Part 2 · Chapter 8Medieval

The curtains in the living room at Windy Corner were drawn tight - the new carpet needed protecting from the August sun. They were thick, almost reaching the floor, and the light filtering through was soft and diffused.

A poet - if there had been one around - might have said, "Life’s like a stained-glass window," or compared the curtains to floodgates holding back the intense heat of the sky.

Outside, it was a sea of sunshine; inside, the light was toned down, made bearable.

Two chill people were hanging out in the room. One - a nineteen-year-old guy - was studying a small anatomy manual, occasionally checking out a bone lying on the piano.

He bounced in his chair and groaned a lot, because it was hot, the print was tiny, and the human body is seriously complicated.

His mom, who was writing a letter, kept reading aloud what she’s written. She’s also constantly getting up and pulling back the curtains so a stream of light fell across the carpet, reminding them that the sun was still there.

"Where isn’t it?" said the boy, Freddy, Lucy’s brother. " I’m honestly feeling kinda gross."

"Seriously, just get out of my living room?" Mrs. Honeychurch said, hoping to ditch her kids' slang by taking it literally. Freddy didn’t move or reply.

"I think things are reaching a breaking point," she said, really wanting her son’s take on the situation without begging for it. "About time."

"I’m glad Cecil is bringing it up again."

"It’s his third attempt, right?"

"Freddy, the way you talk is so rude."

"I didn’t mean to be rude." Then he added,

"But I do think Lucy could have gotten this off her chest in Italy. I don’t know how girls handle things, but she couldn’t have said ‘no’ properly before, or she wouldn’t have to say it again now.

The whole thing - it’s hard to explain - I just feel so weird about it."

"You do indeed? How interesting!"

"I feel - never mind." He went back to his studies.

"Just listen to what I wrote to Mrs. Vyse. I wrote: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse.’"

"Yeah, Mom, you told me. A really good letter."

"I wrote: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil just asked me for my permission about it, and I’d be delighted if Lucy wants it. But - ’" She stopped reading, "I was kind of amused that Cecil even asked my permission.

He’s always been unconventional, parents nowhere, and all that."

"When it comes down to it, he can’t do without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded. "What do you mean?"

"He asked me for my permission, too." She exclaimed, "How odd!"

"Why?" asked the son and heir. " Why shouldn’t my permission be asked?"

"What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What did you say?"

"I told Cecil, ‘Take her or leave her; it’s not my business!’"

"What a helpful answer!" But her own answer, though worded more normally, had been basically the same.

"The problem is this," began Freddy.

Then he went back to his work, too shy to say what the problem was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.

"Freddy, you have to come. They’re still there!"

"I don’t see why you should be peeking like that."

"Peeking like that! Can’t I look out of my own window?"

But she returned to the writing-table, glancing at her son as she passed, "Still on page three hundred and twenty-two? Freddy snorted and flipped over a couple of pages. They were quiet for a moment.

Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation never stopped.

"I seriously messed up with Cecil, big time." He took a nervous gulp. " He wasn’t satisfied with just ‘permission’ - I gave it, I said, ‘Whatever, I don’t mind’ - but he wanted to know if I was even remotely happy about it."

"He basically put it like this: Wouldn’t it be a total win for Lucy and Windy Corner if he married her? And he needed an answer - he said it would give him an edge."

"I hope you gave a thoughtful answer, honey."

"I said ‘No,’" said the boy, grinding his teeth. " There! Now I’m totally in a mess! I can’t help it - I had to say it. I shouldn’t have been asked in the first place."

"Ridiculous!" cried his mother. " You think you’re so perfect and honest, but honestly, it’s just plain arrogant. Do you really think Cecil would care what you think? I hope he gave you a piece of his mind. How could you even say no?"

"Oh, please, Mom, chill out! I had to say no when I couldn’t say yes. I tried to play it cool, like I didn’t mean what I said, and, since Cecil laughed too and left, it might be okay. But I feel like I'm in way over my head.

Just, please, let me focus and do some work."

"No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, sounding like she’s thought about it a lot, "I’m not going to be quiet.

You know everything that happened between them in Rome; you know why he's here, and yet you deliberately insult him and try to kick him out of my house."

"Not at all!" he pleaded. " I just let it slip that I didn’t like him. I don’t hate him, but I’m not a fan. What I’m worried about is that he’ll tell Lucy."

He glanced at the curtains looking totally bummed.

"Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. " I know his mom; he’s good, smart, rich, and well-connected - Oh, you don’t have to kick the piano! He’s well-connected - I’m saying it again if you want: he’s got connections.

She paused, like she’s practicing a speech, but her face still looked unhappy.

She added: "And he’s got good manners, too."

"I liked him until just now. I guess it’s him crashing Lucy’s first week home; and it’s also something Mr. Beebe said, totally clueless."

"Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to hide how interested she was. " I don’t get how Mr. Beebe’s involved."

"You know Mr. Beebe’s weird way of talking, where you never quite know what he means. He said: ‘Mr. Vyse is the perfect bachelor. I was being sarcastic, I asked him what he meant. He said ‘Oh, he’s like me - better off single.

I couldn’t get him to say anything else, but it got me thinking."

"Since Cecil has been chasing after Lucy, he hasn’t been very pleasant, at least - I can’t really explain."

"You never can, sweetie. But I can. You’re jealous of Cecil because he might stop you from getting Lucy to knit you silk ties."

The explanation seemed to make sense, and Freddy tried to accept it. But in the back of his mind, there was a nagging feeling of doubt. Cecil was praising him too much for being athletic. Was that it?

Cecil was letting him talk in his own way. This was exhausting. Was that it?

And Cecil was the type of guy who would never wear another guy’s hat. Unaware of how deep he was thinking, Freddy stopped himself. He had to be jealous, or he wouldn't dislike a guy for such dumb reasons.

"Does this sound right?" called his mother. "‘ Dear Mrs. Vyse, - Cecil just asked for my permission about it, and I’m totally down if Lucy wants it. Then I added at the top, ‘and I told Lucy so.

I have to rewrite the letter - ‘and I told Lucy so."

But Lucy seems really unsure, and these days, young people have to decide for themselves.’ I said that because I didn’t want Mrs. Vyse to think we’re old-fashioned.

"She’s obsessed with lectures and improving her mind, and all the time there’s a layer of dust under the beds, and the maid’s dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that place ridiculously - "

"If Lucy marries Cecil, will they live in a flat, or in the country?"

"Don’t interrupt like that. Where was I? Oh, right - ‘Young people gotta figure things out for themselves. Lucy likes your son, she tells me everything, and she even wrote to me from Rome when he asked her out.

Nah, I’ll scratch that last bit out - it sounds kinda condescending."

"I’ll just stop at ‘because she tells me everything.’ Or should I cross that out, too?"

"Cross it out, too," said Freddy. Mrs. Honeychurch left it in.

"Then it says: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse. - Cecil just asked for my permission, and I’d be thrilled if Lucy’s okay with it, and I told Lucy so. But she seems really unsure, and these days young people gotta make their own decisions.

Lucy likes your son, she tells me everything."

But I don’t know - ’ Look out! cried Freddy. The curtains parted.

Cecil’s first move was a little annoyed. He couldn’t stand the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to protect the furniture. He instinctively gave the curtains a yank, sending them swinging down their poles. Sunlight flooded in.

And there was a terrace, like you see at a lot of villas, with trees on either side, and a little rustic bench, and two flowerbeds.

But it was totally transformed by the view beyond, because Windy Corner was built on a hill overlooking the Sussex Weald.

Lucy, who was sitting on the bench, looked like she was perched on the edge of a green magic carpet floating above the world. Cecil walked in.

He needed to be described right away. He was, like, medieval. Like a Gothic statue.

Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced and a head tilted a little higher than normal, he resembled those fancy saints guarding the entrance to a French cathedral.

Well-educated, good-looking, and physically fit, he was still trapped by this thing called self-consciousness - which the modern world knows all about, but the medieval era just worshipped as asceticism.

A Gothic statue suggests celibacy, just like a Greek statue suggests being fulfilled, and maybe that’s what Mr. Beebe meant.

And Freddy, who didn't care about history or art, probably meant the same when he couldn’t imagine Cecil wearing someone else’s hat.

Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards him.

"Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed - "oh, Cecil, tell me everything!" "I promessi sposi," he said. They stared at him, confused.

"She said yes," he said, and saying it in English made him blush and smile with relief, making him look more human.

"I’m so happy for you," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy offered a hand stained yellow from chemicals.

They wished they knew Italian, because our ways of saying "good for you" and "wow" are so tied to little moments that we’re afraid to use them for big ones. We end up sounding vaguely poetic, or quoting the Bible.

"Welcome to the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. " This is such a joyous day! I just know you’ll make our dear Lucy happy."

"I hope so," replied the young man, looking up at the ceiling.

"We mothers - " simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, then realized she was being overly emotional, sentimental, and dramatic - everything she hated.

Why couldn’t she be like Freddy, standing stiff in the middle of the room, looking kinda grumpy and almost handsome?

"Hey, Lucy!" called Cecil, because the conversation seemed to die down.

Lucy got up from the bench. She walked across the lawn and smiled at them, like she was about to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother’s face. Her lips parted, and she hugged him tight. He said, "Easy there!"

"Not even a kiss for me?" asked her mother. Lucy kissed her, too.

"Why don’t you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?" Cecil suggested. " And I’ll stay here and tell my mom."

"We’re going with Lucy?" Freddy asked, sounding like he was taking orders.

"Yeah, you’re going with Lucy."

They stepped out into the sunlight. Cecil watched them cross the terrace and head down the steps. They'd probably go past the bushes, the tennis court, and the flowerbeds, until they reached the kitchen garden.

And there, surrounded by potatoes and peas, they’d hash out the big news.

Smiling a little, he lit a cigarette and replayed how things had gotten to this happy ending.

He’s known Lucy for a few years, but she’s always seemed like just a regular girl who happened to be musical.

He still remembered feeling bummed out that afternoon in Rome, when she and her awful cousin jumped on him and demanded to go to St. Peter's.

Back then, she’s seemed like a typical tourist - loud, kind of rough around the edges, and totally wiped out from traveling. But Italy did something to her. It gave her light, and - which he valued even more - it gave her depth.

Soon, he noticed a wonderful quietness about her.

She was like a woman from one of Leonardo da Vinci’s paintings - someone you love not so much for who she is, but for the things she won’t tell you.

Those things were definitely something bigger than everyday life; no woman of Leonardo’s would ever have a boring story.

She’s really blossomed day by day.

So, he’s gone from being polite to feeling... well, not exactly passionate, but definitely deeply uneasy. Even in Rome, he hinted that they might be a good match. He was really touched that she didn’t shut him down when he suggested it.

Her refusal was gentle; after that - as the saying goes - she was totally the same to him. Three months later, on the edge of Italy, surrounded by flower-covered Alps, he asked her again, using straightforward, traditional language.

She reminded him of Leonardo more than ever; her sun-kissed face was shaded by crazy rock formations. When he spoke, she turned and stood between him and the light, with endless plains behind her.

He walked her home without embarrassment, not feeling like a rejected guy at all.

The important things were solid.

So now he’d asked her again, and she’d accepted, calm and gentle as always, giving no silly excuses for waiting, but simply saying she loved him and would do her best to make him happy.

His mom would be happy too; she's encouraged him; he needed to write her a long letter.

Glancing at his hand, just to make sure any of Freddy’s chemicals hadn’t rubbed off, he moved to the writing table. There he saw "Dear Mrs. Vyse," followed by tons of strikeouts.

He jumped back without reading any further, and after a moment of hesitation, sat down somewhere else and scribbled a note on his knee.

Then he lit another cigarette, which didn’t seem quite as amazing as the first, and thought about how to make the Windy Corner living room more unique.

It should have been a great room, but it had a vibe of Tottenham Court Road; he could practically picture the delivery trucks from Shoolbred and Maple pulling up and dropping off this chair, those shiny bookcases, that writing table.

The table reminded him of Mrs. Honeychurch’s letter.

He didn’t want to read that letter - his temptations never went that way; but he still worried about it.

It was his own fault that she was talking about him with his mother; he wanted her support in his third attempt to win Lucy; he wanted to feel that others, no matter who they were, agreed with him, and so he’d asked for their blessing.

Mrs. Honeychurch had been polite, but clueless about the important stuff, while as for Freddy - "He’s just a kid," he thought. " I represent everything he hates. Why would he want me for a brother-in-law?"

The Honeychurches were a respectable family, but he started to realize that Lucy was just...different. Maybe - he wasn't quite ready to say it - he should introduce her to a more compatible crowd as soon as possible.

"Mr. Beebe!" the maid called out, and the new rector of Summer Street was shown in. He’d quickly started things off on a friendly note, thanks to Lucy’s glowing reviews of him in her letters from Florence.

Cecil greeted him with a bit of a skeptical look.

"I’m here for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you think I’ll actually get any?"

"Definitely. Food is the one thing you do get here. Don’t sit in that chair; young Honeychurch left a dog toy in it." "Ew!"

"I know, right?" Cecil said. " I can’t believe Mrs. Honeychurch lets it happen."

Cecil saw the dog toy and the Maples’ furniture as separate things. He didn’t realize that together they brought the room to life in a way he wanted.

"I came for tea and some gossip. Isn’t this news?"

"News? I don’t get it," Cecil said. " News?"

Mr. Beebe, whose news was a bit different, started talking.

"I ran into Sir Harry Otway on my way up; I’m pretty sure I’m first in line. He bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!"

"Really?" Cecil asked, trying to keep it together.

What a total mess he's gotten himself into! Was it even possible for a priest and a gentleman to talk about his engagement like that? But he still felt stiff, and even though he asked who Cissie and Albert were, he still thought Mr.

Beebe was a bit of a player.

"Seriously? You didn’t even stop at Windy Corner for a week and didn’t meet Cissie and Albert, those semi-detached houses right across from the church? I’ll have Mrs. Honeychurch after you."

"I’m totally clueless about local stuff," the young man said, sounding bored. " I can’t even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Maybe they’re the wrong names, or maybe there isn’t a difference."

"I just come to the country to see my friends and enjoy the scenery. It's pretty bad of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don’t feel like I’m crashing."

Mr. Beebe, upset by Cecil’s reaction to Cissie and Albert, decided to change the subject.

"Let me see, Mr. Vyse - I forget - what do you do?"

"I don’t really do anything," Cecil said. " It’s another sign of my decadence. My attitude - and it's totally indefensible - is that as long as I’m not causing trouble, I have the right to do whatever I want."

"I know I should be making money or dedicating myself to things I don’t even care about, but I just haven’t been able to start."

"You’re lucky," Mr. Beebe said. " It’s an amazing opportunity to have free time."

His voice was a little small-town, but he couldn't think of a natural response. Like anyone with a regular job, he felt others should have it too.

"I’m glad you think so. I’m nervous about facing a healthy person - like Freddy Honeychurch."

"Oh, Freddy’s a good guy, isn’t he?"

"Awesome. The kind of guy who’s helped make England what it is."

Cecil was surprised by himself. Why, on this day of all days, was he being so contrary? He tried to make things right by asking about Mr. Beebe’s mother, an elderly woman he didn’t really care about.

Then he complimented the priest, praised his open-mindedness, and his progressive views on philosophy and science.

"Where’s everyone else?" Mr. Beebe asked finally. " I need tea before evening service."

"I guess Anne didn’t tell them you were here. In this house, you’re practically coached by the servants the day you arrive. Anne’s fault is that she apologizes when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair legs with her feet.

Mary’s faults...I forget Mary’s faults, but they’re pretty serious."

"Shall we go look in the garden?"

"I know what’s annoying about Mary. She leaves the dustpan on the stairs."

"Euphemia’s flaw is that she just won’t chop the suet small enough." They both laughed, and things started to feel better.

"The thing about Freddy - " Cecil continued.

"Ugh, he’s got so many. Seriously, only his mom remembers Freddy’s issues. Try thinking about Miss Honeychurch’s flaws; they're not endless."

"She doesn’t have any," the young man said, totally serious.

"I actually agree. Right now, she’s got none." "Right now?"

"I’m not jaded. I’m just thinking about my theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it even make sense that she’s so good at music and so chill? I think eventually she’s gonna go off the deep end, you know?

Her walls will come down, and her music and her life will just explode."

"Then we’ll get her, like, super good, or super bad - maybe too intense to be either." Cecil found his friend really interesting.

"So, you think she’s not living life to the fullest?"

"Well, I’ve mostly just seen her in Tunbridge Wells, where she was pretty low-key, and in Florence. Since I got to Summer Street, she’s been gone. You saw her, right? In Rome and in the Alps. Oh, shoot, I forgot; you knew her before."

"She wasn't amazing in Florence either, but I kept waiting for her to just... go for it."

"In what way?" The conversation was actually pretty fun, and they were walking back and forth on the terrace.

"I could probably guess what song she’s gonna play next. There was just this feeling that she’s found her wings and was about to use them.

I have this cute sketch in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string."

Picture number two: the string snaps." The sketch was in his diary, but he drew it later, when he was feeling artsy. At the time, he was secretly tugging on the string himself."

"But the string never broke, right?"

"Nope. I might not have seen Miss Honeychurch fly, but I definitely would have heard Miss Bartlett fall."

"It broke now," the young man said, his voice low and kind of dramatic.

Immediately, he realized that out of all the pretentious, ridiculous, and embarrassing ways to announce an engagement, this was the worst. He regretted his love of metaphors; had he suggested he was a star and Lucy was reaching for him?

"Broke? What do you mean?"

"I meant," Cecil said stiffly, "that she’s marrying me."

The clergyman felt a real pang of disappointment, and he couldn't hide it in his voice.

"I’m sorry; I have to apologize. I had no idea you two were close, or I never would have talked about her like that. Mr. Vyse, you should have stopped me."

And down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yeah, he was disappointed. Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, frowned. Was this the reaction his news would get from the world?

Of course, he thought the world was trash - every thoughtful person should; it’s almost a test of good taste. But he was sensitive to the little bits of it he encountered. Sometimes he could be pretty blunt.

"I’m sorry I gave you a shock," he said dryly. " I’m afraid Lucy’s choice doesn’t exactly meet with your approval."

"Not that. But you should have stopped me. I barely know Miss Honeychurch, as time goes on. Maybe I shouldn’t have talked about her so freely with anyone; definitely not with you."

"You feel like you said something you shouldn’t have?" Mr. Beebe pulled himself together.

Seriously, Mr. Vyse always put him in the most awkward situations. He was forced to use his authority as a clergyman.

"No, I haven’t said anything crazy. I knew back in Florence that her quiet, normal childhood was gonna end, and it did. I kind of figured she might do something huge. And she did."

She learned - you’re gonna let me talk freely, since I’m already going off - she learned what it’s like to be in love: the biggest lesson, some people say, that life throws at you.

It was time for him to wave his hat at the group heading their way. He definitely did. "

"She learned from you," and even though his voice still sounded like a priest, it was also genuine; "make sure her knowledge actually benefits her."

"Thanks a bunch!" said Cecil, who wasn’t a fan of priests.

"Have you heard?" shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she struggled up the sloped garden. " Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?"

Freddy, now super friendly, whistled the wedding march. Young people rarely judge a done deal.

"Yeah, I heard!" he cried. He looked at Lucy.

Being around her made it impossible for him to act like a priest - at least not without apologizing. "Mrs. Honeychurch, I’m gonna do what I’m supposed to do, but I’m usually too shy.

I want to wish them all kinds of blessings, serious and silly, big and small."

"I want their whole lives as husband and wife, as parents, to be seriously good and seriously happy. And now I want my tea."

"You just asked for it at the perfect time," the lady retorted. " How dare you get serious at Windy Corner?"

He matched her tone. There was no more heavy-handed lecturing, no more trying to make the situation sound fancy with poetry or the Bible. None of them dared to be serious anymore.

An engagement is such a powerful thing that eventually, it makes everyone talking about it feel this way - in a state of happy amazement. Away from it, in the privacy of their rooms, Mr. Beebe and even Freddy might criticize.

But being in its presence, and being around each other, they were genuinely hilarious. It has a strange power; it affects not just your lips, but your heart too.

The closest thing you can compare it to is the power of a temple with a different belief system.

Standing outside, you might mock it or oppose it, or just feel sentimental. But inside, even if the saints or gods aren’t yours, you become a true believer, if there’s a true believer around.

So that's how, after the confusion and worries of the afternoon, they pulled themselves together and settled into a really nice tea party. If they were being fake, they didn’t realize it, and their fakeness had a chance to become real.

Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding gift, really motivated them. They couldn’t lag behind that smile she gave them before she slammed the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirped.

Freddy was at his wittiest, calling Cecil the "Fiasco" - a family inside joke about the fiancé.

Mrs. Honeychurch, funny and pleasantly plump, looked like she’d be a good mother-in-law.

As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the happy ritual, but waited, like sincere worshippers should, for the reveal of some deeper source of joy.