Lucia Victrix (79 page)

Benjy went into the haberdasher's to get the riding-whip repaired. This meeting with him just here made Lucia's errand much simpler. She followed him into the shop and became completely absorbed in umbrellas till he went out again. Then, with an eye on the door, she spoke to the shopman in a confidential tone.

‘I want you,' she said, ‘to make me an exact copy of Major Mapp-Flint's pretty riding-whip. Silver top with the same initials on it. Quite private, you understand: it's a little surprise for a friend. And send it, please, to me at Mallards House, as soon as it's ready.'

Lucia mounted her bicycle and rode thoughtfully homewards. Since Elizabeth and Benjy both took this gross insult to her Mayoress as the highest possible compliment, and longed to have quaint Irene's libel on them exhibited here, there was no need that she should make herself indignant or unhappy for their sakes. Indeed, she understood their elation, and her regret that Irene had not caricatured her instead of Elizabeth grew very bitter: she would have borne it with a magnanimity fully equal to theirs. It was a slight consolation to know that the replica of the riding-whip was in hand.

She went out into the garden-room where patient Mrs Simpson was waiting for her. There were invitations to be sent out for an afternoon-party next week to view the beauties of Lucia's spring-garden, for which she wanted to rouse the envious admiration of her friends, and the list must be written out. Then there was a letter to Irene of warm congratulation to be typed. Then the Committee of the Museum, of which the Mayor was Chairman was to meet on Friday, and she gave Mrs Simpson the key of the tin box labelled ‘Museum'.

‘Just look in it, Mrs Simpson,' she said, ‘and see if there are any papers I ought to glance through. A mountain of work, I fear, to-day.'

Grosvenor appeared.

‘Could you see Mrs Wyse for a moment?' she asked.

Lucia knitted her brows, and consulted her engagement-book.

‘Yes, just for ten minutes,' she said. ‘Ask her to come out here.'

Grosvenor went back into the house to fetch Susan, and simultaneously Mrs Simpson gave a shriek of horror.

‘The corpse of a blue parrakeet,' she cried, ‘and an awful smell.'

Lucia sprang from her seat. She plucked Blue Birdie, exhaling disinfectant and decay, from the Museum box, and scudding across the room thrust it into the fire. She poked and battered it down among the glowing embers, and even as she wrought she cursed herself for not having told Mrs Simpson to leave it where it was and lock the Museum box again, but it
was too late for that. In that swift journey to cremation Blue Birdie had dropped a plume or two, and from the fire came a vivid smell of burned feathers. But she was just in time and had resumed her seat and taken up her pen as Susan came ponderously up the steps into the garden-room.

‘Good morning, dear,' said Lucia. ‘At my eternal tasks as usual, but charmed to see you.'

She rose in welcome, and to her horror saw a long blue tail-feather (slightly tinged with red) on the carpet. She planted her foot upon it.

‘Good morning,' said Susan. ‘What a horrid smell of burned feathers.'

Lucia sniffed, still standing firm.

‘I do smell something,' she said. ‘Gas, surely. I thought I smelt it the other day. I must send for my town surveyor. Do you not smell gas, Mrs Simpson?'

Lucia focused on her secretary the full power of her gimlet eye.

‘Certainly, gas,' said that loyal woman, locking the Museum box.

‘Most disagreeable,' said Lucia, advancing on Susan. ‘Let us go into the garden and have our little talk there. I know what you've come about: Irene's picture. The Picture of the Year, they say. Elizabeth is famous at last, and is skipping for joy. I am so pleased for her sake.'

‘I should certainly have said burned feathers,' repeated Susan.

Dire speculations flitted through Lucia's mind: would Susan's vague but retentive brain begin to grope after a connection between burned feathers and her vanished bird? A concentration of force and volubility was required, and taking another step forward on to another blue feather, she broke into a gabble of topics as she launched Susan, like a huge liner, down the slip of the garden-room stairs.

‘No, Susan, gas,' she said. ‘And have you seen the reproduction of Irene's picture in
The Times
? Mrs Simpson, would you kindly bring
The Times
into the garden. You must stroll across the lawn and have a peep at my daffodils in my
giardino
segreto
. Never have I had such a show. Those lovely lines “dancing with the daffodils”. How true! I saw you in the High Street this morning, dear, on your tricycle. And such wallflowers; they will be in fullest bloom for my party next week, to which you and Mr Wyse must come. And Benjy in the clouds; so like, but Georgie says it isn't a bottle, but his umbrella. Tell me
exactly
what you think of it all. So important that I should know what Tilling feels.'

Unable to withstand such a cataract of subjects, Susan could hardly say ‘burned feathers' again. She showed a tendency to drift towards the garden-room on their return, but Lucia, like a powerful tug, edged her away from that dangerous shoal and towed her out to the front door of Mallards, where she cast her adrift to propel her tricycle under her own steam. Then returning to the garden-room, she found that the admirable Mrs Simpson had picked up a few more feathers, which she had laid on Lucia's blotting-pad.

Lucia threw them into the fire and swept up some half-burned fragments from the hearth.

‘The smell of gas seems quite gone, Mrs Simpson,' she said. ‘No need, I think, to send for my town surveyor. It is such a pleasure to work with anyone who understands me as well as you … Yes, the list for my garden-party.'

The replica of the riding-whip was delivered, and looked identical. Lucia's disposition of it was singular. After she had retired for the night, she tied it safely up among the foliage of the
Clematis montana
which grew thickly up to the sill of her bedroom window. The silver top soon grew tarnished in this exposure, spiders spun threads about it, moisture dulled its varnished shaft, and it became a weathered object. ‘About ripe,' said Lucia to herself one morning, and rang up Elizabeth and Benjy, inviting them to tea at ye olde tea-house next day, with bridge to follow. They had just returned from their visit to London to see the Picture of the Year, and accepted with pleasure.

Before starting for Diva's, Lucia took her umbrella up to her bedroom, and subsequently carried it to the tea-room, arriving
there ten minutes before the others. Diva was busy in the kitchen, and she looked into the card-room. Yes: there was the heavy cupboard with claw feet standing in the corner; perfect. Her manoeuvres then comprised opening her umbrella and furling it again; and hearing Diva's firm foot on the kitchen-stairs she came softly back into the tea-room.

‘Diva,
what
a delicious smell!' she said. ‘Oh I want eighteen-penny teas. I came a few minutes early to tell you.'

‘Reckoned on that,' said Diva. ‘The smell is waffles. I've been practising. Going to make waffles at my lecture, as an illustration, if I can do them over a spirit-lamp. Hand them round to the front row. Good advertisement. Here are the others.'

The waffles were a greater success than Diva had anticipated, and the compliments hardly made up for the consumption. Then they adjourned to the card-room, and Lucia, leaning her umbrella against the wall let it slip behind the big cupboard.

‘So clumsy!' she said, ‘but never mind it now. We shall have to move the cupboard afterwards. Cut? You and I, Georgie. Families. Happy families.'

It was chatty bridge at first, rich in agreeable conversation.

‘We only got back from London yesterday,' said Elizabeth, dealing. ‘Such a rush, but we went to the Academy three times; one no-trump.'

‘Two spades,' said Georgie. ‘What did you think of the Picture?'

‘Such a crowd round it! We had to scriggle in.'

‘And I'm blest if I don't believe that they recognized Liz,' put in Major Benjy. ‘A couple of women looked at her and then at the picture and back again, and whispered together, by Jove.'

‘I'm sure they recognized me at our second visit,' said Elizabeth. ‘The crowd was thicker than ever, and we got quite wedged in. Such glances and whisperings all round. Most entertaining, wasn't it, Benjy?'

Lucia tried to cork up her bitterness, but failed.

‘I
am
glad you enjoyed it so much, dear,' she said. ‘How I envy you your superb self-confidence. I should find such
publicity quite insupportable. I should have scriggled out again at whatever cost.'

‘Dear Worship, I don't think you would if you ever found yourself in such a position,' said Elizabeth. ‘You would face it. So brave!'

‘If we're playing bridge, two spades was what I said. Ever so long ago,' announced Georgie.

‘Oh, Mr Georgie; apologies,' said Elizabeth. ‘I'm such a chatterbox. What do you bid, Benjy? Don't be so slow.'

‘Two no-trumps,' said Benjy. ‘We made our third visit during lunch-time, when there were fewer people –'

‘Three spades,' said Lucia. ‘All I meant, dear Elizabeth, was that it is sufficient for me to tackle my little bit of public service, quietly and humbly and obscurely –'

‘So like you, dear,' retorted Elizabeth, ‘and I double three spades. That'll be a nice little bit for you to tackle quietly.'

Lucia made no reply, but the pleasant atmosphere was now charged with perilous stuff, for on the one side the Mayor was writhing with envy at the recognition of Elizabeth from the crowds round the Picture of the Year, while the Mayoress was writhing with exasperation at Lucia's pitiful assertion that she shunned publicity.

Lucia won the doubled contract and the game.

‘So there's my little bit, Georgie,' she said, ‘and you played it very carefully, though of course it was a sitter. I ought to have redoubled: forgive me.'

‘Benjy, your finesse was idiotic,' said Elizabeth, palpably wincing. ‘If you had played your ace, they'd have been two down. Probably more.'

‘And what about your doubling?' asked Benjy. ‘And what about your original no-trump?'

‘Thoroughly justified, both of them,' said Elizabeth, ‘if you hadn't finessed. Cut to me, please, Worship.'

‘But you've just dealt, dear,' cooed Lucia.

‘Haw, Haw. Well tried, Liz,' said Benjy.

Elizabeth looked so deadly at Benjy's gentle fun that at the end of the hand Lucia loaded her with compliments.

‘Beautifully played, dear!' she said. ‘Did you notice,
Georgie, how Elizabeth kept putting the lead with you? Masterly!'

Elizabeth was not to be appeased with that sort of blarney.

‘Thank you, dear,' she said. ‘I'm sorry, Benjy: I ought to have put the lead with Worship, and taken another trick.'

Diva came in as they were finishing the last rubber.

‘Quite a lot of teas,' she said. ‘But they all come in so late now. Hungrier, I suppose. Saves them supper. No more waffles for shilling teas. Not if I know it. Too popular.'

Lucia had won from the whole table, and with an indifferent air she swept silver and copper into her bag without troubling to count it.

‘I must be off,' she said. ‘I have pages of Borough expenditure to look through. Oh, my umbrella! I nearly forgot it.'

‘Dear Worship,' asked Elizabeth. ‘Do tell me what that means! Either you forget a thing, or you don't.'

‘I let it slip behind your big cupboard, Diva,' said Lucia, not taking the slightest notice of her Mayoress.

‘Catch hold of that end, Georgie, and we'll run it out from the wall.'

‘Permit me,' said Benjy, taking Lucia's end. ‘Now then, with a heave-ho, as they say in the sister service. One, two, three.'

He gave a tremendous tug. The cupboard, not so heavy as it looked, glided away from the wall with an interior rattle of crockery.

‘Oh, my things!' cried Diva. ‘Do be careful.'

‘Here's your umbrella,' said Georgie. ‘Covered with dust … Why, what's this? Major Benjy's riding-whip, isn't it? Lost here ages ago. Well, that is queer!'

Diva simply snatched it from Georgie.

‘But it is!' she cried. ‘Initials, everything. Must have lain here all this time. But at your lecture the other day Major –'

Lucia instantly interrupted her.

‘What a fortunate discovery!' she said. ‘How glad you will be, Major, to get your precious relic back. Why it's half-past seven! Good night everybody.'

She and Georgie let themselves out into the street.

‘But you
must
tell me,' said he, as they walked briskly up the hill. ‘I shall die if you don't tell me. How did you do it?'

‘I? What do you mean?' asked the aggravating woman.

‘You're too tarsome,' said Georgie crossly. ‘And it isn't fair. Diva told you how she buried the silver cap, and I told you how I dug it up, and you tell us nothing. Very miserly!'

Lucia was startled at the ill-humour in his voice.

‘My dear, I was only teasing you –' she began.

‘Well it doesn't amuse me to be teased,' he snapped at her. ‘You're like Elizabeth sometimes.'

‘Georgie, what a monstrous thing to say to me! Of course, I'll tell you, and Diva, too. Ring her up and ask her to pop in after dinner.'

She paused with her hand on the door of Mallards. ‘But never hint to the poor Mapp-Flints,' she said, ‘as Diva did just now, that the riding-whip Benjy used at his lecture couldn't have been the real one. They knew that quite well, and they knew we know it. Much more excruciating for them
not
to rub it in.'

Lucia, followed by Georgie, and preceded by an attendant, swept along the corridor behind the boxes on the grand tier at Covent Garden Opera House. They had dined early at their hotel and were in good time. She wore her seed-pearls in her hair, her gold Mayoral badge, like an Order, on her breast, and her gown was of a rich, glittering russet hue like cloth of copper. A competent-looking lady, hovering about with a small note-book and a pencil, hurried up to her as the attendant opened the door of the box.

‘Name, please,' he said to Lucia.

‘The Mayor of Tilling,' said Lucia, raising her voice for the benefit of the lady with the note-book.

He consulted his list.

‘No such name, ma'am,' he said. ‘Madam has given strict orders.'

‘Mr and Mrs Pillson,' suggested Georgie.

‘That's all right, sir'; and in they went.

The house was gleaming with tiaras and white shoulders, and loud with conversation. Lucia stood for a minute at the front of the box which was close to the stage, and nodded and smiled as she looked this way and that, as if recognizing friends … But, oh, to think that she might have been recognized, too, if only Irene had portrayed her in the Picture of the Year! They had been to see it this afternoon, and Georgie, also, had felt pangs of regret that it was not he with his Vandyck beard who sprawled windily among the clouds. But in spite of that he was very happy for in a few minutes now he would hear and see his adorable Olga again, and they were to lunch with her to-morrow at her hotel.

A burst of applause hailed the appearance of Cortese, composer, librettist and, to-night, conductor of
Lucrezia
. Lucia
waggled her hand at him. He certainly bowed in her direction (for he was bowing in all directions), and she made up her mind to scrap her previous verdict on the opera and be enchanted with it.

The Royal party unfortunately invisible from Lucia's box arrived, and after the National Anthem the first slow notes of the overture wailed on the air.

‘Divine!' she whispered to Georgie. ‘How well I remember dear Signor Cortese playing it to me at Riseholme. I think he took it a shade faster … There! Lucrezia's motif, or is it the Pope's? Tragic splendour. The first composer in Europe.'

If Georgie had not known Lucia so well, he would scarcely have believed his ears. On that frightful evening, three years ago, when Olga had asked her to come and hear ‘bits' of it, she had professed herself outraged at the hideous, modern stuff, but there were special circumstances on that occasion which conduced to pessimism. Lucia had let it be widely supposed that she talked Italian with ease and fluency, but when confronted with Cortese, it was painfully clear that she could not understand a word he said. An awful exposure … Now she was in a prominent box, guest of the prima donna, at this gala performance, she could not be called upon to talk to Cortese without annoying the audience very much, and she was fanatic in admiration. She pressed Georgie's hand, emotion drowning utterance; she rose in her place at the end of Olga's great song in the first act, crying ‘Brava! Brava!' in the most correct Italian, and was convinced that she led the applause that followed.

During the course of the second act, the box was invaded by a large lady, clad in a magnificent tiara, but not much else, and a small man, who hid himself at the back. Lucia felt justly indignant at this interruption, but softened when the box-attendant appeared with another programme, and distinctly said ‘Your Grace' to the large lady. That made a difference, and during the interval Lucia talked very pleasantly to her (for when strangers were thrown together stiffness was ridiculous) and told her how she had heard her beloved Olga run through some of her part before the opera was produced, and that she
had prophesied a huge success for it. She was agonizing to know what the large lady was the Grace of, but could scarcely put so personal a question on such short acquaintance. She did not seem a brilliant conversationalist, but stared rather fixedly at Georgie … At the end of the opera there was immense enthusiasm: Olga and Cortese were recalled again and again, and during these effusions, Her unidentified Grace and her companion left: Lucia presumed that they were husband and wife as they took no notice of each other. She regretted their disappearance, but consoled herself with the reflection that their names would appear in the dazzling list of those who would be recorded in the press to-morrow as having attended the first performance of
Lucrezia
. The competent female in the corridor would surely see to that.

Georgie lay long awake that night. The music had excited him, and, more than the music, Olga herself. What a voice, what an exquisite face and presence, what an infinite charm! He recalled his bachelor days at Riseholme, when Lucia had been undisputed Queen of that highly cultured village and he her
cavaliere servente
, whose allegiance had been seriously shaken by Olga's advent. He really had been in love with her, he thought, and the fact that she had a husband alive then, to whom she was devoted, allowed a moral man like him to indulge his emotions in complete security. It had thrilled him with daring joy to imagine that, had Olga been free, he would have asked her to marry him, but even in those flights of fancy he knew that her acceptance of him would have put him in a panic. Since then, of course, he had been married himself, but his union with Lucia had not been formidable, as they had agreed that no ardent tokens of affection were to mar their union. Marriage, in fact, with Lucia might be regarded as a vow of celibacy. Now, after three years, the situation was reversing itself in the oddest manner. Olga's husband had died and she was free, while his own marriage with Lucia protected him. His high moral principles would never suffer him to be unfaithful to his wife. ‘I am not that sort of man,' he said to himself. ‘I must go to sleep.'

He tossed and turned on his bed. Visions of Olga as he had
seen her to-night floated behind his closed eyelids. Olga as a mere girl at the fête of her infamous father Pope Alexander VI: Olga at her marriage in the Sistine Chapel to the Duke of Biseglia: his murder in her presence by the hired bravos of His Holiness and her brother. The scenery was fantastically gorgeous (‘not Shakespearian at all, Georgie,' Lucia had whispered to him), but when Olga was on the stage, he was conscious of nothing but her. She outshone all the splendour, and never more so than when, swathed in black, she followed her husband's bier, and sang that lament – or was it a song of triumph? – ‘Amore misterioso, celeste, profondo' … ‘I believe I've got a very passionate nature,' thought Georgie, ‘but I've always crushed it.'

It was impossible to get to sleep, and wheeling out of bed, he lit a cigarette and paced up and down his room. But it was chilly, and putting on a smart blue knitted pullover he got back into bed again. Once more he jumped up; he had no ashtray, but the lid of his soap-dish would do, and he reviewed Life.

‘I know Tilling is very exciting,' he said to himself, ‘for extraordinary things are always happening, and I'm very comfortable there. But I've no independence. I'm devoted to Lucia, but what with breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner, as well as a great deal in between … And then how exasperating she is as Mayor! What with her ceaseless jaw about her duties and position I get fed up. Those tin boxes with nothing in them! Mrs Simpson every morning with nothing to do! I want a change. Sometimes I almost sympathize with Elizabeth, when Lucia goes rolling along like the car of Juggernaut, squish-squash, whoever comes in her way. And yet it's she, I really believe, who makes things happen, just because she is Lucia, and I don't know where we should be without her. Good gracious, that's the second cigarette I've smoked in bed, and I had my full allowance before. Why didn't I bring up my embroidery? That often makes me sleepy. I shall be fit for nothing to-morrow, lying awake like this, and I must go shopping in the morning, and then we lunch with Olga, and catch the afternoon train back to That Hole. Damn everything!'

Georgie felt better in the morning after two cups of very hot tea brought him by Foljambe who had come up as their joint maid. He read his paper, breakfasting in his room, as in his comfortable bachelor days. There was a fervent notice of
Lucrezia
, but no indication, since there had been five Duchesses present, as to which their particular Grace was, who had rather embarrassed him by her fixed eye. But then Foljambe brought him another paper which Lucia wanted back. She had marked it with a blue pencil, and there he read that the Duke and Duchess of Sheffield and the Mayor of Tilling had attended the opera in Miss Bracely's box. That gave him great satisfaction, for all those folk who had looked at their box so much would now feel sure that he was the Mayor of Tilling … Then he went out alone for his shopping, as Lucia sent word that she had received some agenda for the next Council meeting, which she must study, and thoroughly enjoyed it. He found some very pretty new ties and some nice underwear, and he could linger by attractive windows, instead of going to some improving exhibition which Lucia would certainly have wished to do. Then in eager trepidation he went to the Ritz for lunch, and found that Lucia had not yet arrived. But there was Olga in the lounge, who hailed him on a high soprano note, so that everybody knew that he was Georgie, and might have guessed, from the
timbre
, that she was Olga.

‘My dear, how nice to see you,' she cried. ‘But a beard, Georgie! What does it mean? Tell me all about it. Where's your Lucia? She hasn't divorced you already, I hope? And have a cocktail? I insist, because it looks so bad for an elderly female to be drinking alone, and I am dying for one. And did you like the opera last night? I thought I sang superbly; even Cortese didn't scold me. How I love being in stuffy old London again; I'm off to Riseholme to-night for a week, and you must – Ah, here's Lucia! We'll go into lunch at once. I asked Cortese, but he can't come in till afterwards. Only Poppy Sheffield is coming, and she will probably arrive about tea-time. She'll be terribly taken up with Georgie, because she adores beards, and says they are getting so rare nowadays. Don't be alarmed, my lamb: she doesn't want to touch them,
but the sight of them refreshes her in some psychic manner. Oh, of course, she was in your box last night. She hates music, and hears it only as a mortification of the flesh, of which she has plenty. Quite gaga, but so harmless.'

Olga was a long time getting to her table, because she made many greetings on the way, and Lucia began to hate her again. She was too casual, keeping the Mayor of Tilling standing about like this, and Lucia, who had strong views about
maquillage
, was distressed to see how many women, Olga included, were sadly made-up. And yet how marvellous to thread her way through the crowded restaurant with the prima donna, not waiting for a Duchess: if only some Tillingites had been there to see!
Per contra
, it was rather familiar of Olga to put her hand on Georgie's shoulder and shove him into his place. Lucia stored up in separate packets resentment and the deepest gratification.

Asparagus. Cold and very buttery. Olga picked up the sticks with her fingers and then openly sucked them. Lucia used a neat little holder which was beside her plate. Perhaps Olga did not know what it was for.

‘And you and Georgie must come to Riseholme for the week-end,' she said. ‘I get down to-night, so join me to-morrow.'

Lucia shook her head.

‘Too sweet of you,' she said, ‘but impossible, I'm afraid. So many duties. To-morrow is Friday, isn't it? Yes: a prize-giving to-morrow afternoon, and something in the evening, I fancy. Borough Bench on Monday at ten. One thing after another; no end to them, day after day. It was only by the rarest chance I was able to come up yesterday.'

Georgie knew that this was utter rubbish. Lucia had not had a single municipal engagement for four days, and had spent her time in bicycling and sketching and playing bridge. She just wanted to impress Olga with the innumerable duties of her position.

‘Too bad!' said Olga. ‘Georgie, you mustn't let her work herself to death like this. But you'll come, won't you, if we can't persuade her.'

Here was an opportunity for independent action. He strung himself up to take it.

‘Certainly. Delighted. I should adore to,' he said with emphasis.

‘Capital. That's settled then. But you must come, too, Lucia. How they would all love to see you again at Riseholme.'

Lucia wanted to go, especially since Georgie would otherwise go without her, and she would have been much disconcerted if her refusal had been taken as final. She pressed two fingers to her forehead.

‘Let me think!' she said. ‘I've nothing after Friday evening, have 1, Georgie, till Monday's Council? I always try to keep Saturdays free. No: I don't think I have. I could come down with Georgie, on Saturday morning, but we shall have to leave again very early on Monday. Too tempting to refuse, dear Olga. The sweet place, and those busy days, or so they seemed then, but now, by comparison, what a holiday!'

Poppy appeared just as they had finished lunch, and Lucia was astonished to find that she had not the smallest idea that they had ever met before. When reminded, Poppy explained that when she went to hear music a total oblivion of all else seized her.

‘Carried away,' she said. ‘I don't know if I'm on my head or my heels.'

‘If you were carried away you'd be on your back,' said Olga. ‘What do you want to eat?'

‘Dressed crab and plenty of black coffee,' said Poppy decidedly. ‘That's what keeps me in perfect health.' She had just become conscious of Georgie, and had fixed her eye on his beard, when Cortese plunged into the restaurant and came, like a bore up the River Severn, to Olga's table, loudly lamenting in Italian that he had not been able to come to lunch. He kissed her hand, he kissed Poppy's hand, and after a short pause for recollection, he kissed Lucia's hand.