Part 2 · Chapter 13How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome

How often had Lucy practiced that bow, that introduction! But she’d always rehearsed them inside, and with certain... accessories, which we can safely assume were there.

Who could have predicted she and George would bump into each other in the chaos of a social event, surrounded by a sea of coats, collars, and boots scattered across the sunny ground? She'd pictured a young Mr.

Emerson who might be shy, gloomy, indifferent, or maybe even playfully cheeky.

She was ready for all of that. But she hadn't imagined someone who would be genuinely happy and greet her with such enthusiasm.

"Back inside, sipping tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she realized you can’t really predict the future, you can’t rehearse life.

A glitch in the set, a face in the audience, people spilling onto the stage - and all your carefully planned moves fall flat, or mean way too much. "

I’ll bow," she’d thought. " I won’t shake his hand. That’s the proper thing to do." She’d bowed - but to whom? To the gods, to heroes, to the silly fantasies of schoolgirls! She’d bowed across all the junk that clutters the world."

That's what was running through her head while she dealt with Cecil. It was another one of those awful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth wanted to see him, and he clearly didn't want to be seen.

He didn’t want to hear about hydrangeas and why they change color at the beach.

He didn’t want to join the C. O. S. When he was annoyed, he was always extra elaborate, giving long, clever answers when a simple "yes" or "no" would have done.

Lucy smoothed things over and tweaked the conversation, which looked promising for their future marriage.

No one’s perfect, and it’s definitely smarter to find out about the imperfections before you tie the knot. Miss Bartlett, though she never said it outright, had taught the girl that life doesn't really offer anything truly satisfying.

Lucy, even though she didn’t like the teacher, thought the lesson was profound, and she applied it to her boyfriend.

"Lucy," her mother said when they got home, "is something wrong with Cecil?"

The question felt serious; up until now, Mrs. Honeychurch had been pretty understanding and held back.

"No, I don’t think so, Mom; Cecil’s fine." "Maybe he’s tired."

Lucy compromised: maybe Cecil was a little tired.

"Because otherwise" - she pulled out her bonnet pins with growing annoyance - "because otherwise I can’t explain it."

"I think Mrs. Butterworth can be a bit much, if that’s what you mean."

"Cecil has told you to think so. You were crazy about her when you were little, and nothing will ever explain her goodness to you after she survived typhoid fever. No - it’s the same everywhere."

"Can I just put your bonnet away?"

"Surely he could be civil to her for just half an hour?"

"Cecil has really high standards for people," Lucy stammered, sensing trouble. " It’s part of his ideals - that’s what sometimes makes him seem..."

"Oh, please! If high ideals make a young man rude, he needs to ditch them, ASAP," Mrs. Honeychurch said, handing her the bonnet.

"Now, Mom! I’ve seen you be snippy with Mrs. Butterworth yourself!"

"Not like that. Sometimes I wanted to strangle her. But not like that. No. It’s just like Cecil all over."

"By the way - I never told you. I got a letter from Charlotte while I was in London."

This attempt to change the subject felt childish, and Mrs. Honeychurch was annoyed.

"Since Cecil came back from London, nothing seems to please him. Whenever I speak, he flinches; I see it, Lucy; it’s useless to argue.

I’m probably not artistic, literary, intellectual, or musical, but I can’t help the drawing-room furniture; your father bought it, and we have to deal with it."

"Will Cecil kindly remember that?"

"I - I get what you mean, and honestly, Cecil shouldn’t either. But he doesn’t mean to be rude - he explained it once - it's just that stuff really gets to him. He's easily bothered by ugly things - he’s not being rude to people."

"Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?"

"You can’t really expect someone who’s super into music to love silly songs like we do."

"Then why didn’t he just leave the room? Why sit there looking down his nose and ruining everyone’s vibe?"

"We shouldn’t be unfair to people," Lucy stammered.

Something felt off with her, and the case for Cecil, which she’s totally nailed in London, just wasn’t coming together.

The two worlds had clashed - Cecil hinted at that - and she was totally overwhelmed, like the whole idea of civilization had blinded her.

Good taste and bad taste were just labels, different styles; and music itself faded to a whisper through the pine trees, where the song blended with the silly song.

She was super awkward while Mrs. Honeychurch changed for dinner, and every now and then she’s saying something that just made things worse. It was obvious Cecil had meant to be snobby, and he totally pulled it off.

And Lucy - she didn’t know why - wished the whole thing had happened at a better time.

"Go get dressed, dear; you’re going to be late." "Okay, Mom - "

"Don’t say ‘Okay’ and stop. Go."

She did, but lingered sadly at the landing window. It faced north, so there wasn't much to see, and definitely no sky. Like in winter, the pine trees were right in front of her. The landing window felt connected to feeling down.

There wasn't a huge problem looming over her, but she sighed, "Ugh, what am I going to do, what am I going to do?" It seemed like everyone else was acting really badly. And she shouldn’t have mentioned Miss Bartlett’s letter.

She needed to be more careful; her mom was pretty nosy, and might ask what it was about. Ugh, what should she do? - and then Freddy came bounding up the stairs, joining the ranks of the badly behaved.

"Dude, those people are totally awesome."

"My dear, you’re so annoying! You shouldn’t have taken them to swim in the Sacred Lake; it’s way too public. It was fine for you, but awkward for everyone else. Be more careful. The place is getting half-suburban."

"Hey, is anything happening next week?" "Not that I know of."

"Then I want to invite the Emersons up for Sunday tennis."

"Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Freddy, not with this mess."

"What’s wrong with the court? They won’t mind a bump or two, and I’ve ordered new balls."

"I just mean it’s better not to. I really mean it."

He grabbed her by the elbows and playfully danced her up and down the hallway. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with frustration.

Cecil glanced at them as he headed to his bathroom, and they blocked Mary with her pile of hot-water bottles.

Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: "Lucy, what a racket you’re making! I have something to say to you. Did you say you got a letter from Charlotte?" and Freddy ran off.

"Yeah. I really can’t stop. I have to get dressed too." "How’s Charlotte?" "She’s fine." "Lucy!" The poor girl turned back.

"You have a bad habit of running off in the middle of my sentences. Did Charlotte mention her boiler?" "Her what?"

"Don’t you remember that her boiler was getting fixed in October, and her bath cistern was getting cleaned, and all kinds of drama?"

"I can’t remember all of Charlotte’s worries," Lucy said, a little bitter. " I’m going to have enough of my own, now that you’re not happy with Cecil."

Mrs. Honeychurch might have totally lost it. But she didn’t. She said: "Come here, old lady - thanks for putting away my bonnet - kiss me.

And, honestly, Lucy felt for a moment that her mom, Windy Corner, and the Weald in the setting sun were perfect.

So life just got chill. It usually did at Windy Corner. At the last minute, when things got totally jammed up, someone in the family would throw in a little oil. Cecil hated their tactics - maybe he was right to.

Anyway, they weren’t his style.

Dinner was at seven-thirty. Freddy mumbled grace, and they all slumped into their chairs and dug in. Luckily, the guys were starving. Nothing weird happened until dessert. Then Freddy asked: "Lucy, what’s Emerson like?"

"I saw him in Florence," Lucy said, hoping that would be enough.

"Is he the smart type, or just a decent dude?"

"Ask Cecil; he’s the one who brought him here."

"He’s the smart type, like me," Cecil said.

Freddy looked at him skeptically.

"How well did you guys know them at the Bertolini?" Mrs. Honeychurch asked.

"Oh, not really. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did."

"Oh, that reminds me - you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter."

"Long story short," Lucy said, wondering if she could get through the meal without lying. " Among other things, that a seriously awkward friend of hers had been biking down Summer Street, wondering if she’d come up and see us, and thankfully didn’t."

"Lucy, you’re being so rude with the way you talk."

"She’s a novelist," Lucy said smoothly.

The remark was a win, because nothing got under Mrs. Honeychurch’s skin like women and writing. She’d ditch any topic to rant about those women who (instead of taking care of their homes and kids) tried to get famous by publishing books.

Her motto was: "If books have to be written, let men write them." She went on and on about it, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played "This year, next year, now, never" with his plum pits, and Lucy subtly fanned the flames of her mom’s anger.

But soon the drama died down, and the ghosts started to gather in the shadows. There were way too many ghosts around.

The original ghost - that touch of lips on her cheek - had been put to rest a long time ago; it shouldn’t even matter that a guy kissed her on a mountain once.

But it had spawned a whole crew of spectral figures - Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett’s letter, Mr. Beebe’s memories of violets - and one of them was bound to haunt her right in front of Cecil’s eyes.

It was Miss Bartlett who showed up now, and she was shockingly real.

"I’ve been thinking, Lucy, about that letter from Charlotte. How is she?" "I ripped it up."

"Didn’t she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?"

"Oh, yeah, I guess so - no - not really cheerful, I guess."

"Then, you know it’s the boiler. I know how water gets to you. I’d rather anything else - even a disaster with the meat." Cecil covered his eyes.

"Me too," Freddy chimed in, backing up his mom - backing up the spirit of her comment rather than the actual words.

"And I’ve been thinking," she added a little nervously, "surely we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice vacation while the plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish up. I haven’t seen poor Charlotte in forever."

It was more than she could handle. And she couldn’t lash out after her mom’s kindness upstairs.

"Mom, no!" she pleaded. "It’s impossible. We can’t have Charlotte on top of everything else; we’re totally packed as it is.

Freddy’s got a friend coming Tuesday, there’s Cecil, and you’ve promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare."

"It just can’t be done." "Don’t be silly! It can."

"If Minnie sleeps in the tub. Not otherwise." "Minnie can sleep with you." "I am not having her."

"Then, if you’re being that selfish, Mr. Floyd has to share a room with Freddy."

"Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett," moaned Cecil, putting his hand over his eyes again.

"It’s impossible," repeated Lucy. " I don’t want to cause drama, but it’s really not fair to the maids to cram so many people into the house." Seriously!

"The truth is, dear, you don’t like Charlotte."

"No, I don’t. And neither does Cecil. She’s just so annoying. You haven’t seen her lately and don’t realize how draining she can be, even though she’s nice.

So please, Mom, don’t stress us out this last summer; just let us have a good time and don’t ask her to come."

"Totally!" said Cecil. Mrs. Honeychurch, with more seriousness than usual, and with more emotion than she usually showed, replied: "That’s not very nice of you two."

You have each other and all these woods to wander in, so full of beautiful things; and poor Charlotte just has the water turned off and plumbers.

"You’re young, darlings, and however smart young people are, and however many books they read, they’re never gonna understand what it feels like to get older." Cecil crumbled his bread.

"I gotta say, Cousin Charlotte was super sweet to me that year I biked over," chimed in Freddy. " She thanked me for coming so much I felt like a total goofball, and she fussed around a ton to get an egg boiled just right for my tea."

"I know, dear. She’s kind to everyone, and yet Lucy’s making a big deal when we try to do something nice for her." But Lucy hardened her heart.

Being nice to Miss Bartlett wasn’t working out. You might earn good karma by trying, but you weren’t really helping Miss Bartlett or anyone else on Earth. She was left saying: "I can’t help it, Mom. I don’t like Charlotte.

I admit it’s rude."

"From your own story, you told her that."

"Well, she left Florence so randomly. She totally freaked out - " The memories were flooding back; they filled Italy, they were even taking over places she’s known since she was a kid.

The Sacred Lake would never be the same, and something would even happen at Windy Corner in a week. How was she supposed to fight against memories? For a moment, the real world faded, and memories and feelings were all that seemed real.

"I guess Miss Bartlett has to come, since she makes eggs so well," said Cecil, who was feeling a bit better, thanks to the amazing food.

"I didn’t mean the egg was good," corrected Freddy, "because actually she forgot to take it off, and I don’t even like eggs. I just meant how genuinely nice she seemed." Cecil frowned again.

Ugh, the Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers, hydrangeas, maids - that’s what their lives were all about. " Can Lucy and I get up from our chairs?" he asked, barely hiding his annoyance. " We don’t want any dessert."