‘Oh, that is good news,’ said Miss Mapp. ‘Then to-morrow perhaps she will be about again.’
‘I couldn’t say, miss,’ said Grosvenor, holding on to the door.
‘Give her my fondest love,’ said Miss Mapp, ‘and tell her how rejoiced I am, please, Grosvenor.’
‘Yes, miss,’ said Grosvenor, and before Miss Mapp could step from the threshold, she heard the rattle of the chain behind the closed door.
She was going to lunch that day with the Wyses, a meal which Mr Wyse, in his absurd affected fashion, always alluded to as breakfast, especially when the Contessa was staying with them. Breakfast was at one, but there was time for an hour at the top of the church tower first. In order to see the features of the landscape better, she took up an opera-glass with her sketching-things. She first put a blue watery wash on her block for the sky and sea, and a green one for the marsh, and while these were drying she examined every nook of her garden with the opera-glass. No luck, and she picked up her sketch again on which the sky was rapidly inundating the land.
Lucia had learned this morning via Grosvenor and her cook and Figgis, Mr Wyse’s butler, that the week of the Contessa’s stay here was to be curtailed by one day and that the Royce would convey her to Whitchurch next morning on her visit to the younger but ennobled branch of the family. Further intelligence from the same source made known that the breakfast to-day to which Miss Mapp was bidden was a Belshazzar breakfast, eight if not ten. This was good news: the period of Lucia’s danger of detection would be over in less than twenty-four hours, and about the time that Miss Mapp at the top of the tower of Tilling Church was hastily separating the firmament from the dry land, Lucia wrote out a telegram to Georgie that he might return the following day and find all clear. Together with that she sent a request to Messrs Woolgar & Pipstow that they should furnish her with an order to view a certain house she had seen just outside Tilling, near quaint Irene’s cottage, which she had observed was for sale.
She hesitated about giving Grosvenor the envelope addressed to Contessa di Faraglione, which contained the transcript, duly signed, of Mrs Brocklebank’s letter to a Countess, and decided, on the score of dramatic fitness, to have it delivered shortly after one o’clock when Mrs Wyse’s breakfast would be in progress, with orders that it should be presented to the Contessa at once.
Lucia was feeling the want of vigorous exercise, and bethought herself of the Ideal System of Callisthenics for those no longer Young. For five days she had been confined to house and garden, and the craving to skip took possession of her. Skipping was an exercise highly recommended by the ideal system, and she told Grosvenor to bring back for her, with the order to view from Messrs Woolgar & Pipstow, a simple skipping-rope from the toy-shop in the High Street. While Grosvenor was gone this desire for free active movement in the open air awoke a kindred passion for the healthful action of the sun on the skin, and she hurried up to her sick-room, changed into a dazzling bathing-suit of black and yellow, and, putting on a very smart dressing-gown gay with ribands, was waiting in the garden-room when Grosvenor returned, recalling to her mind the jerks and swayings which had kept her in such excellent health when grief forbade her to play golf.
The hour was a quarter to one when Lucia tripped into the secret garden, shed her dressing-gown and began skipping on the little lawn with the utmost vigour. The sound of the church clock immediately below Miss Mapp’s eyrie on the tower warned her that it was time to put her sketching things away, deposit them at Wasters and go out to breakfast. During the last half-hour she had cast periodical but fruitless glances at her garden, and had really given it up as a bad job. Now she looked down once more, and there close beside the bust of good Queen Anne was a gay striped figure of waspish colours skipping away like mad. She dropped her sketch, she reached out a trembling hand for her opera-glasses, the focus of which was already adjusted to a nicety, and by their aid she saw that this athletic wasp who was skipping with such exuberant activity was none other than the invalid.
Miss Mapp gave a shrill crow of triumph. All came to him who waited, and if she had known Greek she would undoubtedly have exclaimed ‘Eureka’: as it was she only crowed. It was all too good to be true, but it was all too distinct not to be. ‘Now I’ve got her,’ she thought. ‘The whole thing is as clear as daylight. I was right all the time. She has not had influenza any more than I, and I’ll tell everybody at breakfast what I have seen.’ But the sight still fascinated her. What shameless vigour, when she should have been languid with fever! What abysses of falsehood, all because she could not talk Italian! What expense to herself in that unnecessary dinner to the Padre and Major Benjy! There was no end to it …
Lucia stalked about the lawn with a high prancing motion when she had finished her skipping. Then she skipped again, and then she made some odd jerks, as if she was being electrocuted. She took long deep breaths, she lifted her arms high above her head as if to dive, she lay down on the grass and kicked, she walked on tiptoe like a ballerina, she swung her body round from the hips. All this had for Miss Mapp the fascination that flavours strong disgust and contempt. Eventually, just as the clock struck one, she wrapped herself in her dressing-gown, the best was clearly over. Miss Mapp was already late, and she must hurry straight from the tower to her breakfast, for there was no time to go back to Wasters first. She would be profuse in pretty apologies for her lateness; the view from the church tower had been so entrancing (this was perfectly true) that she had lost all count of time. She could not show her sketch to the general company, because the firmament had got dreadfully muddled up with the waters which were below it, but instead she would tell them something which would muddle up Lucia.
The breakfast-party was all assembled in Mrs Wyse’s drawing-room with its dark oak beams and its silver-framed photographs and its morocco case containing the order of the MBE, still negligently open. Everybody had been waiting, everybody was rather grumpy at the delay, and on her entry the Contessa had clearly said ‘Ecco! Now at last!’
They would soon forgive her when they learned what had really made her late, but it was better to wait for a little before imparting her news, until breakfast had put them all in a more appreciative mood. She hastened on this desired moment by little compliments all round: what a wonderful sermon the Padre had preached last Sunday: how well dear Susan looked: what a delicious dish these eggs à la Capri were, she must really be greedy and take a teeny bit more. But these dewdrops were only interjected, for the Contessa talked in a loud continuous voice as usual, addressing the entire table, and speaking with equal fluency whether her mouth was full or empty.
At last the opportunity arrived. Figgis brought in a note on an immense silver (probably plated) salver, and presented it to the Contessa: it was to be delivered at once. Amelia said ‘Scusi’ which everybody understood – even Lucia might have understood that – and was silent for a space as she tore it open and began reading it.
Miss Mapp decided to tantalize and excite them all before actually making her revelation.
‘I will give anybody three guesses as to what I have seen this morning,’ she said. ‘Mr Wyse, Major Benjy, Padre, you must all guess. It is about someone whom we all know, who is still an invalid. I was sketching this morning at the top of the tower, and happened to glance down into my pet little secret garden. And there was Lucia in the middle of the lawn. How was she dressed, and what was she doing? Three guesses each, shall it be?’
Alas! The introductory tantalization had been too long, for before anybody could guess anything the Contessa broke in again.
‘But never have I read such a letter!’ she cried. ‘It is from Mrs Lucas. All in Italian, and such Italian! Perfect. I should not have thought that any foreigner could have had such command of idiom and elegance. I have lived in Italy for ten years, but my Italian is a bungle compared to this. I have always said that no foreigner ever can learn Italian perfectly, and Cecco too, but we were wrong. This Mrs Lucas proves it. It is composed by the ear, the s
poken word on paper. Dio mio! What an escape I have had, Algernon! You had a plan to bring me and your Mrs Lucas together to hear us talk. But she would smile to herself, and I should know what she was thinking, for she would be thinking how very poorly I talk Italian compared with herself. I will read her letter to you all, and though you do not know what it means you will recognize a fluency, a music …
The Contessa proceeded to do so, with renewed exclamations of amazement, and all that bright edifice of suspicion, so carefully reared by the unfortunate Elizabeth, that Lucia knew no Italian, collapsed like a house built of cards when the table is shaken. Elizabeth had induced everybody to accept invitations to the second po-di-mu in order that all Tilling might hear Lucia’s ignorance exposed by the Contessa, and when she had wriggled out of that, Elizabeth’s industrious efforts had caused the gravest suspicions to be entertained that Lucia’s illness was feigned in order to avoid any encounter with one who did know Italian, and now not only was not one pane of that Crystal Palace left unshattered, but the Contessa was congratulating herself on her own escape.
Elizabeth stirred feebly below the ruins: she was not quite crushed.
‘I’m sure it sounds lovely,’ she said when the recitation was over. ‘But did not you yourself, dear Mr Wyse, think it odd that anyone who knew Italian should put un po’ di musica on her invitation-card?’
‘Then he was wrong,’ said the Contessa. ‘No doubt that phrase is a little humorous quotation from something I do not know. Rather like you ladies of Tilling who so constantly say “au reservoir”. It is not a mistake: it is a joke.’
Elizabeth made a final effort.
‘I wonder if dear Lucia wrote that note herself,’ she said pensively.
‘Pish! Her parlourmaid, doubtless,’ said the Contessa. ‘For me, I must spend an hour this afternoon to see if I can answer that letter in a way that will not disgrace me.’
There seemed little more to be said on that subject and Elizabeth hastily resumed her tantalization.
‘Nobody has tried to guess yet what I saw from the church tower,’ she said. ‘Major Benjy, you try! It was Lucia, but how was she dressed and what was she doing?’
There was a coldness about Major Benjy. He had allowed himself to suspect, owing to Elizabeth’s delicate hints, that there was perhaps some Italian mystery behind Lucia’s influenza, and now he must make amends.
‘Couldn’t say, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘She was sure to have been very nicely dressed from what I know of her.’
‘I’ll give you a hint then,’ said she. ‘I’ve never seen her dressed like that before.’
Major Benjy’s attention completely wandered. He made no attempt to guess but sipped his coffee.
‘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.’
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. To-morrow – for after my delicious exercise on the lawn this morning, I do not feel up to more to-day – to-morrow 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.
Iren
e 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 to-morrow, 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.’