Part 1 · Chapter 5Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing

It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn. She seemed totally fine and reasonable about Lucy’s adventure, thought the shortened version was good enough, and gave Mr.

George Emerson the proper credit. Charlotte and Miss Lavish had their own little drama too.

They got stopped at the customs coming back, and these young officials, who seemed bored and a little cocky, tried to search their purses for snacks. It could have been seriously awkward. Luckily, Miss Lavish could handle herself.

For better or worse, Lucy was left to deal with her situation on her own. None of her friends had seen her, either in the square or, later, by the riverbank. Mr.

Beebe, noticing her wide eyes at dinner, repeated to himself, "Too much Beethoven."

But he just assumed she was ready for something exciting, not that she’s actually found it. Being alone like that was rough; she was used to having her thoughts confirmed or, at least, argued with.

It was totally unsettling not knowing if she was even thinking straight.

The next morning at breakfast, she decided to take action. She had two options. Mr. Beebe was heading up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Charlotte and Miss Honeychurch join?

Charlotte said no for herself; she’s been there in the rain the day before.

But she thought it would be perfect for Lucy, who hated shopping, exchanging money, picking up mail, and all those other annoying things - all of which Charlotte had to do this morning and could easily handle on her own.

"No, Charlotte!" the girl said, with real enthusiasm. " It’s really nice of Mr. Beebe, but I’m definitely coming with you. I’d much rather."

"Okay, dear," said Charlotte, with a tiny smile that made Lucy feel a sudden wave of embarrassment.

How badly she acted towards Charlotte, always! But this time, she would change. All morning, she’d be genuinely nice to her.

She slipped her arm into her cousin’s, and they started walking along the Arno River. The river looked powerful that morning, with its strength, sound, and color. Charlotte insisted on leaning over the edge to look at it.

Then she made her usual comment, "Oh, how I wish Freddy and your mom could see this, too!"

Lucy shifted her weight; it was annoying that Charlotte had stopped exactly where she did.

"Look, Lucy! Oh, you’re watching for the Torre del Gallo group. I was worried you’d regret your choice."

As serious as the decision had been, Lucy didn’t regret it.

Yesterday had been a mess - weird and random, the kind of thing you couldn’t easily write down - but she felt like Charlotte and the shopping were better than George Emerson and the top of the Torre del Gallo.

Since she couldn’t sort everything out, she had to be careful not to get tangled up again. She could definitely call out Charlotte’s little digs.

But even though she’d avoided the main guy, the scenery was still there. Charlotte, with a sense of inevitability, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria.

She couldn’t believe that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, could feel so significant.

For a moment, she understood what ghosts were like.

The exact spot of the drama was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She greeted them cheerfully. The awful event from the day before had given her an idea that could turn into a book.

"Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Charlotte. " After your despair yesterday! What a lucky thing!"

"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the very beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.

"But maybe you’d rather not?" "I’m sorry - if you could manage without it, I think I’d rather not."

The older women exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it's fine for a girl to feel things deeply.

"I’m sorry," said Miss Lavish. " We writers are a bunch of shameless people. I think there’s no secret of the human heart we wouldn’t pry into."

She cheerfully marched to the fountain and back, and did some calculations, keeping it real. Then she said she’s been in the Piazza since eight o’clock gathering material. A lot of it was unusable, but you gotta adapt, right?

Two guys had argued over a five-euro bill.

She’s gonna swap that out for a young woman, which will class up the tragedy and give her a killer plot.

"What’s the heroine’s name?" asked Miss Bartlett.

"Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.

"I hope she’s nice." That was definitely happening.

"And what’s the plot?" Love, murder, abduction, revenge - that’s the plot. But it all played out while the fountain splashed near the satyrs in the morning sun.

"I hope you’ll excuse me for rambling like this," Miss Lavish concluded. " It’s so tempting to talk to really understanding people. Of course, this is just the bare bones.

There’s gonna be tons of details, descriptions of Florence and the area, and I’m also throwing in some funny characters."

"And fair warning: I’m gonna be brutal to the British tourists."

"Oh, you’re a wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. " I bet you’re thinking of the Emersons." Miss Lavish gave a sly smile.

"I confess that in Italy, my sympathies aren’t with my own countrymen. It’s the overlooked Italians who attract me, and whose lives I’m going to paint as best I can."

"And let me repeat and insist, and I’ve always strongly believed, that a tragedy like yesterday’s isn’t any less tragic just because it happened to regular people." There was a thoughtful silence when Miss Lavish was done.

Then the cousins wished her luck with her work and slowly walked across the square.

"She’s my idea of a really smart woman," said Miss Bartlett. " That last comment hit me hard. It’s gonna be a really sad novel." Lucy agreed.

Right now, her biggest goal was to not get put in it. Her perceptions this morning were super sharp, and she felt like Miss Lavish was testing her out for a naive girl.

"She’s liberated, but only in the best way," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. " Only shallow people would be shocked by her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human connection.

She also told me she has a high opinion of women's potential - Mr. Eager!"

"Seriously, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!"

"Not for me," said the chaplain casually. " I’m been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for a while now."

"We were chatting with Miss Lavish." His forehead furrowed.

"So I saw. Really? Andate via! sono occupato!"

The last comment was directed at a vendor of panoramic photos who was approaching with a friendly smile. " I’m gonna suggest something. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be up for a drive sometime this week - a drive in the hills?

We could go up to Fiesole and back through Settignano."

There’s a spot on that road where we could stop and wander around the hillside for an hour. The view of Florence from there is amazing - way better than the typical view from Fiesole.

It’s the view that Alessio Baldovinetti liked to use in his paintings. That guy had a real eye for landscape.

"Seriously. But who looks at it these days? Ah, the world is too much for us."

Miss Bartlett had never heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew Mr. Eager wasn’t your average chaplain. He was part of the expat community who’s made Florence their home.

He knew the people who didn't bother with guidebooks, who knew how to take a siesta after lunch, who went on drives that typical tourists had never even heard of, and could get into galleries that were totally off-limits to them.

Living quietly, some in apartments, others in gorgeous Renaissance villas on Fiesole’s hillside, they read, wrote, studied, and bounced ideas off each other, gaining that deep understanding - or rather, feeling - of Florence that you just don’t get if you’re glued to your travel package.

So, an invite from the chaplain was a big deal.

He was often the only connection between the different groups of expats, and he’s known for picking out those of his "flock" who seemed interesting and giving them a few hours to hang out with the permanent residents.

Tea at a Renaissance villa?

Nothing had been mentioned yet. But if it happened - Lucy would love it!

A few days ago, Lucy would have felt the same way. But life's joys were shifting around. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett - even if it ended in a fancy tea party - wasn’t the ultimate thing anymore.

She echoed Charlotte’s excitement, but not quite as enthusiastically.

She only really perked up when she heard Mr. Beebe was coming too.

"So, we’re a quartet," said the chaplain. " These days are hectic and stressful, and we all need a little peace and quiet and the beauty of the countryside. Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah, the city!

Beautiful as it is, it's still the city. They agreed.

"Apparently, this very square witnessed a really awful tragedy yesterday. For someone who loves the Florence of Dante and Savonarola, it’s pretty shocking - shocking and embarrassing."

"Truly embarrassing," said Miss Bartlett. " Poor Miss Honeychurch happened to be walking by. She’s having a hard time even talking about it." She looked at Lucy with pride.

"How did you end up here?" asked the chaplain kindly.

Miss Bartlett’s newfound openness faded at the question. " Don’t blame her, please, Mr. Eager. It was my fault: I let her wander off without a chaperone."

"So you were here alone, Miss Honeychurch?"

His voice was sympathetic but also hinted that he’s totally ready for all the juicy details. His dark, good-looking face drooped towards her, trying to catch her response. "Basically."

"A friendly tourist kindly walked her home," added Miss Bartlett, carefully avoiding mentioning the tourist was a guy.

"That must have been a terrible experience for you. I hope you weren’t too close - that it wasn’t right in front of you?"

Of all the things Lucy was noticing today, the strangest was how normal people would obsess over something like this. George Emerson had handled the subject with such a clean perspective.

"He died by the fountain, I think," she replied. "And you and your friend - ?" "Were over at the Loggia."

"That probably saved you a lot. You haven’t, of course, seen the awful pictures the tabloids are putting out - This guy’s a menace; he knows I live here, and yet he keeps trying to get me to buy his trashy views."

Seriously, the photographer was probably in cahoots with Lucy - in Italy’s eternal connection with youth. He suddenly extended his book in front of Miss Bartlett and Mr.

Eager, binding their hands together with a long, shiny ribbon of churches, paintings, and views.

"This is ridiculous!" cried the chaplain, playfully swatting at one of Fra Angelico’s angels.

It tore. A high-pitched cry rose from the vendor. The book, it seemed, was way more valuable than anyone would have guessed.

"I’d totally buy - " Miss Bartlett started.

"Just ignore him," Mr. Eager snapped, and they all walked really fast away from the square.

But you can’t just ignore an Italian, especially when he's got a beef. His relentless harassment of Mr. Eager was wild; the air was filled with threats and complaints. He hit up Lucy - wouldn’t she put in a good word?

He was broke - supporting a family - the price of bread was crazy.

He waited, he ranted, he got some compensation, but he was still unhappy, and he didnn't leave them alone until he’d totally messed with their heads, whether they were feeling good or not.

Shopping was the next thing they talked about.

With the chaplain’s help, they picked out a bunch of seriously ugly gifts and souvenirs - florid little picture frames that looked like they were made of gold cake; other, more serious frames that stood on little easels and were carved out of oak; a fancy blotting pad; a Dante made of the same stuff; cheap mosaic brooches that the maids would never realize weren’t real; pins, pots, heraldic saucers, brown art photos; Eros and Psyche in alabaster; a matching St

. Peter - all of which would’ve cost way less in London.

This successful morning didn’t leave Lucy feeling great. She’d been a little freaked out by both Miss Lavish and Mr. Eager, and she didn’t even know why. And because they’d freaked her out, she’d kind of stopped respecting them.

She doubted Miss Lavish was a major artist.

She doubted Mr. Eager was as spiritual and cultured as she'd been led to believe. They were put through some kind of test, and they failed. As for Charlotte - Charlotte was exactly the same.

You could be nice to her, but it was impossible to love her.

"He’s the son of a working-class guy; I know it for a fact. A mechanic or something when he was younger, then he started writing for the Socialistic Press. I ran into him in Brixton." They were talking about the Emersons.

"It’s amazing how people rise up these days!" Miss Bartlett sighed, fiddling with a model of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

"Usually," Mr. Eager replied, "you just feel bad for their success. The desire for education and social advancement - there’s something good in that.

There are some working men I’d totally be down to see out here in Florence - even if they wouldn’t get much out of it."

"Is he a journalist now?" Miss Bartlett asked.

"He’s not; he made a smart marriage." He said this with a loaded voice, and ended with a sigh. "Oh, so he has a wife."

"Dead, Miss Bartlett, dead. I wonder - yes, I wonder how he has the nerve to look me in the face, to even pretend to be acquainted with me. He was in my London parish a long time ago.

The other day in Santa Croce, when he was with Miss Honeychurch, I gave him the cold shoulder."

Let him watch out if he tries to get more than that. What? Lucy cried, blushing.

"Exposure!" Mr. Eager hissed. He tried to change the subject, but in making a dramatic point, he’d gotten his audience more interested than he intended.

Miss Bartlett was full of natural curiosity. Lucy, even though she never wanted to see the Emersons again, wasn’t ready to condemn them based on a single word.

"Do you mean," she asked, "that he’s a bad person? We already know that."

"Lucy, dear - " Miss Bartlett said gently, correcting her cousin.

"I’d be shocked if you knew everything. The boy - he was just a kid at the time - I’ll leave him out. God knows what his upbringing and his inherited traits have made him into."

"Maybe," Miss Bartlett said, "it’s something we shouldn’t hear."

"To be blunt," Mr. Eager said, "it is. I won’t say any more."

For the first time, Lucy’s rebellious thoughts came out in words - for the first time in her life. "You’ve said very little."

"That was the plan," was his icy reply.

He stared at the girl, totally annoyed, and she shot back with the same energy. She’s been standing at the shop counter, and her chest was rising and falling fast. He noticed her furrowed brow and the sudden firmness of her lips.

It was seriously unfair that she didn’t believe him.

"Murder, okay?" he practically yelled, angry. " That guy murdered his wife!" "How?" she challenged.

"Like, totally murdered her. That day in Santa Croce - did they say anything bad about me?"

"Not a word, Mr. Eager - seriously, not a single word."

"Ugh, I thought they’d been trashing me to you. But I guess it’s just their charm that makes you defend them."

"I’m not defending them," said Lucy, feeling her confidence drain, and reverting to her usual chaotic way of doing things. " They’re nothing to me."

"How could you think she was defending them?" said Miss Bartlett, clearly uncomfortable with the awkward scene.

The shop employee was probably listening.

"She’s gonna have a tough time. Because that guy murdered his wife right in front of God."

Adding God was a little intense. But the chaplain was really just trying to take back a hasty comment. An awkward silence hung in the air. Then Miss Bartlett quickly bought a print of the Leaning Tower and hurried into the street.

"I gotta go," he said, closing his eyes and checking his watch.

Miss Bartlett thanked him for his kindness and spoke enthusiastically about the upcoming drive.

"Drive? Oh, is our drive still happening?"

Lucy remembered to act polite, and after a little effort, Mr. Eager seemed to calm down.

"Whatever about the drive!" exclaimed the girl as soon as he left. " It’s just the drive we’re doing with Mr. Beebe, no big deal. Why did he have to invite us like that? We could just pay for ourselves."

Miss Bartlett, who had been planning to complain about the Emersons, suddenly found herself thinking about something else entirely.

"If that’s the case, dear - if the drive we’re doing with Mr. Beebe and Mr. Eager is the same one we’re doing with Mr. Beebe, then I’m predicting a total mess." "How?"

"Because Mr. Beebe asked Eleanor Lavish to come, too." "That means another car."

"Way worse. Mr. Eager really doesn’t like Eleanor. She knows it. The truth is, she’s too different for him."

They were now in the newspaper room at the English bank. Lucy stood by the central table, ignoring Punch and the Graphic, trying to figure out how to answer, or at least to formulate, the questions swirling around in her head.

The world she knew had completely changed, and there was Florence, a magical city where people thought and did the most unbelievable things.

Murder, accusations of murder, a woman clinging to one man and being rude to another - were these everyday occurrences in the city’s streets?

Was there more to her obvious beauty than met the eye - perhaps the power to stir up emotions, both good and bad, and to bring them to a quick conclusion?

Happy Charlotte, who, though totally stressed about things that didn't really matter, seemed oblivious to the things that did; who could guess with amazing insight "where things might lead to," but somehow always missed the point as she got closer.

Now she was crouching in the corner, trying to pull a circular note out of a kind of linen pouch hanging discreetly around her neck.

She'd been told that was the safest way to carry money in Italy; it could only be opened inside the English bank.

As she fumbled around, she muttered, "I’m not sure if Mr. Beebe forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or if Mr.

Eager forgot when he told us, or if they just decided to leave Eleanor out altogether - which they really couldn’t do - but either way, we need to be ready."

"They’ll really be after you; I’m just there for show. You’ll go with the two gentlemen, and Eleanor and I will follow behind. A beat-up old carriage would be fine for us. But seriously, this is so tricky!"

"It really is," replied the girl, sounding sympathetic.

"What do you think about it?" asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle and buttoning up her dress.

"Honestly, I donn't even know what I think, or what I want."

"Oh, dear, Lucy! I really hope Florence isn’t boring you. Say the word, and, like I’ve told you, I’d take you to the ends of the earth tomorrow."

"Thanks, Charlotte," said Lucy, thinking about the offer.

There were letters for her at the desk - one from her brother, all about sports and biology; one from her mom, as delightful as only her mom’s letters could be.

She read about the crocuses they’d bought for yellow that were coming up purple, about the new housekeeper who watered the ferns with lemonade, and about the semi-detached houses ruining Summer Street and breaking Sir Harry Otway’s heart.

She remembered the free, easygoing life back home, where she could do anything and nothing ever happened to her.

The road through the pine woods, the bright living room, the view over the Sussex countryside - all were vivid and clear, but sad, like pictures in a museum that a traveler returns to after a long time.

"And any news?" asked Miss Bartlett.

"Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome," said Lucy, sharing the news she cared about the least. " Do you know the Vyses?"

"Oh, not really. We could always use more of the gorgeous Piazza Signoria."

"They’s nice people, the Vyses. They’s so smart - my idea of what’s truly smart. Don’t you just want to be in Rome?" "I’m dying to be!"

The Piazza Signoria is too stony to be amazing. It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no shimmering marble walls, or comforting patches of red brick.

By a weird coincidence - unless you believe in a guiding spirit of places - the statues that break up its harshness suggest, not the innocence of childhood, or the exciting confusion of youth, but the conscious achievements of adulthood.

Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they’re done something or suffered something, and though they’re immortal, their immortality came after experience, not before.

Here, not just in the quietness of nature, could a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god.

"Charlotte!" cried the girl suddenly. " I have an idea! What if we just booked it to Rome tomorrow - straight to the Vyses’ hotel? Because I know what I want. I’m over Florence. No, you said you’d go to the ends of the earth! Do it! Do it!"

Miss Bartlett, with the same energy, replied:

"Oh, you’re hilarious! What would happen to your drive in the hills?"

They walked together through the stark beauty of the square, laughing about the unrealistic idea.