Chapter 11
The sweet perfumes of San Salvatore drifted through the sitting-room, mingling the scent of flowers on the battlements with those arranged in vases within, and to Mrs. Wilkins they seemed almost visible, embracing one another in a holy kiss. What room was there for anger, for selfishness, in such gentlenesses? Yet Mrs. Fisher, leaning on her stick, stood in the doorway wearing an expression of unmistakable fury. She had railed off a portion of this bounteous beauty for her exclusive use, and now she had found two trespassers.
“You don’t like us being in here,” said Mrs. Wilkins, getting up and at once, after her manner, fixing on the truth. “Why?”
“I should have thought you could have seen that it is my room,” Mrs. Fisher replied, gesturing toward her photographs and the notepaper bearing her London address. Her pen, she pointed out, was still in Mrs. Wilkins’s hand.
Mrs. Wilkins laid it down, smiling. “I’m very sorry. It had just been writing some very amiable things.”
Mrs. Arbuthnot, who found herself unable to acquiesce without at least a gentle struggle, began to protest. But Mrs. Wilkins interrupted, for Rose was looking stubborn. “It’s quite natural,” she told Mrs. Fisher, “though still steeped in the Prince of Wales Terrace attitude to life, you don’t yet want to share. But you’ll get over that, and soon you’ll be asking me to use your pen.”
Mrs. Fisher was moved almost beyond control. To have a ramshackle young woman from Hampstead patting her on the back in breezy certitude that she would soon improve stirred her more deeply than anything had since her first discovery that Mr. Fisher was not what he seemed.
“I am an old woman,” Mrs. Fisher said, “and I need a room to myself. Why should I not sit quietly and undisturbed, as I told you in London I intended to?”
Mrs. Wilkins picked up her letter, took Rose’s hand, and drew her firmly to the door. Rose, the mildest of women, was filled with a curious and unchristian desire to stay and fight. From the moment they reached Italy it was Lotty who seemed the elder, so equable was her temper—she who in England had been a thing of gusts. Rose was happy herself, but not so happy as Lotty. For while the beauty of San Salvatore filled Lotty with bliss, Rose’s one thought was to share it with Frederick. She wanted her husband. She yearned for him.
“Poor old thing,” said Mrs. Wilkins, shutting the door gently. “Fancy on a day like this.”
“She’ll get over that,” she added, as they set off down the zigzag path toward the village. “I’m sorry we chose just her room to sit in.”
“I’ve been thinking about Mellersh,” Mrs. Wilkins called over her shoulder.
Rose felt faint distaste. She had deceived Mellersh; therefore she didn’t like him—though she was unconscious that this was the reason.
“I’ve been a mean dog,” said Mrs. Wilkins. “All this coming away and leaving him in that dreary place while I rollick in heaven. He had planned to take me to Italy for Easter himself.” She paused on the steep path. “Mellersh has every reason to be both angry and hurt.”
Rose stared. The extraordinary quickness with which, hour by hour, Lotty became more selfless, disconcerted her. She was turning into something surprisingly like a saint. That very morning Mellersh had seemed mere iridescence, a thing of gauze. Now he was solid enough to be invited to stay.
“I shouldn’t be sure of that too quickly,” Rose said cautiously.
“But I am sure of it. And I’ve written and told him so.”
“When he comes?” repeated Rose.
“I’ve invited him to come and stay with us.”
Rose had to sit down. Mellersh at San Salvatore? The man from whom Lotty had taken such pains to escape? And yet every time Lotty said in that convinced voice, “I see,” what she saw came true.
“I see him here,” Lotty said.
“I wish I understood you.”
“Don’t try,” said Lotty, smiling, and swiftly bending down kissed her. “You’re so quick,” said Rose. “I can’t follow your developments.”
But Rose wished she too could write to Frederick and say “Come.” She could not, for his handwriting, her name on an envelope addressed by him, would stab her heart. A hurried, bored scribble thanking her for her letter would be worse than no answer at all.
“I don’t think I’ll come down to the village with you today,” she said, her eyes gone dim. “I think I want to think.”
“All right,” said Lotty, starting off. “But don’t think too long. Write and invite him at once.”
“Invite whom?” asked Rose, startled.
“Your husband.”
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