Chapter 15
The morning of Mr. Wilkins’s accidental unveiling left a curious residue among the women of San Salvatore. Though neither Mrs. Fisher nor Lady Caroline could have put it into proper words, both felt toward him what nursemaids feel toward the children they have bathed—a tender, secret intimacy that forbade him from ever again being quite a stranger. They had seen his legs. The ice was broken, and it could not be unbroken.
At dinner that evening, Mr. Wilkins, dressed and gleaming like a man who had never been otherwise, became, to Mrs. Fisher’s quiet astonishment, the most agreeable male companion she had encountered in decades. He listened when she spoke of politics, of Lloyd George, of literature, with the proper Victorian gravity. He did not simper at Lady Caroline, but treated both women with equal courtesy. He liked nuts. He had a mind. Mrs. Fisher, watching him, felt an almost personal pride in his appearance, and found it a mystery how such a creature could ever have married Lotty.
Lotty, for her part, watched with round eyes. The San Salvatore spell had worked instantly, not in two days as she had expected. Mellersh had complimented her on her looks while she brushed out her hair, and kissed her—kissed her!—and it was neither good-morning nor good-night. The bath catastrophe had not shaken him. What he had needed was a holiday. She would put off telling him about the nest-egg and the fibs until the morrow. Pity to spoil such a beautiful frame of mind on the very first day.
The day brought a contented Mr. Wilkins who had dashed off an apologetic note to Lady Caroline for his morning’s obliviousness, and received back on the back of the envelope two words in pencil: “Don’t worry.” He had obeyed her. Before sleep he pinched Lotty’s ear, a thing he had not done in years, and she lay in amazement.
The second morning opened with no relapse. Mellersh remained heavenly. But pay day was upon them, and Costanza, the cook, had spent a glorious first week in unbridled licence. She came to each door in turn with a sheaf of dirty little bills, and finding no answer at Rose’s, waylaid Lotty and Mellersh in the corridor with shrugs and pointing fingers. The confession of the nest-egg was precipitated, and Mellersh took it as though the entire plan had always been his. He did not cross-examine her. He asked only, “What can be more beneficial than such a holiday?” and Lotty, red with pride, pressed his arm tight and called him too sweet.
Costanza, perceiving she had lost the Wilkinses, retreated downstairs to Mrs. Fisher, who understood Italian and was plainly marked by the servants as the bill-payer. To Mrs. Fisher, preparing for her first real stroll by donning hat, veil, feather boa, and gloves, Costanza explained that unless she received money the shops of Castagneto would refuse credit. Mrs. Fisher took the bills, looked at the total, sat down at her writing-table, and went through them item by item with a doggedness that filled Costanza with shame. She would pay nothing until next week; the food meanwhile was to be precisely as good, at a quarter the cost. Costanza wept. Mrs. Fisher was unmoved.
Then Mrs. Fisher went in search of Lady Caroline, whom she suspected of having ordered the meals. She found her corner empty but still flowerlike with scent, which she sniffed at, and wished Carlyle could have had five minutes with this young woman. In the hall she met Mr. Wilkins lighting a cigar, and though she could not like cigars indoors, she was much impressed when he instantly snatched it away and threw it into a great jar of arum lilies—where it lodged among the blossoms and smoked on, a strange and depraved-looking object, unconsumed.
He had begun, “Where are you going to, my prett—” when he caught himself, aghast at what morning spirits could put into a self-possessed head, and substituted a polite inquiry whether she was going out. He offered his company. They went together to find Lady Caroline behind the bushes, and Mrs. Fisher at once began scolding her about reckless household expenditure.
Lady Caroline said nothing in her defence; she offered a cushion. Mr. Wilkins leapt to insert it beneath the slightly raised Mrs. Fisher. It was difficult to scold a Dester who looked like that and said nothing with such exquisite attention, and Mr. Wilkins, observing, judged it the right moment to intervene in his suavest professional manner. He suggested a per diem arrangement with the cook—catering for a sum based on a quartered hotel rate—and proposed that they not spoil a delightful holiday with housekeeping worries.
Whereupon Lady Caroline, who had not liked the thought of Lotty’s nest-egg being so depleted, said, very quietly, that the terrible bills of this first week should be her present to San Salvatore. Mrs. Fisher was disapproving but immensely relieved; Mr. Wilkins, rapt in contemplation of the precious qualities of blue blood, suggested they write Lady Caroline the customary letter of thanks, which he preferred to call a Collins, and she held out her cigarette case and smiled.
When Mrs. Fisher rose, her business settled, and announced she would take a little stroll before lunch, Mr. Wilkins asked to accompany her. He chose her conversation over Lady Caroline’s beauty, which was something Mrs. Fisher had not seen a man do since Mr. Fisher died. A sensible, companionable man, she thought, and very glad indeed she had not written to Kate. What did she want with Kate? She had found a better companion.
He went with her, in truth, because when she rose, Lady Caroline had already put her feet up on the parapet, arranged her head sideways in the cushions, and shut her eyes. The daughter of the Droitwiches desired to go to sleep. It was not for him, by remaining, to prevent her.
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