The Complete Mapp & Lucia (82 page)

Once more a motor-horn sounded, and the Lucas’s car drew up at the gate of The Hurst. There stepped out Mrs. Garroby-Ashton, followed by the weird bright thing which had called to take Lucia to the private view of the Post-Cubists. Georgie had not time for the moment to rack his brain as to the name he had forgotten, for observation was his primary concern, and next he saw Lord Limpsfield, whom he had met at Olga’s party. Finally there emerged a tall, slim, middle-aged man in Oxford trousers, for whom Georgie instantly conceived a deep distrust. He had thick auburn hair, for he wore no hat, and he waved his hands about in a silly manner as he talked. Over his shoulder was a little cape. Then Lucia came tripping out of the house with her short skirts and her shingles, and they all chattered together, and kissed and squealed, and pointed in different directions, and moved up the garden into the house. The door was shut, and the end of Robert’s brass telescope withdrawn.

Hardly had these shameful events occurred when Georgie’s telephone bell rang. It might be Daisy wanting to compare notes, but it might be Lucia asking him to tea. He felt torn in half at the idea: carnal curiosity urged him with clamour to go, dignity dissuaded him. Still halting between two opinions, he went towards the instrument, which continued ringing. He felt sure now that it was Lucia, and what on earth was he to say? He stood there so long that Foljambe came hurrying into the room, in case he had gone out.

“See who it is, Foljambe,” he said.

Foljambe with amazing calm took off the receiver.

“Trunk call,” she said.

He glued himself to the instrument, and soon there came a voice he knew.

“No! Is it you?” he asked. “What is it?”

“I’m motoring down to-morrow morning,” said Olga, “and Princess Isabel is probably coming with me, though she is not absolutely certain. But expect her, unless I telephone to-morrow. Be a darling and give us lunch, as we shall be late, and come and dine. Terrible hurry: good-bye.”

“No, you must wait a minute,” screamed Georgie. “Of course I’ll do that, but I must tell you, Lucia’s just come with a party from London and hasn’t asked any of us.”

“No!” said Olga. “Then don’t tell her I’m coming. She’s become such a bore. She asks me to lunch and dinner every day. How thrilling though, Georgie! Whom has she got?”

Suddenly the name of the weird bright female came back to Georgie.

“Mrs. Alingsby,” he said.

“Lor!” said Olga. “Who else?”

“Mrs. Garroby-Ashton—”

“What?”

“Garr-o-by Ash-ton,” said Georgie very distinctly; “and Lord Limpsfield. And a tall man in Oxford trousers with auburn hair.”

“It sounds like your double, Georgie,” said Olga. “And a little cape like yours?”

“Yes,” said Georgie rather coldly.

“I think it must be Stephen Merriall,” said Olga after a pause.

“And who’s that?” asked he.

“Lucia’s lover,” said Olga quite distinctly.

“No!” said Georgie.

“Of course he isn’t. I only meant he was always there. But I believe he’s Hermione. I’m not sure, but I think so. Georgie, we shall have a hectic Sunday. Good-bye, to-morrow about two or three for lunch, and two or three
for
lunch. What a gossip you are.”

He heard that delicious laugh, and the click of her receiver.

Georgie was far too thrilled to gasp. He sat quite quiet, breathing gently. For the honour of Riseholme he was glad that a Princess was perhaps coming to lunch with him, but apart from that he would really have much preferred that Olga should be alone. The ‘affaire Lucia’ was so much more thrilling than anything else, but Princess Isabel might feel no interest in it, and instead they would talk about all sorts of dull things like kings and courts… Then suddenly he sprang from his chair: there was a leg of lamb for Sunday lunch, and an apple tart, and nothing else at all. What was to be done? The shops by now would be shut.

He rang for Foljambe.

“Miss Olga’s coming to lunch and possibly—possibly a friend of hers,” he said. “What are we to do?”

“A leg of lamb and an apple tart’s good enough for anybody, isn’t it?” said Foljambe severely.

This really seemed true as soon as it was pointed out, and Georgie made an effort to dismiss the matter from his mind. But he could not stop still: it was all so exciting, and after having changed his Oxford trousers in order to minimise the likeness between him and that odious Mr. Merriall, he went out for a constitutional, round the Green from all points of which he could see any important development at The Hurst. Riseholme generally was doing the same, and his stroll was interrupted by many agreeable stoppages. It was already known that Lucia and Pepino had arrived, and that servants and luggage had come by the 3.20, and that Lucia’s motor had met the 4.30 and returned laden with exciting people. Georgie therefore was in high demand, for he might supply the names of the exciting people, and he had the further information to divulge that Olga was arriving to-morrow, and was lunching with him and dining at her own house. He said nothing about a possible Princess: she might not come, and in that case he knew that there would be a faint suspicion in everybody’s mind that he had invented it; whereas if she did, she would no doubt sign his visitors’ book for everyone to see.

Feeling ran stormy high against Lucia, and as usual when Riseholme felt a thing deeply there was little said by way of public comment, though couples might have been observed with set and angry faces and gabbling mouths. But higher yet ran curiosity and surmise as to what Lucia would do, and what Olga would do. Not a sign had come for anyone from The Hurst, not a soul had been asked to lunch, dinner, or even tea, and if Lucia seemed to be ashamed of Riseholme society before her grand friends, there was no doubt that Riseholme society was ashamed of Lucia…

And then suddenly a deadly hush fell on these discussions, and even those who were walking fastest in their indignation came to a halt, for out of the front door of The Hurst streamed the ‘exciting people’ and their hosts. There was Lucia, hatless and shingled and short-skirted, and the Bird-of-Paradise and Mrs. Garroby-Ashton, and Pepino and Lord Limpsfield and Mr. Merriall all talking shrilly together, with shrieks of hollow laughter. They came slowly across the Green towards the little pond round which Riseholme stood, and passed within fifty yards of it, and if Lucia had been the Gorgon, Riseholme could not more effectually have been turned into stone. She too, appeared not to notice them, so absorbed was she in conversation, and on they went straight towards the Museum. Just as they passed Colonel Boucher’s house, Mrs. Boucher came out in her bath-chair, and without pause was wheeled straight through the middle of them. She then drew up by the side of the Green below the large elm.

The party passed into the Museum. The windows were open, and from inside them came shrieks of laughter. This continued for about ten minutes, and then… they all came out again. Several of them carried catalogues, and Mr. Merriall was reading out of one in a loud voice.

“Pair of worsted mittens,” he announced, “belonging to Queen Charlotte, and presented by the Lady Ambermere.”

“Don’t,” said Lucia. “Don’t make fun of our dear little Museum, Stephen.”

As they retraced their way along the edge of the green, movement came back to Riseholme again. Lucia’s policy with regard to the Museum had declared itself. Georgie strolled up to Mrs. Boucher’s bath-chair. Mrs. Boucher was extremely red in the face, and her hands were trembling.

“Good evening, Mr. Georgie,” said she. “Another party of strangers, I see, visiting the Museum. They looked very odd people, and I hope we shan’t find anything missing. Any news?”

That was a very dignified way of taking it, and Georgie responded in the same spirit.

“Not a scrap that I know of,” he said, “except that Olga’s coming down to-morrow.”

“That will be nice,” said Mrs. Boucher. “Riseholme is always glad to see
her.”

Daisy joined them.

“Good evening, Mrs. Quantock,” said Mrs. Boucher. “Any news?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Daisy rather breathlessly. “Didn’t you see them? Lucia and her party?”

“No,” said Mrs. Boucher firmly. “She is in London surely. Anything else?”

Daisy took the cue. Complete ignorance that Lucia was in Riseholme at all was a noble manœuvre.

“It must have been my mistake,” she said. “Oh, my mulberry tree has quite come round.”

“No!” said Mrs. Boucher in the Riseholme voice. “I am pleased. I daresay the pruning did it good. And Mr. Georgie’s just told me that our dear Olga, or I should say Mrs. Shuttleworth, is coming down to-morrow, but he hasn’t told me what time yet.”

“Two or three, she said,” answered Georgie. “She’s motoring down, and is going to have lunch with me whenever she gets here.”

“Indeed! Then I should advise you to have something cold that won’t spoil by waiting. A bit of cold lamb, for instance. Nothing so good on a hot day.”

“What an excellent idea!” said Georgie. “I was thinking of hot lamb. But the other’s much better. I’ll have it cooked to-night.”

“And a nice tomato salad,” said Mrs. Boucher, “and if you haven’t got any, I can give you some. Send your Foljambe round, and she’ll come back with half a dozen ripe tomatoes.”

Georgie hurried off to see to these new arrangements, and Colonel Boucher having strolled away with Piggie, his wife could talk freely to Mrs. Quantock… She did.

Lucia waking rather early next morning found she had rather an uneasy conscience as her bedfellow, and she used what seemed very reasonable arguments to quiet it. There would have been no point in writing to Georgie or any of them to say that she was bringing down some friends for the week-end and would be occupied with them all Sunday. She could not with all these guests play duets with Georgie, or get poor Daisy to give an exhibition of ouija, or have Mrs. Boucher in her bath-chair to tea, for she would give them all long histories of purely local interest, which could not conceivably amuse people like Lord Limpsfield or weird Sophy. She had been quite wise to keep Riseholme and Brompton Square apart, for they would not mix. Besides, her guests would go away on Monday morning, and she had determined to stop over till Tuesday and be extremely kind, and not the least condescending. She would have one or two of them to lunch, and one or two more to dinner, and give Georgie a full hour of duets as well. Naturally, if Olga had been here, she would have asked Olga on Sunday but Olga had been singing last night at the opera. Lucia had talked a good deal about her at dinner, and given the impression that they were never out of each other’s houses either in town or here, and had lamented her absence.

“Such a pity,” she had said. “For dearest Olga loves singing in my music-room. I shall never forget how she dropped in for some little garden-party and sang the awakening of Brunnhilde. Even you, dear Sophy, with your passion for the primitive, would have enjoyed that. She sang ‘Lucrezia’ here, too, before anyone had heard it. Cortese brought the score down the moment he had finished it—ah, I think that was in her house—there was just Pepino and me, and perhaps one or two others. We would have had dearest Olga here all day to-morrow if only she had been here…”

So Lucia felt fairly easy, having planned these treats for Riseholme on Monday, as to her aloofness to-day, and then her conscience brought up the question of the Museum. Here she stoutly defended herself: she knew nothing about the Museum (except what Pepino had seen through the window a few Sundays before); she had not been consulted about the Museum, she was not on the committee, and it was perfectly proper for her to take her party to see it. She could not prevent them bursting into shrieks of laughter at Queen Charlotte’s mittens and Daisy’s drain-pipes, nor could she possibly prevent herself from joining in those shrieks of laughter herself, for surely this was the most ridiculous collection of rubbish ever brought together. A glass case for Queen Charlotte’s mittens, a heap of fossils such as she had chipped out by the score from the old quarry, some fragments of glass (Georgie ought to have known better), some quilts, a dozen coins, lent, only lent, by poor Daisy! In fact the only object of the slightest interest was the pair of stocks which she and Pepino had bought and set up on the village green. She would see about that when she came down in August, and back they should go on to the village green. Then there was the catalogue: who could help laughing at the catalogue which described in most pompous language the contents of this dustbin? There was nothing to be uneasy about over that. And as for Mrs. Boucher having driven right through her party without a glance of recognition, what did that matter? On her own side also, Lucia had given no glance of recognition to Mrs. Boucher: if she had, Mrs. Boucher would have told them all about her asparagus or how her Elizabeth had broken a plate. It was odd, perhaps, that Mrs. Boucher hadn’t stopped… and was it rather odd also that, though from the corner of her eye she had seen all Riseholme standing about on the Green, no one had made the smallest sign of welcome? It was true that she had practically cut them (if a process conducted at the distance of fifty yards can be called a cut), but she was not quite sure that she enjoyed the same process herself. Probably it meant nothing; they saw she was engaged with her friends, and very properly had not thrust themselves forward.

Her guests mostly breakfasted upstairs, but by the middle of the morning they had all straggled down. Lucia had brought with her yesterday her portrait by Sigismund, which Sophy declared was a masterpiece of
adagio.
She was advising her to clear all other pictures out of the music-room and hang it there alone, like a wonderful slow movement, when Mr. Merriall came in with the Sunday paper.

“Ah, the paper has come,” said Lucia. “Is not that Riseholmish of us? We never get the Sunday paper till midday.”

“Better late than never,” said Mr. Merriall, who was rather addicted to quoting proverbial sayings. “I see that Mrs. Shuttleworth’s coming down here to-day. Do ask her to dine and perhaps she’ll sing to us.”