘Generally speaking, I don’t like sunsets,’ she said. ‘The composition of the sky is usually childish. But good colouring about this one.’
‘There are practically no sunsets at Riseholme,’ said Lucia. ‘I suppose the sun goes down, but there’s a row of hills in the way. I often think that Georgie’s development as an artist is starved there. If he goes back there he will find no one to make him work. What do you think of his painting, dear?’
‘I don’t think of it at all,’ said Irene.
‘No? I am astonished. Of course your own is so different in character. Those wrestlers! Such movement! But personally I find very great perception in Georgie’s work. A spaciousness, a calmness! I wish you would take an interest in it and encourage him. You can find beauty anywhere if you look for it.’
‘Of course I’ll do my best if you want me to,’ said Irene. ‘But it will be hard work to find beauty in Georgie’s little valentines.’
‘Do try. Give him some hints. Make him see what you see. All that boldness and freedom. That’s what he wants… Ah, the sunset is fading. Buona notte, bel sole! We must be getting home too. Addio, mia bella casa. But Georgie must be the first to know, Irene, do not speak of it until I have told him. Poor Georgie: I hope it will not be a terrible blow to him.’
Georgie came straight to Mallards on his arrival next morning from Folkestone with Cadman and Foljambe. His recall, he knew, meant that the highly dangerous Contessa had gone, and his admission by Grosvenor, after the door had been taken off the chain, that Lucia’s influenza was officially over. He looked quite bronzed, and she gave him the warmest welcome.
‘It all worked without a hitch,’ she said as she told him of the plots and counter-plots which had woven so brilliant a tapestry of events. ‘And it was that letter of Mrs Brocklebank’s which you sent me that clapped the lid on Elizabeth. I saw at once what I could make of it. Really, Georgie, I turned it into a stroke of genius.’
‘But it was a stroke of genius already,’ said Georgie. ‘You only had to copy it out and send it to the Contessa.’
Lucia was slightly ashamed of having taken the supreme credit for herself: the habit was hard to get rid of.
‘My dear, all the credit shall be yours then,’ she said handsomely. ‘It was your stroke of genius. I copied it out very carelessly as if I had scribbled it off without thought. That was a nice touch, don’t you think? The effect? Colossal, so Irene tells me, for I could not be there myself. That was only yesterday. A few desperate wriggles from Elizabeth, but of course no good. I do not suppose there was a more thoroughly thwarted woman in all Sussex than she.’
Georgie gave a discreet little giggle.
‘And what’s so terribly amusing is that she was right all the time about your influenza and your Italian and everything,’ he said. ‘Perfectly maddening for her.’
Lucia sighed pensively.
‘Georgie, she was malicious,’ she observed, ‘and that never pays.’
‘Besides, it serves her right for spying on you,’ Georgie continued.
‘Yes, poor thing. But I shall begin now at once to be kind to her again. She shall come to lunch tomorrow, and you of course. By the way, Georgie, Irene takes so much interest in your painting. It was news to me, for her style is so different from your beautiful, careful work.’
‘No! That’s news to me too,’ said Georgie. ‘She never seemed to see my s
ketches before: they might have been blank sheets of paper. Does she mean it? She’s not pulling my leg?’
‘Nothing of the sort. And I couldn’t help thinking it was a great opportunity for you to learn something about more modern methods. There is something you know in those fierce canvases of hers.’
‘I wish she had told me sooner,’ said Georgie. ‘We’ve only got a fortnight more here. I shall be very sorry when it’s over, for I felt terribly pleased to be getting back to Tilling this morning. It’ll be dull going back to Riseholme. Don’t you feel that too? I’m sure you must. No plots: no competition.’
Lucia had just received a telegram from Adele concerning the purchase of the Hurst, and it was no use putting off the staggering moment. She felt as if she was Zeus about to discharge a thunderbolt on some unhappy mortal.
‘Georgie, I’m not going back to Riseholme at all,’ she said. ‘I have sold the Hurst: Adele Brixton has bought it. And, practically, I’ve bought that white house with the beautiful garden, which we admired so much, and that view over the marsh (how I thought of you at sunset yesterday), and really charming rooms with character.’
Georgie sat open-mouthed, and all expression vanished from his face. It became as blank as a piece of sunburnt paper. Then slowly, as if he was coming round from an anaesthetic while the surgeon was still carving dexterously at living tissue, a look of intolerable anguish came into his face.
‘But Foljambe, Cadman!’ he cried. ‘Foljambe can’t come back here every night from Riseholme. What am I to do? Is it all irrevocable?’
Lucia bridled. She was quite aware that this parting (if there was to be one) between him and Foljambe would be a dagger; but it was surprising, to say the least, that the thought of the parting between herself and him should not have administered him the first shock. However, there it was. Foljambe first by all means.
‘I knew parting from Foljambe would be a great blow to you,’ she said, with an acidity that Georgie could hardly fail to notice. ‘What a pity that row you told me about came to nothing! But I am afraid that I can’t promise to live in Riseholme for ever in order that you may not lose your parlourmaid.’