Lucia Triumphant (14 page)

He was not allowed to redeem his pledge to the Padre, for the debate broke out again, all the more fiercely since windows had not been discussed before. Diva's windows, it transpired, had a discreet charm (so discreet that Diva felt compelled to spend quite five minutes pointing it out), while the windows of Taormina were the epitome of simple, functional elegance, or, as Susan Wyse rather unkindly said, square holes in the wall filled with glass. She was eloquent about the ancient leaded windows of Starling Cottage, which were not functional (little if any light ever managed to force its way through those opaque panes) but undeniably attractive. The windows of the Vicarage, however, spoke for themselves, which was just as well, for Evie, despite her best endeavours, did not get a chance to speak for them.

From windows the debate turned to roofs, about which Mr. Wyse was so exquisitely elegant that the careful listener could hear the semi-colons as he spoke them, and from roofs to doors. On this subject, too, feelings ran high, and Susan and Evie nearly came to blows before Lucia was able to restore order and change the subject.

‘
So disappointed that dear Elizabeth could not manage to join us this evening', she said. ‘But it seems that Major Benjy was showing signs of a severe cold this morning and Elizabeth felt it would not be wise for him to venture out of doors for a day or so.'

Lucia knew, and so did everyone else, that Major Benjy's cold had not stopped him from playing golf that morning, or spending the afternoon at his historical researches, which had left him apparently incoherent with fascination, for his speech had been distinctly blurred as he greeted them all on their way to Mallards.

‘
Ho!' exclaimed Diva. ‘I'm not so sure. Expect it's beneath her Norman dignity to dine with us. Well, we Saxons will just have to do the best we can without her.'

‘
Nay, Mistress Plaistow,' said the Padre severely, ‘you canna honestly say that Mistress Mapp-Flint's sudden revelation o' her exalted ancestry has made any difference to her demeanour. She doesna hold hersen aloof. She hasna abandoned her auld friends. She is as pleasant among us as ever she was before.'

‘
She wasn't particularly pleasant before,' muttered Irene. ‘I'd hoped that
noblesse
might have obliged, but it hasn't. She got worse—why, she cut me dead in the street the other day when I went over to congratulate her on her news. And I won't believe in those de Maps of hers until I see some solid evidence.'

‘
Och awa' wi' ye, Mistress Coles!' exclaimed the Padre. ‘Do ye no ken that Mistress Mapp-Flint's ane deportment, her carriage, her air are evidence enough? When a body's frae the Upper Crust'—here he looked pointedly at the Wyses—‘ye dinna need documents and certificates o' birth to prove their innate nobility. Blood will out, 'tes said, and Mistress Mapp-Flint's noble blood is plain to see. 'Tes as plain as the nose on her face. '

‘
Or the rest of her face for that matter,' growled Irene, who was being insufferably quaint this evening.

‘
What do you think, Lucia?' enquired Evie, who was largely neutral on the issue. ‘Do you think Elizabeth's really descended from William the Conqueror or is it just some fairy story she's concocted?'

‘
Nothing would be simpler than to verify or refute the suggestion,' replied Lucia gravely. ‘A little research in the Cartulary at Bodiam Castle would surely turn up the history of the de Map family. If only I could spare the time!'

‘
Well, one of us could go and look,' said Diva. ‘It's about time that we sorted this thing out, before Elizabeth declares herself Marchioness of Tilling and starts coining money with her head on it.'

This numismatic fantasy silenced the company for some time, as they tried to picture the issues that would result. Georgie, for instance, saw Elizabeth as Britannia on the penny, with Benjy instead of a lion at her feet (or should it be a tiger-skin?); while Lucia, as befitted an antiquary, was irresistibly reminded of a Roman Victory. She pulled herself together with an effort.

‘
Oh, I don't think that the Cartulary is open to the general public,' she said, ‘only to serious researchers who can justify their use of the facilities. I, as Mayor, could of course consult the records at any time, but I am so busy what with one thing and another. Again, Elizabeth could always go and look, since it is her own family that she is researching. In fact, I wonder why she has not already done so. There is, of course, the problem of getting to Bodiam—but I was forgetting, she has a motor now, does she not? I wonder what has become of Elizabeth's car? We do not seem to have heard very much of it of late.'

Having thus sown the seeds of doubt in everybody's mind, Lucia suggested a game of Monopoly. But the craze was already waning; not surprisingly, given that it had lasted longer than virtually any of its predecessors, and that the games themselves were always dominated by Lucia and Elizabeth. Someone—it may have been Georgie—suggested that they play Bridge instead, just for a change. Lucia smiled and agreed. The threat of Elizabethan domination through Monopoly had been well and truly defeated, and the weapon itself could now be laid aside.

After a joyfully acrimonious rubber, the guests thanked Lucia for a delightful evening and ventured out into the clear, cold night. Lucia paused for a while on the doorstep, as the Royce arrived to transport the Wyses round the corner to that apotheosis of the Elizabethan house, Starling Cottage, and wondered how she could best exploit her position. The danger was that the editor of
County Life,
and his representatives too, for that matter, had eyes of their own; they could see for themselves that Starling Cottage, with its beautiful windows and unrivalled coal-cellar, was worthy of a photograph, but that Taormina, the Vicarage and Wasters were not. It would therefore be advisable to make a virtue of necessity and recommend Starling Cottage. On the other hand, she could use the editor's decision to cover her own, and proclaim to the disappointed householders, when the Tilling edition came out and their houses were not in it, that she could not understand why Mr. Cuthbertson had seen fit to reject her suggestions and instead devote precious space to those little Tudor slums in Church Square. After all, no one could refute such a claim.

‘
I hope I am not being short-sighted,' she said to the stars, ‘but I can't see any risks in that.'

A cloud passed over the moon as she spoke, and she paused to debate the significance of this augury. It might be an unfavourable omen; but she preferred to think that Heaven was amused by her plan and was winking its silvery eye in approbation. She nodded her head, curtsied prettily to the moon and closed the door.

 

Elizabeth had avoided Lucia's dinner party for two reasons. First, she knew that Grebe, for all its functional charm, would not be acceptable to the editor of
County Life
and she had no desire to witness the petty squabbles of those whose houses were more likely to recommend themselves to the vulgar taste. Secondly, she feared that Lucia might corner her with awkward questions about the three-wheeler. This difficulty would be resolved by the following noon, for the vehicle was due to be returned then by the Southampton garage, and although she did not relish the thought of writing the cheque that would complete the transaction, nevertheless she was happy at the thought of abstracting from Lucia's quiver at least one arrow of malicious enquiry.

To while away the time until mid-day, when she would once more be able to drive triumphantly into Tilling, she sat and studied a history of the town with an eye to references to Norman families. The town had been given to a French monastery by Edward the Confessor—evidently a person almost as high-handed and imperious as Lucia herself. After the Conquest, King William had granted land nearby to some of his captains, and although the name de Map was not among those listed, she drew confidence from the statement. She closed her eyes and tried to picture in her mind her warrior ancestor, but the image did not form clearly in her imagination; for if he had the distinctive Mapp ears, they would not fit inside his helmet.

It had not been her intention to make an issue of her noble descent. Others had drawn inferences from Major Benjy's rather indiscreet disclosures. But since she had been drawn into conflict, she must bear her part bravely and assemble evidence on her side. Admittedly, it was not fear of letting down the family name that troubled her; if anything, it was fear that the family name might in some way let
her
down. Still, there was a lot to be said for being of noble blood, and as she sat and read, and occasionally lifted her head to gaze out of the window at the marshes beyond, she felt a vague sense of unjustified loss. No one could be more liberal in her views than she; she was a firm believer in democracy, and honest worth must always count for more than noble blood. But the fact that Lucia—a lawyer's widow, born a Smythe and transformed by second marriage into the wife of a mere Bartlett (on his mother's side)—occupied the fine old house, the jewel of Tilling, that had been in the Mapp family for who knew how many generations (she certainly did not, which was probably just as well) pained her deeply. She had never quite forgiven Lucia, despite several attempts, for encouraging her to indulge in the Stock Market speculations that had come close to ruining her, with the result that she had been compelled to exchange her beloved Mallards for two thousand pounds and this modern and unphotogenic house on the very outskirts of town. The sudden discovery of her ancestry made this wound that had never properly healed open yet again. And now, she reflected angrily, Lucia would be photographed standing outside the de Map family home, or in the window of the Mapp garden-room and would generally take credit for a house that had been built when the Smythes, Lucia's family, were doubtless still hewers of wood and drawers of water.

Outside the window, Diva was hurrying by on her daily walk. The road that led out from Tilling towards the little village on the coast near the golf-course was one of her favourite excursions, but there was always the awkward problem of getting past Grebe. If Elizabeth were at home she would be watching at the window and would insist on her coming in for tea and a little chat. Since Elizabeth's chat, unless concerned with some object of immediate interest such as the eccentric or reprehensible behaviour of a mutual friend, tended to turn very quickly into veiled personal criticism, Diva did not relish the thought of being waylaid, and had therefore of late taken other walks, far less attractive but relatively safe. But she wanted to walk along the Military Road again and see what colour curtains people who lived along there were putting up to greet the spring, and so had resolved to take her daily exercise during the marketing hour, when Elizabeth would be sure to be in town. This meant missing the day's news, which was most unfortunate, but today, since the weather was so fine, she felt ready to make that sacrifice.

Despite her belief that Elizabeth would be in town amusing herself, no doubt at somebody else's expense, Diva quickened her already brisk pace as she passed the windows of Grebe and could not resist a glance to make sure that Elizabeth was not at home. This was a false move, for their eyes met through the glass. Before Diva could wave cheerily and march on, Elizabeth banged on the window and motioned her to come in. Her advent, from Elizabeth's point of view, could not have been better timed. If she could delay Diva for half an hour, Elizabeth calculated that she would be returning from her walk and passing Grebe shortly after the car was delivered. She could then offer to drive Diva into town and thereby announce the continued existence of her vehicle by a medium even better than wireless telegraphy, for Diva was the worst keeper of secrets in Tilling.

‘
Diva, dear, what a happy coincidence!' she warbled. ‘I was just about to break off my studies for a cup of coffee. You will join me, won't you?'

Diva thanked her dully and looked to be most richly railed on. Usually Elizabeth took advantage of their
tête-à-têtes
to pillory with oblique comment any new or distinctive article of dress she might be wearing, and it so happened that today she had put on for the first time a new and rather expensive halo hat, as worn by a certain duchess. She had told herself (several times) that it suited her very well; now, no doubt, Elizabeth would so work on her fragile confidence that she would never put on the hat again, this being Elizabeth's way of punishing her for her heretical views on the family de Map. She could not exactly recall what had sparked off this latest war between them—something, she seemed to remember, about a hare ....

Elizabeth rang for coffee, and, while her back was turned, Diva tore off the precious hat and sought to hide it behind her feet, whose size made them highly suitable for this purpose. Alas! She had been too late and Elizabeth was on the point of commenting on the outlandish bauble—some speculation as to how the brim had become quite so brutally distorted—when she considered whether Diva might not be more use to her as an ally than merely as the unworthy victim of her wit. This thought caused her to choke back the words (which could easily be used another day) and she told herself that Diva was a grown (some might say over-grown) woman who would only learn dress sense by bitter experience.

‘
What a delightful hat!' she therefore trilled. ‘Let me see it again.'

Diva reluctantly produced the ornament and Elizabeth inspected it with a pretty display of enthusiasm as she wondered what would be the most flattering thing she could say. She determined to seize the bull by the horns and praised the hat for the very qualities that made it most hideous.