The Complete Mapp & Lucia

by E. F. Benson

  “And they look crazy when they are. It’s a mad world, my masters,” said Mr. Merriall.

  “Naughty,” said Lucia. “Is it not wonderful, Georgie?”

  “Yes. I expect it’s very clever,” said Georgie. “Very clever indeed.”

  “I should so like to show it dearest Olga,” said Lucia, “and I’m sure the Princess would be interested in it. She was talking about modern art the other day when I dined with Olga. I wonder if they would look in at tea-time, or indeed any other time.”

  “Not very likely, I’m afraid,” said Georgie, “for Daisy Quantock’s coming to tea, I know. We’re going to weedj. And they’re going out for a drive sometime.”

  “And where are they now?” asked Lucia. It was terrible to have to get news of her intimate friends from Georgie, but how else was she to find out?

  “They went across to see the Museum,” said he. “They were most interested in it.”

  Mr. Merriall waved his hands, just in the same way as Georgie did.

  “Ah, that Museum!” he said. “Those mittens! Shall I ever get over those mittens? Lucia said she would give it the next shoe-lace she broke.”

  “Yes,” said Georgie. “The Princess wanted to see those mittens. Queen Charlotte was her great-aunt. I told them how amused you all were at the mittens.”

  Lucia had been pressing her finger to her forehead, a sign of concentration. She rose as if going back to her other guests.

  “Coming into the garden presently?” she asked, and glided from the room.

  “And so you’re going to have a sitting with the ouija-board,” said Mr. Merriall. “I am intensely interested in ouija. Very odd phenomena certainly occur. Strange but true.”

  A fresh idea had come into Georgie’s head. Lucia certainly had not appeared outside the window that looked into the garden, and so he walked across to the other one which commanded a view of the Green. There she was heading straight for the Museum.

  “It is marvellous,” he said to Mr. Merriall. “We have had some curious results here, too.”

  Mr. Merriall was moving daintily about the room, and Georgie wondered if it would be possible to convert Oxford trousers into an ordinary pair. It was dreadful to think that Olga, even in fun, had suggested that such a man was his double. There was the little cape as well.

  “I have quite fallen in love with your Riseholme,” said Mr. Merriall.

  “We all adore it,” said Georgie, not attending very much because his whole mind was fixed on the progress of Lucia across the Green. Would she catch them in the Museum, or had they already gone? Smaller and smaller grew her figure and her twinkling legs, and at last she crossed the road and vanished behind the belt of shrubs in front of the tithe-barn.

  “All so homey and intimate. ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ in fact,” said Mr. Merriall. “We have been hearing how Mrs. Shuttleworth loves singing in this room.”

  Georgie was instantly on his guard again. It was quite right and proper that Lucia should be punished, and of course Riseholme would know all about it, for indeed Riseholme was administering the punishment. But it was a very different thing to let her down before those who were not Riseholme.

  “Oh yes, she sings here constantly,” he said. “We are all in and out of each other’s houses. But I must be getting back to mine now.”

  Mr. Merriall longed to be asked to this little ouija party at Olga’s, and at present his hostess had been quite unsuccessful in capturing either of the two great stars. There was no harm in trying…

  “You couldn’t perhaps take me to Mrs. Shuttleworth’s for tea?” he asked.

  “No, I’m afraid I could hardly do that,” said Georgie. “Good-bye. I hope we shall meet again.”

  Nemesis meantime had been dogging Lucia’s footsteps, with more success than Lucia was having in dogging Olga’s. She had arrived, as Georgie had seen, at the Museum, and again paid a shilling to enter that despised exhibition. It was rather full, for visitors who had lunched at the Ambermere Arms had come in, and there was quite a crowd round Queen Charlotte’s mittens, among whom was Lady Ambermere herself who had driven over from the Hall with two depressed guests whom she had forced to come with her. She put up her glasses and stared at Lucia.

  “Ah, Mrs. Lucas!” she said with the singular directness for which she was famous. “For the moment I did not recognise you with your hair like that. It is a fashion that does not commend itself to me. You have come in, of course, to look at Her late Majesty’s mittens, for really there is very little else to see.”

  As a rule, Lucia shamelessly truckled to Lady Ambermere, and schemed to get her to lunch or dinner. But today she didn’t care two straws about her, and while these rather severe remarks were being addressed to her, her eyes darted eagerly round the room in search of those for whom she would have dropped Lady Ambermere without the smallest hesitation.

  “Yes, dear Lady Ambermere,” she said. “So interesting to think that Queen Charlotte wore them. Most good of you to have presented them to our little Museum.”

  “Lent,” said Lady Ambermere. “They are heirlooms in my family. But I am glad to let others enjoy the sight of them. And by a remarkable coincidence I have just had the privilege of showing them to a relative of their late owner. Princess Isabel. I offered to have the case opened for her, and let her try them on. She said, most graciously, that it was not necessary.”

  “Yes, dear Princess Isabel,” said Lucia, “I heard she had come down. Is she here still?”

  “No. She and Mrs. Shuttleworth have just gone. A motor drive, I understand, before tea. I suggested, of course, a visit to the Hall, where I would have been delighted to entertain them. Where did they lunch?”

  “At Georgie Pillsons,” said Lucia bitterly.

  “Indeed. I wonder why Mr. Pillson did not let me know. Did you lunch there too?”

  “No. I have a party in my own house. Some friends from London, Lord Limpsfield, Mrs. Garroby-Ashton—”

  “Indeed!” said Lady Ambermere. “I had meant to return to the Hall for tea, but I will change my plans and have a cup of tea with you, Mrs. Lucas. Perhaps you would ask Mrs. Shuttleworth and her distinguished guest to drop in. I will present you to her. You have a pretty little garden, I remember. Quaint. You are at liberty to say that I am taking tea with you. But stay! If they have gone out for a drive, they will not be back quite yet. It does not matter: we will sit in your garden.”

  Now in the ordinary way this would have been a most honourable event, but to-day, though Lady Ambermere had not changed, her value had. If only Olga had not come down bringing her whom Lucia could almost refer to as that infernal Princess, it would have been rich, it would have been glorious, to have Lady Ambermere dropping in to tea. Even now she would be better than nothing, thought Lucia, and after inspecting the visitors’ book of the Museum, where Olga and the Princess had inscribed their names, and where now Lady Ambermere wrote hers, very close to the last one, so as to convey the impression that they were one party, they left the place.

  Outside was drawn up Lady Ambermere’s car, with her companion, the meek Miss Lyall, sitting on the front seat nursing Lady Ambermere’s stertorous pug.

  “Let me see,” said she. “How had we best arrange? A walk would be good for Pug before he has his tea. Pug takes lukewarm milk with a biscuit broken up into it. Please put Pug on his leash, Miss Lyall, and we will all walk across the Green to Mrs. Lucas’s little house. The motor shall go round by the road and wait for us there. That is Mrs. Shuttleworth’s little house, is it not? So you might kindly step in there, Mrs. Lucas, and leave a message for them about tea, stating that I shall be there. We will walk slowly and you will soon catch us up.”

  The speech was thoroughly Ambermerian: everybody in Riseholme had a ‘little house’ compared with the Hall: everybody had a ‘little garden.’ Equally Ambermerian was her complete confidence that her wish was everybody else’s pleasure, and Lucia dismally reflected that she, for her part, had never failed to indicate that it was. Bu
t just now, though Lady Ambermere was so conspicuously second-best, and though she was like a small luggage-engine with a Roman nose and a fat dog, the wretched Lucia badly wanted somebody to ‘drop in,’ and by so doing give her some sort of status—alas, that one so lately the Queen of Riseholme should desire it—in the sight of her guests. She could say what a bore Lady Ambermere was the moment she had gone.

  Wretched also was her errand: she knew that Olga and the infernal Princess were to have a ouija with Daisy and Georgie, and that her invitation would be futile, and as for that foolish old woman’s suggestion that her presence at The Hurst would prove an attraction to Olga, she was aware that if anything was needful to make Olga refuse to come, it would be that Lady Ambermere was there. Olga had dined at The Hall once, and had been induced to sing, while her hostess played Patience and talked to Pug.

  Lucia had a thought: not a very bright one, but comparatively so. She might write her name in the Princess’s book: that would be something. So, when her ring was answered, and she ascertained, as she already knew, that Olga was out, and left the hopeless invitation that she and her guest would come to tea, where they would meet Lady Ambermere, she asked for the Princess’s book.

  Olga’s parlourmaid looked puzzled.

  “Would that be the book of cross-word puzzles, ma’am?” she asked. “I don’t think her Highness brought any other book, and that she’s taken with her for her drive.”

  Lucia trudged sadly away. Halfway across the Green she saw Georgie and Daisy Quantock with a large sort of drawing-board under her arm coming briskly in her direction. She knew where they were going, and she pulled her shattered forces together.

  “Dearest Daisy, not set eyes on you!” she said. “A few friends from London, how it ties one! But I shall pop in to-morrow, for I stop till Tuesday. Going to have a ouija party with dear Piggie and Goosie? Wish I could come, but Lady Ambermere has quartered herself on me for tea, and I must run on and catch her up. Just been to your delicious Museum. Wonderful mittens! Wonderful everything. Pepino and I will look out something for it!”

  “Very kind,” said Daisy. It was as if the North Pole had spoken.

  Pug and Miss Lyall and Lady Ambermere and her two depressed guests had been admitted to The Hurst before Lucia caught them up, and she found them all seated stonily in the music-room, where Stephen Merriall had been finishing his official correspondence. Well Lucia knew what he had been writing about: there might perhaps be a line or two about The Hurst, and the party week-ending there, but that, she was afraid, would form a mere little postscript to more exalted paragraphs. She hastily introduced him to Lady Ambermere and Miss Lyall, but she had no idea who Lady Ambermere’s guests were, and suspected they were poor relations, for Lady Ambermere introduced them to nobody.

  Pug gave a series of wheezy barks.

  “Clever little man,” said Lady Ambermere. “He is asking for his tea. He barks four times like that for his tea.”

  “And he shall have it,” said Lucia. “Where are the others, Stephen?”

  Mr. Merriall exerted himself a little on hearing Lady Ambermere’s name: he would put in a sentence about her…

  “Lord Limpsfield and Mrs. Garroby-Ashton have gone to play golf,” he said. “Barbarously energetic of them, is it not, Lady Ambermere? What a sweet little dog.”

  “Pug does not like strangers,” said Lady Ambermere. “And I am disappointed not to see Lord Limpsfield. Do we expect Mrs. Shuttleworth and the Princess?”

  “I left the message,” said Lucia.

  Lady Ambermere’s eyes finished looking at Mr. Merriall and proceeded slowly round the room.

  “What is that curious picture?” she said. “I am completely puzzled.”

  Lucia gave her bright laugh: it was being an awful afternoon, but she had to keep her flag flying.

  “Striking, is it not?” she said. “Dear Benjy Sigismund insisted on painting me. Such a lot of sittings.”

  Lady Ambermere looked from one to the other.

  “I do not see any resemblance,” she said. “It appears to me to resemble nothing. Ah, here is tea. A little lukewarm milk for Pug, Miss Lyall. Mix a little hot water with it, it does not suit him to have it quite cold. And I should like to see Mr. Georgie Pillson. No doubt he could be told that I am here.”

  This was really rather desperate: Lucia could not produce Olga or the Princess, or Lord Limpsfield or Mrs. Garroby-Ashton for Lady Ambermere, and she knew she could not produce Georgie, for by that time he would be at Olga’s. All that was left for her was to be able to tell Lord Limpsfield and Mrs. Garroby-Ashton when they returned that they had missed Lady Ambermere. As for Riseholme… but it was better not to think how she stood with regard to Riseholme, which, yesterday, she had settled to be of no account at all. If only, before coming down, she had asked them all to lunch and tea and dinner…

  The message came back that Mr. Pillson had gone to tea with Mrs. Shuttleworth. Five minutes later came regrets from Olga that she had friends with her, and could not come to tea. Lady Ambermere ate seed cake in silence. Mrs. Alingsby meantime had been spending the afternoon in her bedroom, and she now appeared in a chintz wrapper and morocco slippers. Her hair fell over her eyes like that of an Aberdeen terrier, and she gave a shrill scream when she saw Pug.

  “I can’t bear dogs,” she said. “Take that dog away, dear Lucia. Burn it, drown it! You told me you hadn’t got any dogs.”

  Lady Ambermere turned on her a face that should have instantly petrified her, if she had had any proper feeling. Never had Pug been so blasphemed. She rose as she swallowed the last mouthful of seed cake.

  “We are inconveniencing your guests, Mrs. Lucas,” she said. “Pug and I will be off. Miss Lyall, Pug’s leash. We must be getting back to the Hall. I shall look in at Mrs. Shuttleworth’s, and sign my name in the Princess’s book. Good-bye, Mrs. Lucas. Thank you for my tea.”

  She pointedly ignored Mrs. Alingsby, and headed the gloomy frieze that defiled through the door. The sole bright spot was that she would find only a book of cross-word puzzles to write her name in.

  CHAPTER VI

  Lucia’s guests went off by the early train next morning and she was left, like Marius among the ruins of Carthage. But, unlike that weak-hearted senator, she had no intention of mourning: her first function was to rebuild, and presently she became aware that the work of rebuilding had to begin from its very foundations. There was as background the fact that her weekend party had not been a triumphant success, for she had been speaking in London of Riseholme being such a queer dear old-fashioned little place, where everybody adored her, and where Olga kept incessantly running in to sing acts and acts of the most renowned operas in her music-room; she had also represented Princess Isabel as being a dear and intimate friend, and these two cronies of hers had politely but firmly refused all invitations to pop in. Lady Ambermere, it is true, had popped in, but nobody had seemed the least impressed with her, and Lucia had really been very glad when after Sophy’s painful remarks about Pug, she had popped out, leaving that astonished post-cubist free to inquire who that crashing old hag was. Of course all this could be quickly lived down again when she got to London, but it certainly did require obliteration.

  What gave her more pause for thought was the effect that her weekend had produced on Riseholme. Lucia knew that all Riseholme knew that Olga and the Princess had lunched off cold lamb with Georgie, and had never been near The Hurst, and Riseholme, if she knew Riseholme at all, would have something to talk about there. Riseholme knew also that Lucia and her party had shrieked with laughter at the Museum, while the Princess had politely signed her name in the visitors-book after reverently viewing her great-aunt’s mittens. But what else had been happening, whether Olga was here still, what Daisy and her ouija board had been up to, who had dined (if anyone except Georgie) at Olga’s last night, Lucia was at present ignorant, and all that she had to find out, for she had a presentiment that nobody would pop in and tell her. Above all, what was Riseholme saying
about her? How were they taking it all?

  Lucia had determined to devote this day to her old friends, and she rang up Daisy and asked her and Robert to lunch. Daisy regretted that she was engaged, and rang off with such precipitation that (so it was easy to guess) she dropped the receiver on the floor, said ‘Drat,’ and replaced it. Lucia then rang up Mrs. Boucher and asked her and the colonel to lunch. Mrs. Boucher with great emphasis said that she had got friends to lunch. Of course that might mean that Daisy Quantock was lunching there; indeed it seemed a very natural explanation, but somehow it was far from satisfying Lucia.

  She sat down to think, and the unwelcome result of thought was a faint suspicion that just as she had decided to ignore Riseholme while her smart party from London was with her, Riseholme was malignant enough to retaliate. It was very base, it was very childish, but there was that possibility. She resolved to put a playful face on it and rang up Georgie. From the extraordinary celerity with which he answered, she wondered whether he was expecting a call from her or another.

  “Georgino mio!” she said.

  The eagerness with which Georgie had said “Yes. Who is it?” seemed to die out of his voice.

  “Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said. “Good morning.”

  Lucia was not discouraged.

  “Me coming round to have good long chat,” she said. “All my tiresome guests have gone, Georgie, and I’m staying till domani. So lovely to be here again.”

  “Si,” said Georgie; “just ‘si.‘”

  The faint suspicion became a shade more definite.

  “Coming at once then,” said Lucia.

  Lucia set forth and emerging on to the Green, was in time to see Daisy Quantock hurry out of Georgie’s house and bolt into her own like a plump little red-faced rabbit. Somehow that was slightly disconcerting: it required very little inductive reasoning to form the theory that Daisy had popped in to tell Georgie that Lucia had asked her to lunch, and that she had refused. Daisy must have been present also when Lucia rang Georgie up and instead of waiting to join in the good long chat had scuttled home again. A slight effort therefore was needed to keep herself up to the gay playful level and be quite unconscious that anything unpropitious could possibly have occurred. She found Georgie with his sewing in the little room which he called his study because he did his embroidery there. He seemed somehow to Lucia to be encased in a thin covering of ice, and she directed her full effulgence to the task of melting it.