The Complete Mapp & Lucia (196 page)

It did not require a mind of Lucia’s penetrative power to perceive that Poppy did not want her, and did not intend that she should stop. Her next remarks removed any possibility of doubt.

“But you’ll have some tea first,
won’t
you?” she asked. “Indeed I insist on your having some tea unless you prefer coffee. If you ring the door-bell, somebody will probably come. Oh, I see you’ve got a camera. Do take some photographs. Would you like to begin with me, though I’m not looking my best.”

In spite of the nightmarish quality of the situation, Lucia kept her head, and it was something to be given tea and to take photographs. Perhaps there was a scoop here, if she handled it properly, and first she photographed Poppy and the dismal courtyard, and then went to Poppy’s bedroom to tidy herself for tea and snapped her washing-stand and the corner of her Elizabethan bed. After tea Poppy took her to the dining-room and the gaunt picture gallery and through a series of decayed drawing-rooms, and all the time Lucia babbled rapturous comments.

“Magnificent tapestry,” she said, “ah, and a glimpse of the Park from the window. Would you stand there, Duchess, looking out with your dog on the window-seat? What a little love! Perfect. And this noble hall: the panelling by that lovely oriel window would make a lovely picture. And that refectory table.”

But now Poppy had had enough, and she walked firmly to the front-door and shook hands.

“Charmed to have seen you,” she said, “though I’ve no head for names. You will have a pleasant drive home on this lovely evening. Goodbye, or perhaps
au revoir.”

“That would be much nicer,” said Lucia, cordial to the last.

She drove out of the gateway she had entered three quarters of an hour before, and stopped the car to think out her plans. Her first idea was to spend the night at the Ambermere Arms at Riseholme, and return to Tilling next morning laden with undeveloped photographs of Sheffield Castle and Poppy, having presumably spent the night there. But that was risky: it could hardly help leaking out through Foljambe that she had done nothing of the sort, and the exposure, coupled with the loss of prestige, would be infinitely painful. “I must think of something better that that,” she said to herself, and suddenly a great illumination shone on her. “I shall tell the truth,” she heroically determined, “in all essentials. I shall say that Poppy’s maid told me that I, the Mayor of Tilling was expected. That, though the party was abandoned, she still wanted me to come. That I found her asleep in a weedy courtyard, looking ghastly. That she evidently didn’t feel up to entertaining me, but insisted that I should have tea. That I took photographs all over the place. All gospel truth, and no necessity for saying anything about that incredible mistake of hers in thinking that Georgie was the Mayor of Tilling.”

She tapped on the window.

“We’ll just have dinner at the Ambermere Arms, at Riseholme, Chapman,” she called, “and then go back to Tilling.”

It was about half-past ten when Lucia’s car drew up at the door of Mallards. She could scarcely believe that it was still the same day as that on which she had awoke here, regretful that she had fled from Riseholme on a false alarm, had swanked about Georgie staying at Sheffield Castle, had shirked the Council meeting to which duty had called her, had wangled an invitation to the Castle herself, had stayed there for quite three quarters of an hour, and had dined at Riseholme. “Quite like that huge horrid book by Mr. James Joyce, which all happens in one day,” she reflected, as she stepped out of the car.

Looking up, she saw that the garden-room was lit, and simultaneously she heard the piano: Georgie therefore must have come home. Surely (this time) she recognised the tune: it was the prayer in
Lucrezia.
He was playing that stormy introduction with absolute mastery, and he must be playing it by heart, for he could not have the score, nor, if he had, could he have read it. And then that unmistakeable soprano voice (though a little forced in the top register) began to sing. The wireless? Was Olga singing
Lucrezia
in London to-night? Impossible; for only a few hours ago during this interminable day, she was engaged to dine and sleep at Poppy’s Castle. Besides, if this was relayed from Covent Garden, the orchestra, not the piano, would be accompanying her. Olga must be singing in the garden-room, and Georgie must be here, and nobody else could be here… There seemed to be material for another huge horrid book by Mr. James Joyce before the day was done.

“I shall be perfectly calm and ladylike whatever happens,” thought Lucia, and concentrating all her power on this genteel feat she passed through the hall and went out to the garden-room. But before entering, she paused, for in her reverence for Art, she felt she could not interrupt so superb a performance: Olga had never sung so gloriously as now when she was singing to Georgie all alone… She perched on the final note pianissimo. She held it with gradual crescendo till she was singing fortissimo. She ceased, and it was as if a great white flame had been blown out.

Lucia opened the door. Georgie was sitting in the window: his piece of needle-work had dropped from his hand, and he was gazing at the singer. “Too marvellous,” he began, thinking that Grosvenor was coming in with drinks. Then, by some sixth sense, he knew it wasn’t Grosvenor, and turning, he saw his wife.

In that moment he went through a selection of emotions that fully equalled hers. The first was blank consternation. A sense of baffled gallantry succeeded, and was followed by an overwhelming thankfulness that it was baffled. All evening he had been imagining himself delightfully in love with Olga, but had been tormented by the uneasy thought that any man of spirit would make some slight allusion to her magnetic charm. That would be a most perilous proceeding. He revelled in the feeling that he was in love with her, but to inform her of that might be supposed to lead to some small practical demonstration of his passion, and the thought made him feel cold with apprehension. She might respond (it was not likely but it was possible, for he had lately been reading a book by a very clever writer, which showed how lightly ladies in artistic professions, take an adorer’s caresses), and he was quite convinced that he was no good at that sort of thing. On the other hand she might snub him, and that would wound his tenderest sensibilities. Whatever happened, in fact, it would entirely mar their lovely evening. Taking it all in all, he had never been so glad to see Lucia.

Having pierced him with her eye, she turned her head calmly and gracefully towards Olga.

“Such a surprise!” she said. “A delightful one, of course. And you, no doubt, are equally surprised to see me.”

Lucia was being such a perfect lady that Olga quaked and quivered with suppressed laughter.

“Georgie, explain at once,” she said. “It’s the most wonderful muddle that ever happened.”

“Well, it’s like this,” said Georgie carefully. “As I telephoned you this morning, we were all invited to go to Poppy’s for the night. Then she was taken ill after lunch and put us off. So I rang up in order to tell you that I was coming back here and bringing Olga. You told her to propose herself whenever she felt inclined, and just start—”

Lucia bestowed a polite bow on Olga.

“Quite true,” she said. “But I never received that message. Oh—”

“I know you didn’t,” said Georgie. “I couldn’t get any answer. But I knew you would be delighted to see her, and when we got here not long before dinner, Grosvenor said you’d gone to dine and sleep at Poppy’s. Why didn’t you answer my telephone? And why didn’t you tell us you were going away? In fact, what about you?”

During this brief but convincing narrative, the thwarted Muse of Tragedy picked up her skirts and fled. Lucia gave a little trill of happy laughter.

“Too extraordinary,” she said. “A comedy of errors. Georgie, you told me this morning, very distinctly, that Poppy had invited the Mayor of Tilling. Very well. I found that there was nothing that required my pretence at the Council meeting, and I rang up Sheffield Cattle to say I could manage to get away. I was told that I was expected. Then just as I was starting there came a message that poor Poppy was ill and the party was off.”

Lucia paused a moment to review her facts as already rehearsed, and resumed in her superior, drawling voice.

“I felt a little uneasy about her,” she said, “and as I had no further engagement this afternoon, I suggested that though the party was off, I would run over—the motor was actually at the door—and stay the night. She said she would be so happy to see me. She gave me such a pleasant welcome, but evidently she was far from well, and I saw she was not up to entertaining me. So I just had tea; she insisted on that, and she took me round the Castle and made me snap a quantity of photographs. Herself, her bedroom, the gallery, that noble oriel window in the hall. I must remember to send her prints. A delicious hour or two, and then I left her. I think my visit had done her good. She seemed brighter. Then a snack at the Ambermere Arms; I saw your house was dark, dear Olga, or I should have popped in. And here we are. That lovely prayer from
Lucrezia
to welcome me. I waited entranced on the doorstep till it was over.”

It was only by strong and sustained effort that Olga restrained herself from howling with laughter. She hadn’t been singing the prayer from
Lucrezia
this time, but
Les feux magiques,
by Berlioz; Lucia seemed quite unable—though of course she had been an agitated listener—to recognise the prayer when she heard it. But she was really a wonderful woman. Who but she would have had the genius to take advantage of Poppy’s delusion that Georgie was the Mayor of Tilling? Then what about Lucia’s swift return from the Castle? Without doubt Poppy had sent her away when she saw her female, beardless guest, and the clever creature had made out that it was she who had withdrawn as Poppy was so unwell, with a gallery of photographs to prove she had been there. Then she recalled Lucia’s face when she entered the garden-room a few minutes ago, the face of a perfect lady who, unexpectedly returns home to find a wanton woman, bent on seduction, alone with her husband. Or was Georgie’s evident relief at her advent funnier still? Impossible to decide, but she must not laugh till she could bury her face in her pillow. Lucia had a few sandwiches to refresh her after her drive, and they went up to bed. The two women kissed each other affectionately. Nobody kissed Georgie.

Tilling next morning, unaware of Lucia’s return, soon began to sprout with a crop of conjectures which, like mushrooms, sprang up all over the High Street. Before doing any shopping at all, Elizabeth rushed into Diva’s tea-shop to obtain confirmation that Diva had actually seen Lucia driving away with Foljambe and luggage on the previous afternoon
en route
for Sheffield Castle.

“Certainly I did,” said Diva. “Why?”

Elizabeth contracted her brows in a spasm of moral anguish.

“I wish I could believe,” she said, “that it was all a blind, and that Worship didn’t go to Sheffield Castle at all, but only wanted to make us think so, and returned home after a short drive by another route. Deceitful though that would be, it would be far, far better than what I fear may have happened.”

“I suppose you’re nosing out some false scent as usual,” said Diva. “Get on.”

Elizabeth made a feint of walking towards the door at this rude speech, but gave it up.

“It’s too terrible, Diva,” she said. “Yesterday evening, it might have been about half-past six, I was walking up the street towards Mallards. A motor passed me, laden with luggage, and it stopped there.”

“So I suppose you stopped, too,” said Diva.

“—and out of it got Mr. Georgie and a big, handsome—yes, she was very handsome—woman, though, oh, so common. She stood on the doorstep a minute looking round, and sang out, ‘Georgino! How
divino!’
Such a screech! I judge so much by voice. In they went, and the luggage was taken in after them, and the door shut. Bang. And Worship, you tell me, had gone away.”

“Gracious me!” said Diva.

“You may well say that. And you may well say that I stopped. I did, for I was rooted to the spot. It was enough to root anybody. At that moment the Padre had come round the corner, and he was rooted too. As I didn’t know then for certain whether Worship had actually gone—it might only have been one of her grand plans of which one hears no more—I said nothing to him, because it is so wicked to start any breath of scandal, until one has one’s facts. It looks to me very black, and I shouldn’t have thought it of Mr. Georgie. Whatever his faults—we all have faults—I did think he was a man of clean life. I still hope it may be so, for he has always conducted himself with propriety, as far as I know, to the ladies of Tilling, but I don’t see how it possibly can.”

Diva gave a hoarse laugh.

“Not much temptation,” she said, “from us old hags. But it is queer that he brought a woman of that sort to stay at Mallards on the very night Lucia was away. And then there’s another thing. She told us all that
he
was going to stay at Poppy’s last night—”

“I can’t undertake to explain all that Worship tells us,” said Elizabeth. “That is asking too much of me.”

“—but he was here,” said Diva. “Yet I shouldn’t wonder if you’d got hold of the wrong end of the stick somehow. Habit of yours, Elizabeth. After all, the woman may have been a friend of Lucia’s—”

“—and so Mr. Georgie brought her when Lucia was away. I see,” said Elizabeth.

Her pensive gaze wandered to the window, and she stiffened like a pointing setter, for down the street from Mallards was coming Georgie with the common, handsome, screeching woman. Elizabeth said nothing to Diva, for something might be done in the way of original research, and she rose.

“Very dark clouds,” she said, “but we must pray that they will break. I’ve done no shopping yet. I suppose Worship will be back some time to-day with a basket of strawberry leaves, if Poppy can spare her. Otherwise, the municipal life of Tilling will be suspended. Not that it matters two straws whether she’s here or not. Quite a cypher in the Council.”