Part 2 · Chapter 15The Disaster Within

The Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was gorgeous - just like most days that year.

In the Weald, autumn was starting to shake things up, breaking up the endless green of summer, dusting the parks with a hazy mist, turning the beech trees a rusty orange, and the oak trees a brilliant gold.

Up on the hills, rows of dark pine trees watched it all happen, staying exactly the same. Everywhere you looked, the sky was clear, and you could hear the church bells ringing.

"The garden at Windy Corners was empty except for a red book, soaking up the sun on the gravel path.

From the house, you could hear the ladies getting ready for church - lots of chatter. " The guys aren’t going" - "I don’t blame them" - Minnie says, "does she even need to go?" - "

Tell her, no drama" - "Anne! Mary! Hook me up behind!" - " Lucia, sweetie, can I borrow a pin?" Miss Bartlett had announced she was definitely going to church."

The sun climbed higher, guided, not by some mythological dude, but by Apollo - competent, steady, and totally divine.

Its rays hit the ladies as they headed towards the bedroom windows, Mr.

Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan, George Emerson cleaning his dad’s boots, and finally, to complete the picture, the red book we mentioned earlier.

The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement can create shadows. But this book just lay there, soaking up the sun all morning and lifting its covers a little, like it was saying thanks.

Soon, Lucy stepped out of the drawing-room window. Her new bright pink dress was a total flop, making her look cheap and washed out. She had a dark red brooch at her throat and a ruby ring on her finger - an engagement ring.

Her eyes were focused on the Weald.

She frowned a little - not mad, but like a brave kid trying not to cry. No one was looking at her in that huge space, and she could frown without anyone noticing, measuring the distance between Apollo and the hills in the west.

"Lucy! Lucy! What’s that book? Who’s been taking a book off the shelf and leaving it around to get ruined?"

"It’s just the library book Cecil’s been reading."

"But pick it up, and don’t stand around there like a flamingo."

Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title without much interest: Under a Loggia. She didn’t really read novels anymore, spending all her free time reading serious literature, hoping to catch Cecil up.

It was embarrassing how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew something, like about Italian painters, she’d forgotten it.

Just this morning she’d mixed up Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said, "Seriously? You’re already forgetting your Italy?"

That thought added to the worry in her eyes when she greeted the beautiful view and the beautiful garden in the foreground, and above them, almost unbelievable anywhere else, the beautiful sun.

"Lucy - got a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?"

She hurried inside to her mom, who was totally stressed about getting ready for church.

"It’s a special collection - I can’t remember what for. Please, no clinking pennies in the plate; make sure Minnie has a nice, shiny sixpence. Where’s the kid? Minnie! That book’s all warped. (Goodness, you look so plain!

Put it under the Atlas to flatten it. Minnie!"

"Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch - " from upstairs.

"Minnie, don’t be late. Here comes the horse" - it was always the horse, never the carriage. " Where’s Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she taking so long? She didn’t have anything to do. She never brings anything but blouses.

Poor Charlotte - I absolutely hate blouses! Minnie!"

Paganism is seriously contagious - way more than the flu or being super religious - and the Rector’s niece went to church protesting. As always, she didn’t get why. Why couldn’t she chill in the sun with the guys?

The guys, who had now shown up, totally roasted her with some shade.

Mrs. Honeychurch defended tradition, and in the middle of the chaos, Miss Bartlett, looking totally on-trend, strolled down the stairs.

"Dear Marian, I’m so sorry, but I don’t have any small bills - just big money and half of those. Could anyone spot me - ?"

"Totally, no problem. Hop in! Seriously, you look amazing! That dress is killer, you’re outdoing everyone."

"If I didn’t wear my best stuff now, when would I?" said Miss Bartlett, giving her a look.

She climbed into the carriage and turned her back to the horse. The usual racket started up, and then they drove off.

"Bye! Be good!" called out Cecil.

Lucy bit her lip, because his tone was kind of mean. They’d had a pretty awkward conversation about "church and stuff. He’d said people should basically reinvent themselves, and she wasn’t really feeling that.

She didn't even know that was a thing.

Cecil respected genuine faith, but he always thought honesty came from a major life change; he couldn't imagine it just happening naturally, like flowers growing.

Everything he said kinda bummed her out, even though he seemed totally chill; the Emersons were just different.

She spotted the Emersons after church. There was a line of cars down the road, and the Honeychurch car just happened to be across from Cissie Villa.

To save time, they walked across the lawn to it, and found the dad and son smoking in the garden.

"Introduce me," said her mom. " Unless the young man thinks he already knows me."

He probably did, but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson was super warm and said how thrilled he was that she was getting married.

She said yes, she was glad too, and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were hanging back with Mr. Beebe, she changed the subject and asked him how he liked his new place.

"Really like it," he replied, but there was a weird vibe in his voice; she’d never heard him sound offended before.

He added: "We’re finding out that the Miss Alans are coming, and we’re kicking them out. Women get weird about that kind of thing. It’s totally stressing me out."

"I think there was just some kind of mix-up," said Mrs. Honeychurch nervously.

"Our landlord was told we’d be a different type of person," said George, who seemed ready to drag it out. " He thought we’d be artsy. He’s disappointed."

"And I’m wondering if we should write to the Miss Alans and give it up. What do you think?" He looked at Lucy.

"Oh, drop it, you’re here now," said Lucy lightly.

She had to avoid criticizing Cecil. It was all about Cecil, even though his name wasn't mentioned.

"That’s what George says. He says the Miss Alans need to go. But it does seem kinda harsh."

"There’s only so much kindness in the world," said George, watching the sunlight flash on the car windows.

"Exactly!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. " That’s what I’m saying. Why all this fuss over two Miss Alans?"

"There’s only so much kindness, just like there’s only so much light," he continued in a calm voice. " We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it’s no use moving around to save things; because the shadow always follows."

"Choose a place where you won’t do harm - yeah, choose a place where you won’t do much harm, and stand in it for all you’re worth, facing the sunshine."

"Oh, Mr. Emerson, you’re so clever!" "Huh - ?"

"I see you’re trying to be clever. I hope you didn’t go messing with poor Freddy."

George’s eyes were laughing, and Lucy suspected he and her mom would really hit it off.

"No, I didn’t," he said. " He was the one acting up. That’s just his thing. He starts out that way; I just tried the whole questioning thing first."

"What do you mean? Never mind, don’t explain. He’s looking forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you even like tennis on Sundays - ?"

"George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after all his schooling, can tell the difference between Sunday - "

"Okay, George doesn’t mind tennis on Sunday. Neither do I. That’s settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son, we’d really appreciate it."

He thanked her, but the walk sounded pretty far; he could only chill around these days.

She turned to George: "And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans."

"I know," said George, and put his arm around his dad’s neck.

The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known was in him suddenly came out, like sunlight hitting a huge landscape - a touch of morning sun? She remembered that even when he was being difficult, he’s never spoken against affection.

Miss Bartlett approached.

"You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett," said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly. " You met her with my daughter in Florence."

"Yes, indeed!" said the old man, and started to come out of the garden to meet the lady.

Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. From there, she gave a formal bow. It was the same old Bertolini pension, the dining table with all the decanters of water and wine. It was the same old battle over the room with the view.

George didn’t respond to the bow. Like any guy, he blushed and felt awkward; he knew the chaperone remembered. He said, "I - I’ll come up to tennis if I can manage it," and went inside.

Maybe anything he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; guys weren’t gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls. Even guys could have unexplained desires, and need help.

To someone like her, with her background and plans, the weakness of guys was a new truth, but she’s suspected it in Florence, when George threw her photos in the Arno River.

"George, don’t go," cried his father, who thought it was a real treat for people if his son would talk to them. " George has been in such a good mood today, and I’m sure he’s going to end up coming up this afternoon."

Lucy caught her cousin’s eye. Something in its quiet appeal made her reckless. " Yes," she said, raising her voice, "I really hope he will. Then she went to the carriage and murmured, "The old man hasn’t been told; I knew it was all good.

Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away.

Glad that Mr. Emerson hadn’t been told about the Florence thing; but Lucy’s spirits shouldn’t have jumped up like she’s seen the gates of heaven. Glad; but she definitely greeted it with too much joy.

All the way home, the horses’ hooves sang a tune to her: "He hasn’t told, he hasn’t told."

Her brain expanded the melody: "He hasn’t told his father - to whom he tells everything. It wasn’t a big deal. He didn’t laugh at her when she’d left. She raised her hand to her cheek. " He doesn’t love me. No. How terrible if he did!

But he hasn’t told. He won’t tell."

She wanted to shout the words: "It’s all good. It’s a secret between us forever. Cecil will never hear.

She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening in Florence, when they’d knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or small, was safe.

Only three people in the world knew about it. That’s how she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she

"The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has really stepped up."

"How are my protégés?" asked Cecil, who honestly wasnn't that invested in them, and had totally forgotten he’s supposed to bring them to Windy Corner for some educational thing.

"Protégés!" she exclaimed, sounding pretty enthusiastic.

For Cecil, relationships were like a medieval lord and his vassals - protector and protected. He didn’t get the idea of being friends or equals, which is what she really wanted.

"You’re gonna see for yourself how your protégés are doing. George Emerson is coming up this afternoon. He’s a really interesting guy to talk to. Just don’t - " She almost said, "Don’t baby him."

But the lunch bell rang, and, like it often did, Cecil hadn’t really paid attention to what she was saying. Charm, not arguing, was her strategy.

Lunch was a pretty chill meal. Usually Lucy felt down during meals. Someone always needed cheering up - either Cecil or Miss Bartlett, or some unseen force whispering, "Don’t get too hyped, this won’t last.

In January you’re going to London to entertain the grandkids of famous people."

But today she felt like she had a guarantee. Her mom would always be there, her brother here. The sun, even though it had moved a bit since morning, would never disappear behind the hills. After lunch, they asked her to play.

She’s seen Gluck’s Armide this year, and played from memory the music from the enchanted garden - the music when Renaud approaches, under the light of an eternal dawn, the music that just flows forever, like the calm seas of a fairytale.

That kind of music isn’t really for piano, and her audience started to get bored, and Cecil, feeling the same way, called out, "Now play us the other garden - the one in Parsifal." She closed the piano lid.

"Not very cooperative," her mom’s voice said.

Worried she’s upset Cecil, she turned around quickly. And there was George. He’s slipped in without interrupting her.

"Oh, I didn’t even realize!" she exclaimed, blushing; and then, without even saying hi, she opened the piano again. Cecil could have Parsifal, and anything else he wanted.

"Our performer changed her mind," Miss Bartlett said, maybe implying she’s gonna play the music for Mr. Emerson.

Lucy didn’t know what to do, or even what she wanted to do. She played a few bars of the Flower Maidens’ song pretty badly and then stopped.

"I vote tennis," said Freddy, totally over the lame entertainment.

"Yeah, me too." She closed the piano lid again. " I vote you have a men’s four." "Okay."

"Not for me, thanks," said Cecil. " I don’t want to mess up the game."

He never realized that it’s actually a kind thing for a bad player to fill in a spot.

"Oh, come on Cecil. I’m terrible, Floyd’s awful, and I bet Emerson isn’t that great either."

George corrected him: "I’m not bad."

Someone looked down their nose at that. " Then definitely I’m not playing," said Cecil, while Miss Bartlett, thinking she was putting down George, added, "I agree with you, Mr. Vyse. You really shouldn’t play. You really shouldn’t."

Minnie, barging in where Cecil was afraid to go, announced she’s play. " I’m gonna miss every ball anyway, so what’s the big deal?" But Sunday came along and shut that idea down.

"Then it’s gotta be Lucy," said Mrs. Honeychurch; "you have to rely on Lucy. There’s no other way out of it. Lucy, go change your dress."

Lucy’s Sundays were usually like that. She kept it in the morning, and broke it without a second thought in the afternoon.

As she changed, she wondered if Cecil was making fun of her; she really needed to get herself together and sort everything out before she married him.

Mr. Floyd was her partner. She liked music, but tennis seemed way better. It was so much more fun to run around in comfy clothes than to sit at the piano and feel trapped. Music felt like something a kid would do.

George was serving, and she was surprised by how badly he wanted to win.

She remembered how he’s sighed amongst the tombs at Santa Croce because things weren’t fitting together, and how, after that obscure Italian died, he leaned over the parapet by the Arno and told her, "I’m gonna live, you know?"

He wanted to live now - to win at tennis, to stand tall and proud in the sun - the sun that was starting to set and shining right in her eyes; and he did win.

Wow, the Weald looked gorgeous! The hills stood out against its glow, just like Fiesole above the Tuscan Plain, and the South Downs were basically the mountains of Carrara.

She might be forgetting Italy, but she was noticing so much more about England.

You could play a whole new game with the view, trying to find a town or village that could stand in for Florence. Seriously, the Weald looked amazing!

But now Cecil was claiming her. He was in a surprisingly clear-headed, critical mood and wasn’t feeling the excitement.

He’s been kind of a drag throughout the tennis because the novel he was reading was so bad that he had to read it out loud to everyone.

He’s been wandering around the tennis court, calling out, "Hey, listen to this! Three split infinitives."

"That’s awful!" Lucy said, and totally missed her shot.

When they finished their set, he was still reading - there was some murder scene, and honestly, everyone had to listen. Freddy and Mr. Floyd had to hunt for a lost ball in the laurels, but the others just went along with it.

"The scene is set in Florence."

"How cool, Cecil! Read away. Come on, Mr. Emerson, relax after all that energy."

She'd "forgiven" George, as she put it, and made a point of being nice to him.

He jumped over the net and sat down at her feet, asking, "You - are you tired?" "Of course not!" "Do you mind losing?"

She was about to say, "No," when she realized she actually did mind, so she said, "Yeah. She added playfully, "I don’t see you as such a great player, though. The sun was behind you, and it was in my eyes. "I never said I was.

"Yes, you did! "You’re mistaken."

"You said - oh, don’t worry about being accurate at this place. We all exaggerate, and we get really mad at people who don’t."

"‘The scene is laid in Florence,’" repeated Cecil, with a sarcastic tone. Lucy shook herself.

"‘Sunset. Leonora was speeding - ’"

Lucy interrupted. " Leonora? Is she the heroine? Who wrote the book?"

"Joseph Emery Prank. ‘ Sunset. Leonora speeding across the square. Pray the saints she might not arrive too late. Sunset - the sunset of Italy. Under Orcagna’s Loggia - the Loggia de’ Lanzi, as we sometimes call it now - ’"

Lucy burst out laughing. "‘ Joseph Emery Prank’ seriously! It’s Miss Lavish! It’s Miss Lavish’s novel, and she’s publishing it under someone else’s name." "Who is Miss Lavish?"

"Oh, a total disaster - Mr. Emerson, you remember Miss Lavish?"

Excited by her fun afternoon, she clapped her hands.

George looked up. " Of course I do. I saw her the day I arrived at Summer Street. She told me you lived here."

Were you excited? She meant to see Miss Lavish, but when he bent down to the grass without replying, it hit her that she could mean something else.

She watched his head, which was almost resting against her knee, and she thought his ears were turning red.

"No wonder the novel’s bad," she added. " I never liked Miss Lavish. But I guess you gotta read it since you met her."

"All modern books are trash," said Cecil, annoyed by her lack of attention and venting his frustration on literature. " Everyone writes for money these days."

"Oh, Cecil - !" "Seriously? I’m not messing with you anymore." Cecil was practically buzzing this afternoon.

His voice went up and down a ton, but it didn’t even register with her. She’s spent so much time around music and movement, her nerves just didn’t react to his drama. Leaving him to fume, she looked at his dark hair again.

She didn’t want to touch it, but she could totally see herself wanting to. It was a weird feeling.

"So, what do you think of our view, Mr. Emerson?"

"I honestly don’t notice much difference." "What do you mean?"

"Because they all look the same. All that matters is how far away things are and the air."

"Hmm," said Cecil, unsure if that was a brilliant thing to say or not.

"My dad" - he looked up at her (and he was a little flushed) - "says there’s only one perfect view - looking straight up at the sky, and all these views on earth are just bad copies of it."

"Sounds like your dad’s been reading Dante," said Cecil, fiddling with the novel, which was the only thing letting him steer the conversation.

"He told us another day that views are really just crowds - crowds of trees, houses, and hills - and they’re bound to look alike, like a crowd of people - and that the power they have over us is sometimes totally unreal, for the same reason.

Lucy’s lips parted.

"A crowd is more than just the people in it. Something gets added to it - no one knows how - just like something’s been added to those hills." He pointed with his racquet towards the South Downs.

"That’s such a cool idea!" she murmured. " I’m so excited to hear your dad talk again. I’m really sorry he’s not feeling well." "He’s not doing great."

"There’s this crazy thing about a view in this book," said Cecil. " Also, people fall into two groups - those who forget views and those who remember them, even in tiny rooms."

"Mr. Emerson, do you have any brothers or sisters?" "Nope. Why?" "You said ‘us.’"

"I meant my mom." Cecil slammed the novel shut.

"Oh, Cecil - you made me jump!"

"Seriously? I’m not messing with you anymore."

"I can barely remember all three of us going to the countryside for the day and seeing as far as Hindhead. It's the first thing I remember."

Cecil got up; the guy was rude - he hadn’t even put on his coat after tennis - it was just weird. He would have walked away if Lucy hadn’t stopped him.

"Cecil, read the thing about the view."

"Not while Mr. Emerson is here to entertain us."

"No - go ahead and read it. I think it’s hilarious to hear silly things read out loud. If Mr. Emerson thinks we’re shallow, he can leave." That struck Cecil as clever, and he liked it.

It put their visitor in a super-square position. A little calmer, he sat back down.

"Mr. Emerson, go find some tennis balls." She opened the book.

Cecil could have his reading and whatever else he wanted. But her mind drifted to George’s mom, who - according to Mr. Eager - had been murdered in front of God and - according to her son - had seen as far as Hindhead.

"Am I actually going to leave?" asked George. "No, of course not, really."

"Chapter two," said Cecil, yawning. " Find chapter two, if you don’t mind." Chapter two was found, and she scanned the first few lines.

She thought she was losing it.

"Here - hand me the book." She heard her own voice saying: "It’s not worth reading - it’s too silly - I’ve never seen such garbage - it shouldn’t even be printed." He took the book from her.

"‘Leonora,’" he read, "‘sat pensive and alone. Before her lay the rich landscape of Tuscany, dotted with many a charming village. It was springtime.’"

Miss Lavish knew, somehow, and had printed the past in boring language, for Cecil to read and for George to hear.

"‘A golden haze,’" he read. He read: "‘Far away, the towers of Florence, while the bank where she sat was covered in violets. Without her noticing, Antonio quietly snuck up behind her - ’"

Worried Cecil would see her face, she turned to George and caught his gaze.

He read: "‘He didn't make any flowery declarations like formal lovers do. He wasn't a smooth talker, but he didn’t need to be. He simply wrapped her up in his strong arms.’"

"This isn’t the part I was looking for," he told them. " There’s a much funnier one later on." He flipped through the pages.

"Should we go get tea?" Lucy asked, her voice calm.

She led the way through the garden, Cecil following, with George bringing up the rear. She thought they'd dodged a bullet. But when they stepped into the bushes, it happened.

The book, as if it hadn’t caused enough drama, had been left behind, and Cecil had to go back for it; and George, who was totally into her, tripped over her in the narrow path.

"No - " she gasped, and, for the second time, he kissed her.

Like it was all she could handle, he stepped back; Cecil joined them; they made it to the upper lawn alone.