Part 2 · Chapter 14How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely

Of course, Miss Bartlett said yes. And, honestly, she was sure she’d be a pain, so she asked for the smallest, most boring spare room - no view, anything like that. She sent Lucy lots of love.

And, naturally, George Emerson could come to tennis on Sunday.

Lucy faced the situation bravely, even though, like most of us, she only dealt with what directly affected her. She never really looked inward. If weird thoughts popped up, she just chalked it up to nerves.

When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it totally rattled her.

Charlotte would probably dredge up old embarrassing moments, and that would definitely make her nervous. She was anxious at night.

When she talked to George - they bumped into each other again pretty quickly at the Rectory - his voice just hit her hard, and she wanted to be near him.

Ugh, what if she really wanted to be near him! Of course, it was just nerves, messing with us like they always do. She used to have "things that came out of nowhere and she had no clue what they meant."

Now, Cecil had explained psychology to her one rainy afternoon, and all the worries of being young and lost in the world could just be dismissed.

It’s pretty obvious to us that she’s got a thing for young Emerson. But if you were in Lucy’s shoes, it wouldn’t be so clear. Life’s easy to write about, but a mess to actually live.

And we’d rather blame "nerves" or some other excuse to hide what we really want.

She liked Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader even explain to her that she has her phrases all mixed up?

But she’s going to face the external situation bravely.

The meeting at the Rectory went pretty well. Standing between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she made a few polite comments about Italy, and George replied. She was trying to show she wasn’t shy, and she was glad he didn’t seem shy either.

"A nice guy," said Mr. Beebe afterwards. " He’s got some rough edges, but he’s going to smooth them out eventually. I’m a little suspicious of young men who just seem to fit into life effortlessly."

Lucy said, "He seems in better spirits. He laughs more."

"Yeah," replied the clergyman. " He’s waking up."

That was it. But as the week went on, more of her defenses crumbled, and she started imagining him as physically attractive. Even with clear directions, Miss Bartlett somehow managed to mess up her arrival.

She was supposed to be at the South-Eastern station in Dorking, where Mrs. Honeychurch was going to meet her. Instead, she showed up at the London and Brighton station and had to hail a cab.

Nobody was home except Freddy and his friend, who had to interrupt their tennis to entertain her for a solid hour.

Cecil and Lucy arrived at four o’clock, and they, along with little Minnie Beebe, made a pretty gloomy group of six on the upper lawn for tea.

"I’m never going to forgive myself," said Miss Bartlett, who kept getting up from her seat and had to be begged by everyone to stay put. " I’m crashing young people’s party! But I insist on paying for the cab."

"Our visitors never do such awful things," said Lucy, while her brother, whose memory of the boiled egg was already fading, exclaimed in an irritated tone: "Exactly what I’ve been trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour."

"I don’t feel like an ordinary visitor," said Miss Bartlett, glancing at her frayed glove.

"Okay, if you really prefer. Five quid, and I gave the driver a pound."

Miss Bartlett rummaged through her purse. Only pound coins and pennies. Could anyone give her change? Freddy had a couple of quid, and his friend had four half-crowns.

Miss Bartlett accepted their money and then said: "But who am I to give the pound to?"

"Let’s wait until Mom comes back," suggested Lucy.

"Seriously, Mom; you can totally take a long drive now that you’ve got your freedom from me. We all have our quirks, and mine is settling things up right away."

Here’s Freddy’s friend, Mr. Floyd, dropped the one line that needs to be quoted: he offered to bet Freddy for Miss Bartlett’s pound.

A solution seemed possible, and even Cecil, who had been showing off drinking his tea, felt the pull of chance and turned around. But that didn’t work either.

"Please - please - I know I’m being a buzzkill, but it would make me feel awful. I’d basically be ripping off whoever lost."

"Freddy owes me fifteen quid," Cecil interjected. " So it’s fair if you give the pound to me."

"Fifteen quid?" Miss Bartlett looked doubtful. " How’s that, Mr. Vyse?"

"Because, get this, Freddy paid for your cab. Give me the pound, and we can avoid this whole gambling mess."

Miss Bartlett, who’s not great with numbers, got confused and handed over the sovereign, while the other guys snickered quietly. For a moment, Cecil was stoked. He was just messing around with his friends.

Then he glanced at Lucy, whose face looked worried, messing up her smile.

In January, he’s rescuing his Leonardo from this ridiculousness.

"But I don’t see it!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe, who’s been watching the shady deal. " I don’t see why Mr. Vyse gets the quid."

"Because of the fifteen and the five," they said seriously. " Fifteen and five make a pound, see?" "But I still don’t see - "

They tried to shut her up with cake.

"No, thanks. I’m done. I don’t see why - Freddy, stop poking me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother’s hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd’s ten quid? Ow!

No, I still don’t see and I never will see why Miss What’s-her-name shouldn’t pay that bob for the driver."

"I’d forgotten about the driver," said Miss Bartlett, blushing. " Thanks, dear, for reminding me. A quid? Does anyone have change for a half a crown?"

"I’ll get it," said the young hostess, getting up decisively.

"Cecil, hand me that sovereign. No, give me that sovereign. I’ll get Euphemia to change it, and we’ll start all over again from the beginning."

"Lucy - Lucy - what a pain I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn.

Lucy hurried ahead, pretending to be amused. When they were out of earshot, Miss Bartlett stopped her whining and said sharply, "Have you told him yet?"

"No, I haven’t," replied Lucy, then instantly regretted understanding exactly what her cousin meant. " Let me see - a sovereign’s worth of silver."

She ducked into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett’s sudden shifts were too weird. Sometimes it seemed like she planned every word or made someone else say it; like all this fuss about cabs and change was a trick to catch someone off guard.

"No, I haven’t told Cecil or anyone," she remarked when she came back. " I promised you I wouldn’t. Here’s your money - all shillings, except for two half-crowns. Want me to count it? You can settle your debt nicely now."

Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, looking at the framed photo of St. John ascending.

"How awful!" she murmured. " How even more awful if Mr. Vyse were to hear about it from somewhere else."

"Oh, come on, Charlotte," said the girl, stepping into the conversation. " George Emerson is fine, and what other source is there?"

Miss Bartlett thought about it. " For example, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth."

Lucy shuddered a little. " We’re going to get this silly thing on our nerves if we’re not careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver even find out from Cecil?"

"We have to think of every possibility." "Oh, it’s all good."

"Or maybe old Mr. Emerson knows. Actually, he’s bound to know."

"I don’t care if he does. I was so happy to get your letter, but even if the news spreads around, I think I can count on Cecil to laugh it off." "To deny it?"

"No, to laugh it off." But deep down, she knew she couldn’t trust him, because he wanted her untouched.

"Okay, dear, you know best. Maybe guys are different than they used to be when I was young. Ladies definitely are."

"Now, Charlotte!" She playfully swatted her arm. " You’re so kind and worried. What do you want me to do? First, you say ‘Don’t tell’; then, you say, ‘Tell.’ Which is it? Spill!"

Miss Bartlett sighed. " I’m no match for you in a conversation, dearest. I cringe thinking about how I butted in at Florence, and you’re so good at handling things yourself, and so much smarter than I am. You’ll never forgive me."

"Let’s go out, then. They’ll wreck the whole china cabinet if we don’t."

Because the air was filled with Minnie’s screams, who was being tormented with a teaspoon.

"Dear, one moment - we might not get another chance to chat. Have you met the young man yet?" "Yeah, I have." "What happened?"

"We bumped into each other at the Rectory." "What’s his vibe?"

"No vibe. He just talked about Italy, like anyone else. It’s really okay. What would he even gain from being a jerk, to put it bluntly? I wish you could see it my way. He won’t be a problem, Charlotte, I promise."

"Once a jerk, always a jerk. That’s my take."

Lucy paused. " Cecil said something the other day - and I thought it was so insightful - that there are two kinds of jerks - the conscious and the subconscious." She paused again, to make sure she was doing Cecil’s brilliance justice.

Through the window, she saw Cecil himself, flipping through a novel. It was a new one from Smith’s library. Her mom must have gotten back from the station.

"Once a jerk, always a jerk," droned Miss Bartlett.

"What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost it. I fell into all those violets, and he was goofy and surprised. I don’t think we should blame him too much.

It makes such a difference when you see a person with a good life behind him unexpectedly."

It really does; it makes a huge difference, and he lost his head - he doesn’t even admire me, or any of that stuff. Freddy actually likes him and asked him up here on Sunday, so you can decide for yourself.

He’s improved; he doesn’t always look like he’s about to cry.

He’s a clerk in the General Manager’s office at one of the big railways - not a porter! and goes down to his dad for the weekends. Dad used to be in journalism, but is rheumatic and retired. There! Now, let's check out the garden.

She grabbed her guest’s arm. "

"Let’s not talk about this silly Italian thing anymore. We want you to have a nice, relaxing visit at Windy Corner, with no stress."

Lucy thought that was a pretty good speech. The reader might have noticed a little slip-up in it. Whether Miss Bartlett noticed the slip, it’s impossible to say, because you can’t really get inside the minds of older people.

She might have continued speaking, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations were exchanged, and in the midst of them, Lucy slipped away, the images pulsing a little more vividly in her brain.