Lucia Victrix (56 page)

‘That's a pity!' said Diva. ‘Should have thought it was just the time to go on with them. Why?'

‘Too much publicity,' said Lucia earnestly. ‘You know how I hate that. They were only meant to be a modest little amateur effort, but what with all that
réclame
in the
Hastings Chronicle
, and the Central News this morning telling me that Professor Arbuthnot of the British Museum, who I understand is the final authority on Roman archaeology, longing to come down to see them –'

‘No! from the British Museum?' cried Diva. ‘I shall tell Elizabeth that. When is he coming?'

‘I've refused. Too much fuss. And then my arousing all this jealousy and ill-feeling in – well, in another quarter, is quite intolerable to me. Perhaps I shall continue my work later on, but very quietly. Georgie, by the way, has seen my little finds, such as they are, and thinks them exquisite. But I stifle in this atmosphere of envy and malice. Poor Elizabeth! Good-bye, dear, we meet this evening at the Wyses', do we not?'

Lucia walked pensively back to Mallards, not displeased with herself. Irene's dinner-bell and her own lofty attitude would probably scotch Elizabeth for the present, and with Georgie as a deep-dyed accomplice and Diva as an ardent sympathizer, there was not much to fear from her. The
Hastings Chronicle
next week would no doubt announce that she had abandoned her excavations for the present, and Elizabeth might make exactly what she chose out of that. Breezy unconsciousness of any low libels and machinations was decidedly the right ticket.

Lucia quickened her pace. There had flashed into her mind the memory of a basket of odds and ends which she had brought from Grebe, but which she had not yet unpacked. There was a box of Venetian beads among them, a small ebony elephant, a silver photograph frame or two, some polished agates, and surely she seemed to recollect some pieces of pottery. She had no very distinct remembrance of them, but when she got home she unearthed (more excavation) this
basket of dubious treasures from a cupboard below the stairs and found in her repository of objects suitable for a jumble-sale, a broken bowl and a saucer (patera) of red stamped pottery. Her intensive study of Roman remains in Britain easily enabled her to recognize them as being of ‘Samian ware', not uncommonly found on sites of Roman settlements in this island. Thoughtfully she dusted them, and carried them out to the garden-room. They were pretty, they looked attractive casually but prominently disposed on the top of the piano. Georgie must be reminded how much he had admired them when they were found …

With social blood pressure so high, with such embryos of plots and counter-plots darkly developing, with, generally, an atmosphere so charged with electricity, Susan Wyse's party to-night was likely (to change the metaphor once more) to prove a scene of carnage. These stimulating expectations were amply fulfilled.

The numbers to begin with were unpropitious. It must always remain uncertain whether Susan had asked the Padre and Evie to dine that night, for though she maintained ever afterwards that she had asked them for the day after, he was equally willing to swear in Scotch, Irish and English that it was for to-night. Everyone, therefore, when eight people were assembled, thought that the party was complete, and that two tables of bridge would keep it safely occupied after dinner. Then when the door opened (it was to be hoped) for the announcement that dinner was ready, it proved to have been opened to admit these two further guests, and God knew what would happen about bridge. Susan shook hands with them in a dismayed and distracted manner, and slipped out of the room, as anyone could guess, to hold an agitated conference with her cook and her butler, Figgis, who said he had done his best to convince them that they were not expected, but without success. Starvation corner therefore was likely to be a Lenten situation, served with drumsticks and not enough soup to cover the bottom of the plate. Very embarrassing for poor Susan, and there was a general feeling that nobody must be sarcastic at her wearing the cross of a Member of the British Empire, which she had unwisely pinned to the front of her ample bosom, or say they had never been told that Orders would be worn. In that ten minutes of waiting, several eggs of discord (would that they had only been wind-eggs!) had been
laid and there seemed a very good chance of some of them hatching.

In the main it was Elizabeth who was responsible for this clutch of eggs, for she set about laying them at once. She had a strong suspicion that the stain on Georgie's fingers, which he had been unable to get rid of, was not iodine but hair-dye, and asked him how he had managed to sprain those fingers all together: such bad luck. Then she turned to Lucia and inquired anxiously how her cold was: she hoped she had been having no further sneezing fits, for prolonged sneezing was so exhausting. She saw Georgie and Lucia exchange a guilty glance and again turned to him: ‘We must make a plot, Mr Georgie,' she said, ‘to compel our precious Lucia to take more care of herself. All that standing about in the wet and cold over her wonderful excavations.'

By this time Irene had sensed that these apparent dewdrops were globules of corrosive acid, though she did not know their precise nature, and joined the group.

‘Such a lovely morning I spent, Mapp,' she said with an intonation that Elizabeth felt was very like her own. ‘I've been painting a cow with its dear little calf. Wasn't it lovely for the cow to have a sweet baby like that?'

During this wait for dinner Major Benjy, screened from his wife by the Padre and Diva, managed to secure three glasses of sherry and two cocktails. Then Susan returned followed by Figgis, having told him not to hand either to her husband or her that oyster-savoury which she adored, since there were not enough oysters, and to be careful about helpings. But an abundance of wine must flow in order to drown any solid deficiencies, and she had substituted champagne for hock, and added brandy to go with the chestnut ice
à la Capri
. They went in to dinner: Lucia sat on Mr Wyse's right and Elizabeth on his left in starvation corner. On her other side was Georgie, and Benjy sat next to Susan Wyse on the same side of the table as his wife and entirely out of the range of her observation.

Elizabeth, a little cowed by Irene's artless story, found nothing to complain of in starvation corner, as far as soup went: indeed Figgis's rationing had been so severe on earlier
recipients that she got a positive lake of it. She was pleased at having a man on each side of her, her host on her right, and Georgie on her left, whereas Lucia had quaint Irene on her right. Turbot came next; about that Figgis was not to blame, for people helped themselves, and they were all so inconsiderate that, when it came to Elizabeth's turn, there was little left but spine and a quantity of shining black mackintosh, and as for her first glass of champagne, it was merely foam. By this time, too, she was beginning to get uneasy about Benjy. He was talking in a fat contented voice, which she seldom heard at home, and neither by leaning back nor by leaning forward could she get any really informatory glimpse of him or his wine-glasses. She heard his gobbling laugh at the end of one of his own stories, and Susan said, ‘Oh fie, Major, I shall tell of you.' That was not reassuring.

Elizabeth stifled her uneasiness and turned to her host.

‘Delicious turbot, Mr Wyse,' she said. ‘So good. And did you see the
Hastings Chronicle
this morning about the great Roman discoveries of the
châtelaine
of Mallards. Made me feel quite a dowager.'

Mr Wyse had clearly foreseen the deadly feelings that might be aroused by that article, and had made up his mind to be extremely polite to everybody, whatever they were to each other. He held up a deprecating hand.

‘You will not be able to persuade your friends of that,' he said. ‘I protest against your applying the word dowager to yourself. It has the taint of age about it. The ladies of Tilling remain young for ever, as my sister Amelia so constantly writes to me.'

Elizabeth tipped up her champagne-glass, so that he could scarcely help observing that there was really nothing in it.

‘Sweet of the dear Contessa,' she said. ‘But in my humble little Grebe, I feel quite a country mouse, so far away from all that's going on. Hardly Tilling at all: my Benjy-boy tells me I must call the house “Mouse-trap”.'

Irene was still alert for attacks on Lucia.

‘How about calling it Cat and Mouse trap, Mapp?' she inquired across the table.

‘Why, dear?' said Elizabeth with terrifying suavity.

Lucia instantly engaged quaint Irene's attention, or something even more quaint might have followed, and Mr Wyse made signals to Figgis and pointed towards Elizabeth's wine-glass. Figgis thinking that he was only calling his notice to wine-glasses in general filled up Major Benjy's which happened to be empty, and began carving the chicken. The maid handed the plates and Lucia got some nice slices off the breast. Elizabeth receiving no answer from Irene, wheeled round to Georgie.

‘What a day it will be when we are all allowed to see the great Roman remains,' she said.

‘Won't it?' said Georgie.

A dead silence fell on the table except for Benjy's jovial voice.

‘A saucy little customer she was. They used to call her the Pride of Poona. I've still got her photograph somewhere, by Jove.'

Rockets of conversation, a regular bouquet of them, shot up all round the table.

‘And was Poona where you killed those lovely tigers, Major?' asked Susan. ‘What a pretty costume Elizabeth made of the best bits. So ingenious. Figgis, the champagne.'

‘Irene dear,' said Lucia in her most earnest voice, ‘I think you must manage our summer picture exhibition this year. My hands are so full. Do persuade her to, Mr Wyse.'

Mr Wyse bowed right and left, particularly to Elizabeth.

‘I see on all sides of me such brilliant artists and such competent managers –' he began.

‘Oh, pray not me!' said Elizabeth. ‘I'm quite out of touch with modern art.'

‘Well, there's room for old masters and mistresses, Mapp,' said Irene encouragingly. ‘Never say die.'

Lucia had just finished her nice slice of breast when a well-developed drumstick, probably from the leg on which the chicken habitually roosted, was placed before Elizabeth. Black roots of plucked feathers were dotted about in the yellow skin.

‘Oh, far too much for me,' she said. ‘Just a teeny slice after my lovely turbot.'

Her plate was brought back with a piece of the drumstick cut off. Chestnut ice with brandy followed, and the famous oyster-savoury, and then dessert, with a
compôte
of figs in honey.

‘A little Easter gift from my sister Amelia,' explained Mr Wyse to Elizabeth. ‘A domestic product of which the recipe is an heirloom of the mistress of Castello Faraglione. I think Amelia had the privilege of sending you a spoonful or two of the Faraglione honey not so long ago.'

The most malicious brain could not have devised two more appalling
gaffes
than this pretty speech contained. There was that unfortunate mention of the word ‘recipe' again, and everyone thought of lobster, and who could help recalling the reason why Contessa Amelia had sent Elizabeth the jar of nutritious honey? The pause of stupefaction was succeeded by a fresh gabble of conversation, and a spurt of irrepressible laughter from quaint Irene.

Dinner was now over: Susan collected ladies' eyes, and shepherded them out of the room, while the Padre held the door open and addressed some bright and gallant little remark in three languages to each. In spite of her injunction to her husband that the gentlemen mustn't be long, or there would be no time for bridge, it was impossible to obey, for Major Benjy had a great number of very amusing stories to tell, each of which suggested another to him. He forgot the point of some, and it might have been as well if he had forgotten the point of others, but they were all men together, he said, and it was a sad heart that never rejoiced. Also he forgot once or twice to send the port on when it came to him, and filled up his glass again when he had finished his story.

‘Most entertaining,' said Mr Wyse frigidly as the clock struck ten. ‘A long time since I have laughed so much. You are a regular storehouse of amusing anecdotes, Major. But Susan will scold me unless we join the ladies.'

‘Never do to keep the lil' fairies waiting,' said Benjy. ‘Well, thanks, just a spot of sherry. Capital good dinner I've had. A married man doesn't often get much of a dinner at home, by Jove, at least I don't, though that's to go no further. Ha, ha! Discretion.'

Then arose the very delicate question of the composition of the bridge-tables. Vainly did Mr Wyse (faintly echoed by Susan) explain that they would both much sooner look on, for everybody else, with the same curious absence of conviction in their voices, said that they would infinitely prefer to do the same. That was so palpably false that without more ado cards were cut, the two highest to sit out for the first rubber. Lucia drew a king, and Elizabeth drew a knave, and it seemed for a little that they would have to sit out together, which would have been quite frightful, but then Benjy luckily cut a queen. A small sitting-room, opening from the drawing-room, would enable them to chat without disturbing the players, and Major Benjy gallantly declared that he would sooner have a talk with her than win two grand slams.

Benjy's sense of exuberant health and happiness was beginning to be overshadowed, as if the edge of a coming eclipse had nicked the full orb of the sun – perhaps the last glass or two of port had been an error in an otherwise judicious dinner – but he was still very bright and loquacious and suffused.

‘'Pon my word, a delightful little dinner,' he said, as he closed the door into the little sitting-room. ‘Good talk, good friends, a glass of jolly good wine and a rubber to follow. What more can a man ask, I ask you, and Echo answers “Cern'ly not.” And I've not had a pow-wow with you for a long time,
Signora
, as old Camelia Faradiddleone would say.'

Lucia saw that he had had about enough wine, but after many evenings with Elizabeth who wouldn't?

‘No, I've been quite a hermit lately,' she said. ‘So busy with my little jobs – oh, take care of your cigar, Major Benjy: it's burning the edge of the table.'

‘Dear me, yes, monstrous stupid of me: where there's smoke there's fire! We've been busy, too, settling in. How do you think Liz is looking?'

‘Very well, exceedingly well,' said Lucia enthusiastically. ‘All her old energy, all her delightful activity seem to have returned. At one time –'

Major Benjy looked round to see that the door was closed and nodded his head with extreme solemnity.

‘Quite, quite. Olive-branches. Very true,' he said. ‘Marvellous woman, ain't she, the way she's put it all behind her. Felt it very much at the time, for she's mos' sensitive. Highly strung. Concert pitch. Liable to ups and downs. For instance, there was a paragraph in the Hastings paper this morning that upset Liz so much that she whirled about like a spinning top, butting into the tables and chairs. “Take it quietly, 'Lisbeth Mapp-Flint,” I told her. Beneath you to notice it, or should I go over and punch the Editor's head?'

‘Do you happen to be referring to the paragraph about me and my little excavations?' asked Lucia.

‘God bless me, if I hadn't forgotten what it was about,' cried Benjy. ‘You're right, Msslucas, the very first time. That's what it was about, if I may say so without prejudice. I only remembered there was something that annoyed 'Lisbeth Mapp-Flint, and that was enough for Major B, late of His Majesty's India forces, God bless him, too. If something annoys my wife, it annoys me, too, that's what I say. A husband's duty, Msslucas, is always to stand between her and any annoyances, what? Too many annoyances lately and often my heart's bled for her. Then it was a sad trial parting with her old home which she'd known ever since her aunt was a lil' girl, or since they were lil' girls together, if not before. Then that was a bad business about the Town Council and those dinner-bells. A dirty business I might call it, if there wasn't a lady present, though that mustn't go any further. Not cricket, hic. All adds up, you know, in the mind of a very sensitive woman. Twice two and four, if you see what I mean.'

Benjy sank down lower in his chair, and after two attempts to relight his cigar, gave it up, and the eclipse spread a little further.