Lucia Triumphant (15 page)

‘
My dear, what a pretty brim! It suits you perfectly. If only my face were not so frightfully round I would buy one just like it.'

Diva's face was rounder than the globe itself, but Elizabeth appeared to have forgotten that. This was an olive branch, and Diva, overjoyed at the unexpected reprieve of her headdress, seized it joyfully.

‘
And where is dear Major Benjy today?' she enquired. ‘Golf? Or research? So splendid of him to take up local history.'

‘
A new but most absorbing interest,' said Elizabeth. ‘I believe he came across some of the papers left him by poor Captain Puffin. He felt—and I agreed with him—that it would be a pity to leave the Captain's work unfinished.'

The Captain's work, as everybody knew, had been a sustained effort to revive the Scottish distillery industry, and the only papers he had left were unpaid wine-merchants' bills. But since Elizabeth appeared to be afflicted with temporary blindness, Diva could afford temporary amnesia.

‘
Worthwhile,' she therefore agreed. ‘Found out anything else about the de Maps? I remember how excited he was when he found the first reference.'

‘
Nothing specific, I fear. But he has been doing a little work on the Conqueror's grants in this area. There were several, all to noble families. So who can say what further research might uncover? Perhaps—I say perhaps—the de Maps will turn out to be among them.'

‘
Sure to be. No question. But fancy you being a Norman all the time without knowing it.'

Elizabeth turned away as if to hide a blush and said nothing. The implication to be drawn from this economical gesture was clear. She
had
known all along and had kept quiet about it, for she was not the sort of woman to make a fuss about such a thing. But now that Major Benjy had stumbled across the truth, what point was there in silence? Diva, although she did not believe any of this, understood that acceptance of it was the price of peace. Compared to the price of hats, it was low enough.

‘
Dinner with Lucia last night. Everyone there—except you of course.'

‘
Poor Benjy and his cold. Men are such babies, aren't they? I almost had to thrust him from the house today. He is quite well now, however, which is the main thing. And how is dear Lucia?'

‘
Queening it rather,' said Diva. ‘This
County Life
business. Most unsettling. Everyone wants their houses to be in it, of course.'

‘
Has she made her final selection? Can we breathe again?'

‘
No. She pretends not to know that we know about it, so we can't ask her to her face. But I believe Starling Cottage will be recommended, though I can't say anything about any of the others.'

Elizabeth would have ground her teeth had she not been afraid of damaging her new plate. She contented herself with a bitter smile.

‘
We cannot all afford to live in beautiful houses,' she said. ‘After all, even the Wyses and Lucia are but the owners of their magnificent dwellings. They did not design them, nor did they build them with their own hands. So they have no reason to be proud.'

‘
That's just what Lucia says,' said Diva tactlessly.

‘
So pleased to hear that she appreciates the fact, though I daresay that won't stop her standing outside Mallards when they take their photographs, as if she were the ancestral owner and not some rich
parvenue
. Never mind; we know the truth, don't we?'

Elizabeth developed this theme for some time, with a number of references to shady financial deals, and then released Diva, without compelling her to witness the actuality of her motor, who went on her way thanking God that her hat had been spared her. The dispossessed one, however, sat awhile deep in thought. The iniquity gnawed at her, but she laid it down in her soul, like wine, to mature.

 

Lucia received a further letter from Mr. Cuthbertson. He proposed to send down his writer—no ordinary journalist, but a leading authority on the subject, a Mr. Arncott—and a specialist photographer, equipped with the latest in cameras, who would look over the houses she had recommended, namely Mallards, Starling Cottage, the two Tudor houses in Church Square and the little house at the bottom of the Mint, as well as the Church and, if space permitted, the Norman Tower. As it turned out, Lucia's choice was fully endorsed by the eminent authority, and the Bartletts watched enviously as the photographer set up his apparatus on the opposite side of the Square to their own architectural gem. But the photographer could not get the houses ‘in frame' (as he called it) by standing on the pavement, and went round to the Vicarage to ask for permission to set up his tripod inside the churchyard. The Padre agreed most readily and even pointed out a low, flat tomb on which the photographer could stand so as to get the best possible result. The photographer was particularly impressed with the Church, which he considered a fine example of its very distinctive type. He also thought the same of the Padre (although he did not say so) and prevailed upon him to stand under one of the magnificent flying buttresses when he took his picture of that most outstanding feature of the edifice.

Then the Authority went to Porpoise Street, where he was virtually abducted by Susan Wyse, who called up tea and some strange-looking honey-cakes sent from Capri by the Contessa di Faraglione. She noticed—too late—that the negligent Figgis had left the lid of the box that contained her M.B.E. lying open on the table, and before she could close it the perceptive Mr. Arncott had inspected and admired it. Meanwhile, the photographer was having a wretched time trying to get his camera to stand upright on the steep slope of Porpoise Street, so Mr. Wyse sent for the Royce, in order that its ample running-board might serve as a support for one of the legs of the tripod. Having done their work, the
County Life
party declined with thanks the Wyses' generous offer of a lift down to the Mint; for it would have taken ten minutes to accomplish by motor a distance that could be walked in two, and transferred their caravanserai down the hill.

Lucia, meanwhile, had been waiting anxiously, for the light seemed to be deteriorating—there was at least one cloud in the sky and who could tell in which direction it might choose to go?—and finally came to the conclusion that the
County Life
party must have lost their way. So she sent Georgie off to look for them in the High Street, while she went to search Church Square and Curfew Street. She feared that they might have been beguiled by some other houses of interest and she did not want them to miss an opportunity of seeing Mallards at its best.

As she set off briskly towards the Church, Elizabeth, who had been furtively sketching in West Street, felt a sudden urge to take a look at her ancestral home. So she set up her easel beneath the garden-room window, selected a fresh sheet of paper, and began to sketch.

So intent upon her work must she have been that she did not notice the
County Life
photographer setting up his camera and Mr. Arncott taking out his notebook, only a few yards from where she was sitting. The photographer came over and asked her if she would mind moving just for a moment while he took his photograph.

‘
Delighted,' she said, ‘to help a fellow-artist,' and she laughed gaily. ‘Such a charming house, don't you think?'

‘
Remarkable,' agreed Mr. Arncott. ‘One of the finest that I remember having seen. The rigid formality of the style has been fitted perfectly into a most unusual context.'

Elizabeth did not quite understand what he meant by this, but she felt sure that she agreed with it, so she nodded sagely. He wrote something in his notebook and said:

‘
The glorious thing is how well it has been looked after. Obviously it had suffered neglect for a while, but I think I am right in saying that a most admirable job of restoration has been done within, say, the last five or six years. So many of these houses have been spoilt recently by careless renovation.'

‘
Ah well,' said Elizabeth, ‘our family has always been careful to preserve our precious, precious heritage. My Aunt Caroline—'

‘
So you are the owner? Mrs. Pillson, is it not?'

‘
My name is Mrs. Mapp-Flint,' said Elizabeth truthfully.

And, with a little prompting from the Authority, she told him all about Roger de Map and Hugo de Map and the Domesday Book. She did not actually assert that she was their descendant, or even that her less remote ancestors had built Mallards (for who could say what books of reference such a learned man might have access to?), but she rather feared that the Authority, who, like so many of these scholarly men, was inclined to be vague, might have formed that impression, for he asked Elizabeth if she would perhaps care to stand in front of the doorway for a moment while the photographer took a picture. The reader did so like to see what the owner of the property looked like. Elizabeth had qualms of conscience at this point, but he had not said the
present
owner and explanations would be so tiresome.

‘
Thank you so much,' said Mr. Arncott, ‘and I do apologize for getting your name wrong. My editor informed me that the Mayor's name was Mrs. Pillson.'

‘
Mrs. Pillson is the Mayor,' said Elizabeth, sticking rigidly to the truth.

‘
She has been most helpful,' continued the Authority, ‘in recommending houses for us to use in this article. She seems to be quite an accomplished scholar.'

‘
Which houses did she recommend?' asked Elizabeth artlessly.

‘
Well, your beautiful Mallards, of course, and Starling Cottage—that's in Porpoise Street, you know—a most charming couple. She is related to the European aristocracy, I believe.'

‘
Spanish,' said Elizabeth maliciously.

‘
And he was awarded the O.B.E., I think.'

‘
Quite.'

‘
I'm afraid I cannot recall their name. How awkward! I think I ought to mention it in my article.'

‘
Mr. and Mrs. White,' said Elizabeth innocently. ‘Such delightful people and so proud of their little house.'

‘
And of course there were those delightful Tudor houses in Church Square—Mrs. Pillson was quite right to recommend them—and the little house at the end of the Mint. Such taste Mrs. Pillson has. Has she ever received formal architectural training, do you know? We would never have seen it had it not been for her suggestion.'

With many farewells the Authority and the photographer departed to lunch at the Traders' Arms, and Elizabeth resumed her sketching in West Street with a satisfied heart. Like all her friends in Tilling, she would await the forthcoming issue of
County Life
with great interest.

 

 

A week or so later, an observant person might have noticed a small group of people hovering about near, but not actually outside, the newsagent's shop in the High street. The Wyses, seemingly racked with indecision as to whether or not they should buy some stamps, went in and out of the post-office every few minutes. Diva stood in front of Mr. Worthington's window, apparently studying a leg of lamb, but in fact watching the newsagent's doorway reflected in the glass. The Bartletts stood at the Belvedere Platform, but instead of looking out over the estuary, for the better observation of which the platform had been constructed, they chose to face the other way. The Mapp-Flints, meanwhile, could not tear themselves away from contemplating something in the jeweller's window—a bracelet, perhaps, or a pocket-watch—and although they tried several times to move on, they were always drawn back, as by a magnet. A cynic might have supposed that each of these people was waiting for the others to go away, not wishing to be seen to be the first to buy the latest edition of
County Life
; but that would be an unworthy thought.

Various other inhabitants of the town had no inhibitions about buying the magazine. The retired stockbroker who lived in Church Street stepped boldly through the door, and Diva could distinctly hear him giving his order and just as distinctly make out the newsagent's reply, ‘You're just in time, sir, we're nearly sold out.'

Diva left the leg of lamb to its fate and shot across the street like a small cannon-ball, nearly colliding with the Bartletts. This delay enabled the Mapp-Flints to get in first, and Susan Wyse came a close second, despite catching her heel in the hem of her sables and nearly falling. In the end, however, there were enough copies to go round and the diffident property-owners retired to their houses to inspect the Tilling article.

Lucia, being provident, had had her five copies delivered with the newspapers, and even as the Bartletts were stamping their feet and blowing on their hands on the Belvedere Platform, she was sitting sour-faced and contemplating a beautiful facsimile of Mallards, outside which (so ran the legend) stood Mrs. Elizabeth de Map-Flint, the owner of that property, whose family (of Norman descent) had lived there since the house was built. To Lucia it was no comfort that the article was a mass of factual errors, some of them almost as grave: that the brief commentary on the Church gave the Padre's name as the Reverend Mr. McBartlett, or that the owners of Starling Cottage were named as Mr. and Mrs. White, he the holder of the O.B.E., she connected to the aristocracy of Spain. There was no comfort in the fact that (to judge by the photograph) Starling Cottage was in imminent danger of falling back down on to the Mint and squashing flat the attractive little house at the foot of the hill. Although this article covered three pages and was lavishly illustrated, there was but one paragraph and one photograph that caught the attention and held it as in a vice.