By Kathleen Bradford, based upon characters created by E. F. Benson and expanded by Tom Holt, Guy Fraser-Sampson and Deryck Solomon
Evie Bartlett stood in front of Miss Greele’s, the dressmaker’s shop, looking at the display in the window. Several mannequins wore the latest style of dress, and one dress made Evie sigh with desire. It was of pale grey silk crepe de Chine and, unlike many of the modern evening gowns, it covered the chest and back. So many gowns left the back and chest bare and kept one from wearing undergarments; quite improper, especially for the wife of the Vicar of Tilling. But this dress was much more discrete. There was no beading or lace, but had simple tucks across the chest which created a flutter to the short sleeves, and the gown was bias-cut, which looked well on so many different female figures.
All-in-all, Evie thought, the dress is perfectly suited to being worn by me. And the price of the dress was, she knew, far beyond the meagre income of a church mouse. Her gaze shifted from the dress to her own reflection in the shop window. She saw a plain, thin woman with nondescript mouse-brown hair and front teeth that protruded in such a way as to reinforce the impression of mousy-ness. Her cheeks were more hollow than current fashion allowed, and she lacked the marked feminine curves that were considered desirable. Her hair was pulled back in a simple bun. Her only jewellery was her wedding ring.
“That is a beautiful gown,” said a voice from behind her. She turned and greeted her friend Georgie Pillson.
“Good morning, Mr Georgie! Yes, quite beautiful,” Evie said with another sigh. All the ladies of Tilling liked Mr Georgie. Next to Evie’s husband Kenneth Bartlett (called “Padre”), Mr Georgie was the best Bridge player, and if he was your partner, you usually took home a few shillings as your share of the winnings. He was kind-hearted and, although he loved gossip, he was never malicious with it. Mr Georgie also loved fashion and was known as “the best-dressed man in Tilling.” Evie remembered when Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, in her effort to mislead her friends into thinking she was expecting, had let out her old green skirt, and Mr Georgie not only immediately recognized that she had let out the skirt, but he also knew, just by looking, how many inches she had let it out.
Georgie looked carefully at the display and then said, “The colour of that gown matches your eyes.” With some men, this observation would be taken as flattery or as a prelude to seduction, but Georgie was not assertively masculine and his noticing anyone’s eye colour was a matter of artistic and sartorial interest, nothing more.
Suddenly Evie’s grey eyes felt close tears. She excused herself saying, “Girl Guides meeting,” and hurried up the street.
Looking after her, Georgie realized suddenly how difficult it must be to be Evie. Georgie walked slowly back toward his home, Mallards House, at the top of Tilling hill. How difficult it is for Evie. I never realized before. My Lucia and Mrs Wyse have enough money to purchase whatever clothes they want, Elizabeth Mapp-Flint cultivates the home-made look in dresses and revels in poor-mouthing, Diva Plaistow can create for herself some beautiful frocks, though neither she, nor Elizabeth for that matter, have the shape for them. Evie has a thin build and, like Lucia, could actually wear anything. If she fixed herself up a bit, she would be quite nice to look at. Pity she has to purchase her wardrobe at jumble sales. My! Wouldn’t the ladies of Tilling be shocked if Evie began to spend money on fixing herself up. New dresses. New hairstyle. Why, even a new hair colour would help; that drab ash brown should be darkened up a bit.
Georgie, although he would never admit it publicly, knew all about hair dye because he had been using it himself for years. His own hair had thinned out and combing the remaining strands across his bald spot had made him look older than he was; Georgie did not feel old, and he did not want to look old. So he had purchased a toupet, which he dyed the same auburn colour as he dyed his hair (and later on, when he grew a beard, it too was dyed). Everyone knew it, although they were careful not to confront him with their knowledge, as doing so would be unforgivable and unspeakably rude.
~~~~~~~~~~
Lucia Pillson, Georgie’s wife, was Mayor of Tilling. She often bored him with municipal matters but today a dearth of action in Tilling left her only domestic and neighbourly matters to discuss over luncheon. Although she missed the heady air of Tilling’s political Parnassus, even Mayors must come back to earth at times.
“Lucia,” Georgie began, “have you seen the new dresses in Miss Greele’s window?”
He expected his wife to say that she was too busy with Borough business to notice such things, so he was surprised when she said, “Yes. Several nice new dresses there; I was thinking of purchasing the jade green silk Shantung but then I realized it’s almost the same colour of Elizabeth Mapp-Flint’s old green skirt and decided not to buy it. Why? Is there another dress there that you think I should try?”
“No, not for you, though I think the Shantung would look well on you, and that it would put Elizabeth’s old green skirt to shame; you really should reconsider it. I brought it up because I saw Evie Bartlett looking in the window today at the grey silk, the one with the tucks across the chest, and she was actually sighing because she wants it so much. I suddenly realized just how difficult it must be to, well, be the Padre's wife. She can’t spend money on herself because parishioners would complain.”
“I see what you mean, Georgie, but what can we do? I would not want to insult Evie or the Padre, or both, by offering to buy her some better clothing, no matter how badly she may need it.”
“Not just clothing. I was also thinking a visit to the Tilling Salon for a new haircut, and some darkening of her hair would help. Her hairstyle is so—” Georgie paused, searching for the right word, “—Victorian,” was the only word that came to mind.
“That is true. No one wears a bun anymore, except for elderly aunts.” Lucia’s saying this pleased Georgie, for it implied that he and Lucia were still young. “And the shorter hair styles are so much easier to maintain. I realized that, after I had my hair shingled in London, I felt much more free. So easy to keep up, and it dries so quickly that I can wash it more often,” Lucia said, and Georgie listened with interest: for once, instead of the boring business of Tilling Town Hall, they were discussing a subject that fully interested him.
“Yes,” replied Georgie. “Mrs Bartlett would have more time for Girl Guides and Choir and all her Parish Business if she had short hair, and she would look better—younger—if it was darker instead of that mouse-brown.”
“I believe you’re right, Georgino. But you need to consider that if she gets the grey dress, she will need shoes to match, and a jacket or capelet for cool evenings, and, well, possibly. . . .” Lucia was unable to say “stocking and undergarments” to her husband. She finally managed to say, “And a few extras also,” which was safe, for it could be interpreted to mean gloves and an evening bag instead of lingerie.
Georgie said, “So it’s not as simple as just the dress. I do understand.” Georgie liked to match his tie and his socks and his hatband to his suits; he did indeed understand the necessity of having every piece in a suit of clothing match, which maintained his status as Tilling’s best-dressed man. This status had become easier to maintain after he married Lucia, for she paid the household expenses, so that he had only his personal expenses to manage. Although in the past he had once said, “I like to be comfortable, but as long as I have all I want, I don't want anything more,” he was not profligate in his spending. He had built up quite a little reserve of funds in his bank account.
“The hair would be easiest,” opined Lucia; “We can ask Mademoiselle at the Tilling Salon to telephone Mrs Bartlett and say that an anonymous donor has given her a gift of a free consultation which includes a haircut-and-style and hair-colouring.”
LeamingtonSpa,ladies’hairdressershop,1930s http://www.search.windowsonwarwickshire.org.uk/engine/resource/default.asp?resource=4670
“Splendid! Will you speak to the Salon about it? I wouldn’t know what to do in a ladies’ hairdressing shop,” replied Georgie. He found himself curious about what exactly goes on in a salon and how it differed from his barber’s shop. “I’ll be happy to go in with you, but I simply couldn’t go alone.”
Lucia considered. “That might not be judicious. I could go in and make arrangements for Evie and pick up some face powder to excuse my being there. But there are many people in Tilling who recognize you as the Mayor’s husband, and seeing you enter a ladies’ salon may cause too much speculation and lead to gossip. I am sorry, caro, but I think I should go alone.”
She's thinking about her position as Mayor first again, instead of thinking of me as her husband, thought Georgie. Although greatly disappointed, Georgie said, “Oh. All right, Lucia.”
“And Georgie, I shall pay for the Salon. It was your idea, and quite a kind and good idea, too. But I’m going to leave the hardest part to you: the dress and all it requires. I shall consider how best to approach the purchase of the dress, and we can confer later.”
“Excellent. I don’t mind paying, but I need help with a plan, and you’re so good at these things. I do thank you, Lucia!” Georgie smiled happily at his wife.
Lucia laughed her silvery laugh. “How you work me, Georgino! But such work is a pleasure! And you underestimate yourself. You handled Diva’s fiftieth birthday party perfectly and made everyone happy. You did that without much help from me.” This was almost unprecedented, for usually Lucia took as much credit as she possibly could for their joint successes, and certainly stifling Elizabeth Mapp-Flint from spoiling the surprise had taken the utmost ingenuity on Lucia’s part. In Georgie’s mind, Lucia’s coup over Elizabeth in the matter of Diva Plaistow's fiftieth birthday party was almost Machiavellian.
Georgie drew in a surprised breath, then said, “Well, it’s especially nice when we’re working together for a friend.” He was thinking, just like we did before you became Councillor and then Mayor. He continued, “Poor Evie Bartlett does get ignored quite a lot, being Tilling’s Church Mouse. I heard that before we came to Tilling, lack of recognition by the Contessa literally wilted Evie.” The Contessa di Faraglione, sister to Tilling’s Mr Algernon Wyse, had married into Italian nobility and was as close to resident royalty as Tilling could claim.
“Georgie!” Lucia exclaimed. “I’ve just thought of something! You can come to the Tilling Salon with me!”
“How is that! Oo not teasie your po’ ickle Georgino?”
They were alone in the room, but Lucia’s natural showmanship caused her to lower her voice conspiratorially, “I can go into the Salon and tell them I’m interested in a new perfume, and then pretend that I cannot decide which one I like best. I will ask for a time when there are no customers present so that I can bring my husband in to help me choose. Once we’re in and there are no witnesses, we can lay our plan before Mademoiselle and get her to help us.”
Georgie was thrilled; perhaps he would get to learn the secrets of the ladies’ hairdressing salon after all. “Oh, yes, Lucia! You are clever!”
~~~~~~~~~~
And so, later that afternoon Georgie walked into the Tilling Salon with Lucia. But after stepping through the shop door and removing his hat, he stood stock-still in shock. The room contained several appalling machines, all of which looked like modern devices of medieval torture.
There were two machines which each had an appendage of metal tubes, tubes that had been bent so they fitted over the head like a helmet, and which in turn attached to large tube. The large tube ultimately attached to the machine, which pulled in and warmed the air before expelling it through the large tube and down into the small tubes. Holes in the small tubes released the warm air directly onto the hair in order to dry it.
Another machine had a score of electrical cords with pieces of metal attached, all hanging down like a jellyfish tendrils; the terminating metal pieces were attached to metal curlers in order to create a permanent wave. On the walls were posted advertisements for the Salon’s “Registered Eugéne Waver.” One advertisement showed a pretty lady talking on the phone whilst the implement of torture called a “permanent wave machine” curled her hair; another showed the finished product: perfect curls.
Less threatening were cards holding “Ringlet Curl Pins” and “Rapid Dry Curlers.”
Yet another advertisement was for “Clairol Shampoo Oil Tint,” which Georgie recognized as hair dye. Just what we want! he thought.
A young woman in a starched dark pink uniform dress with white trim was waiting on Mrs Dobbie, the doctor’s wife, who was in need of face powder and, possibly, lip rouge. The young woman smiled brightly at Lucia and Georgie and said, “I will be with you presently, Mrs Pillson, Mr Pillson!” and returned to extolling the virtues of face powder and displaying the newest colours for the lips.
An older woman came out of the back room. She wore the same uniform as her fellow hairdresser, with Oxford shoes of maroon-coloured suede that had surprisingly high heels—not sensible shoes for someone who was on her feet all day, but certainly stylish, in all aspects: heel-height, shape, and colour. Georgie summed up the shoes in an instant: high-heeled Oxford shoes dyed ox-blood red, he thought.
The woman’s face was heavily made-up, and her hair was an impossible shade of red. She did not smile but said, in a smoky voice with a strong French accent, “There is no need, Opal. I shall attend to Madam Mayor and Monsieur Pillson myself.” Because of her accent, Georgie assumed that she must be Mademoiselle but learned this was not so when, holding out her hand to him as if she meant him to kiss it, she intoned, “I am Madame Reynard, and this is my shop. I am happy to meet the Mayor’s husband.” Georgie realized that Opal must be Mademoiselle.
Georgie lightly touched Madame fingers, with their dark red nails, and bowed slightly over the proffered hand. “Enchanted,” he said. I feel as if I’m in a temple in a foreign land, he thought, everything even smells different.
“I understand your wife wishes your aid in choosing a new parfum,” Madame Reynard said in her dusky voice.
“Indeed she does,” Georgie replied to Tilling Salon’s high priestess of beauty. “Mrs Pillson said there were several that she likes but is unable to choose one.” Georgie prattled on nervously, “‘Buy them all!’ I suggested, but of course she is not wasteful and wants only the perfect scent.”
“Of course, the perfect parfum, that is the wisest choice,” solemnly replied Madame.
“A sort of signature scent,” put in Lucia. “But not too strong.”
Georgie looked over all the bottles on display. Still Mrs Dobbie did not leave, but transferred her interest to eyelash blacking. And so Georgie continue with the pretense. “Which scents did you prefer?” he asked Lucia, who vaguely pointed at the display case which held a large number of bottles.
Madame went behind the display and pulled out a crystal flacon, whose label identified it as Bellodgia Caron, and she expertly let one drop of scent fall onto a small wad of cotton which she then offered to Georgie. “This is the first. The base note is too musky, I think, for a respectable lady and Mayor of Tilling.
Georgie sniffed, displaying the exquisite delicacy of an experienced and professional Paris perfumier. “I quite agree, too heavy,” he said. Madame put aside the bottle and the cotton.
Madame then pulled out a strangely shaped bottle of cobalt blue with an outer layer of gold. “Coque D’Or by Guerlain,” Madame pronounced slowly as she once again offered Georgie one drop of the precious liquid. “The top note is the scent of an afternoon garden in Arles.”
“Very nice, but not quite right,” said Georgie. Arles, although close to the Mediterranean Sea, was not in Italy, and hence, not exactly “Lucia”. The scent of a garden in Arles commanded the wrong associations in Georgie’s mind: he remembered attending an art gallery show in Le Touquet with his friend Olga Bracely, during which he discovered the brilliant paintings and sad story of a Dutch expatriate who had lived part of his life, and died, near Arles. Georgie had, himself, liked the paintings, but knew the style was far too modern for Lucia’s approval.
“The Honorable Mayor seems to prefer the House of Guerlain,” observed Madame. “Next, we have Vol de Nuit.”
Georgie was still remembering his time in Le Touquet. Perhaps I could find a scent that Olga would like as well as one for Lucia, Georgie thought; Goodness! I’m thinking of the two ladies as if I were a man with a wife and a mistress, which I certainly am not! He firmly refocused his attention on Madame Reynard.
“Vol de Nuit,” Georgie repeated. “Another beautiful bottle,” he said, wishing that Mrs Dobbie would make up her mind and leave the Salon.
“Yes. The bottle, as well as the parfum, was designed to invoke the nuances of flight in an aeroplane. ‘Night Flight’ is the name in your language. The scent is cold and warm, earthy and ethereal,” Madam almost chanted the last two sentences, as if the single drop on the cotton which she handed Georgie was a votive offering.
“I like this one best so far,” he said. Lucia murmured in agreement.
“And the last,” continued Madame. “An older creation of Guerlain's, Mitsouko. Sunlight shines upon oakmoss,” Georgie had no idea what Madame meant until he held the small ball of cotton to his nose.
“Marvellous!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “We shall take a small bottle of Mitsouko and another of Vol de Nuit.” Georgie’s decisiveness about the scents both surprised and reassured Lucia: if Georgie likes them so much, they must be perfect!
Madame eyed Georgie. “Do you really think, Sir, that the chypre in Mitsouko is right for your esteemed lady?”
“Oh, no! Mitsouko is for me, Vol de Nuit is for Mrs Pillson,” Georgie explained hastily. I hope Olga likes it, he thought, and then he felt rather ashamed of himself for thinking of Olga again.
For the first time Madame Reynard smiled; her teeth were perfect pearls. “Warm sunlight on oakmoss for the man,” she nodded at Georgie. “The fear and the joy of flight for the lady,” she nodded at Lucia. “It is well done,” she stated. Madame continued solemnly, “But I caution you, Madame, Vol de Nuit is a dense scent, so use it sparingly.” Lucia nodded and Madame pulled two boxes containing unopened bottles of scent out of the case. “I shall wrap these for you,” she said and disappeared with the small boxes into the back room of the shop.
At last Mrs Dobbie left the store with her face powder, having decided that the lip rouge was too bright and that the eyelash blacking was too black.
Mademoiselle came over to Georgie and Lucia. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” she inquired, her youthful personality sparkling as brightly as the stone for which she was named.
“Yes, there is,” said Lucia quickly, fearing that another customer would come into the shop. “We want to give a haircut and style, and a colouring, if she will accept it, to Mrs Bartlett as an anonymous gift. Can you help us arrange it?”
“Anonymous?”
“Yes,” continued Lucia. “She won’t do it herself because parishioners would complain about her wasting their tithes on frippery.” Mademoiselle nodded, for she understood too well the attitude some people had toward a “painted lady”: Mrs Dobbie’s refusal to buy the lip rouge and eyelash blacking had just shown that such an attitude was alive and well in Tilling.
Georgie added, “People can be so mean about such things. So we thought we’d give Mrs Bartlett a treat, but we don’t want to insult her by implying that she’s dowdy and poor.”
“Georgie!” exclaimed Lucia.
“I know, I said it badly,” said Georgie apologetically.
“No, no. I understand. I think it’s a very kind gesture. Very kind,” said Mademoiselle. “You want to give Mrs Bartlett a little luxury, luxury that she would never allow herself, but might agree to indulge in rather than waste the anonymous gift. She wouldn’t want to offend the giver of the gift, after all.”
“Exactly!” said Georgie and Lucia as one.
“How would you like me to notify Mrs Bartlett?” asked Mademoiselle.
Georgie had not considered how the gift was to be delivered, but Lucia had and she said, “I think it would be best if you waited until tomorrow afternoon and telephoned her. Just say an anonymous donor has given her the gift of a haircut and style, and hair-colouring, and when will she be able to come in.”
Georgie admired Lucia’s generalship: she had all the strategy and tactics and contingency plans needed to handle any battle; it was no wonder Elizabeth Mapp-Flint was unable to ever completely get the best of Lucia.
“That’s wonderful,” said Mademoiselle admiringly. “Mrs Wyse is coming in later today and Mrs Plaistow was in this morning. They’re friends of Mrs Bartlett’s, too, so no one will know who is the donor.”
“Perfect!” said Georgie and Lucia, once again as one, and laughed, both delighted that Georgie’s idea and Lucia’s plan were working so well.
Madame had re-entered the room with two beautifully wrapped packages in her hands, and she had overheard the last part of the conversation. “What colour should we make Mrs Bartlett?” she asked. “Blonde is not right, nor is red. Brunette, perhaps?”
“Mr Pillson and I thought it should be rather darker than her natural mouse brown,” said Lucia.
“Yes, but not too dark, I think,” intoned Madame. She looked at Mademoiselle, who nodded. “Richer colour.”
“That is exactly what she needs, a richer, more luxurious colour,” said Mademoiselle agreeably. “Shall I add it to your usual bill, Mrs Pillson?”
“Yes,” said Lucia, “and the perfume, too.”
Madame handed Georgie the boxes containing the sacred fragrances. Georgie had expected them to be wrapped in the usual brown paper and tied with string, but this was not the case. One box was wrapped in paper coloured the lightest blue and tied with two intertwined ribbons, one of dark blue and one of silver. An intricate knot formed a decorative pattern on the top and provided a short loop with which to carry the package. The second box was similarly wrapped, but in sea-foam green paper and ribbons of dark green and gold.
“How beautiful!” said Lucia.
“Just like gifts!” said Georgie.
“I thank you for your custom,” Madame Reynard intoned and she again offered Georgie her hand, the nails of which seemed redder than before, almost as if dripping with blood.
Georgie took Madame Reynard’s hand and this time he bowed low over it. “Delighted to have met you,” he said reverently, “And thank you for allowing a man to enter your inner sanctum.”
“Farewell,” said Madame in the same tones as a Bishop giving a blessing, but she followed it with another flash of her dazzling smile, which was as far from a Bishop’s solemnity as Madame could get.
“Thank you,” called Mademoiselle as Georgie and Lucia left the Tilling Salon.
Mademoiselle turned to Madame. “Dyed auburn, I think.”
“Yes,” said the older woman, “and a toupet.”
“I thought so about the toupet, but I wasn’t sure,” Mademoiselle, the acolyte, showed her appreciation of the matriarch’s superior knowledge with a nod. “Perhaps we should send him a sample of the Clairol Shampoo Oil Tint in auburn.”
“No,” responded Madame, “It would offend him; I think he does not realize that anyone knows he uses dye. But should he approach us about it, give him the large bottle, free of charge.” Madame knew how much Lucia and Georgie had just spent, even before Mademoiselle had tallied it up. “And now I must set up for Mrs Wyse’s permanent wave.”
~~~~~~~~~
The plan for the purchase of the gown was proving to be more of a problem. Lucia racked her brain and looked for inspiration everywhere but no cunning plan presented itself. Three days passed.
At breakfast, the morning post included a letter for Lucia. She read it and was obviously delighted with the contents. “Georgie!” she said excitedly. “We’re going to have a visitor. My friend Tony, dear Lord Limpsfield, is coming down for a party at Ardingly Park and would like to stay with us!”
“Delightful,” said Georgie uncertainly. He knew “Lord Tony,” as Lucia called him, was a friend she had “picked up” during her season in London; but Georgie did not know just how much of a friend Lord Tony was. I hope he won’t be like Poppy Sheffield, thought Georgie, So embarrassing! The Duchess of Sheffield had developed an infatuation with Georgie’s “dear little beard” and was quite bold about it. Unfortunately, the Duchess’s pursuit of Georgie and of his stylish Van Dyck beard was something Olga Bracely found hilarious; if Georgie had one complaint about Olga being unkind, it was that she often tried to bring the two together so that she could laugh at their expense. Poppy’s single-minded pursuit and Georgie’s frantic flight from her amused Olga.
Lucia continued, “Lord Tony says he’s obliged to attend the party but heartily dislikes some of the people who will also be attending and would like to have us as an ‘escape route’, as he puts it.” Lucia laughed her silvery laugh. “How charming of him!”
“When does he propose to arrive?” Georgie asked stiffly.
“It’s a Saturday evening party. He asks if he could stay Friday through Monday,” Lucia said. “Oh, and he says Olga told him how lovely Tilling is, so he’s taking some time to visit with us and see the town.”
Georgie said nothing.
“I shall have him sign the Mayor’s Book for Distinguished Visitors,” said Lucia. “It is too bad that he will not be in Tilling on a day when he can watch me preside in Borough Court. But I shall show him the Corporation plate and our ancient charters.”
Georgie said nothing.
Lucia perceived her husband’s uncertainty and she said, “You must help me with guest lists and menus! And make us some marvellous cocktails, so Lord Tony won’t think Tilling uncivilized. You know how much I rely on your judgement in these things.”
Georgie said nothing.
“Is there some difficulty with Lord Limpsfield’s visit?” asked Lucia regally, looking down her nose at Georgie, or perhaps her pince-nez just gave that impression.
“I was just remembering your friend’s visit to Riseholme,” said Georgie carefully.
Lucia had hoped never to be reminded of that weekend, for she had made some grievous errors on that occasion, errors which had cost her the company of Princess Isabel, for as Lucia had snubbed Riseholme, so the Princess snubbed Lucia. “Georgie, this visit will be nothing like that one. I learned my lesson,” said Lucia earnestly.
Georgie nodded. “All right, then; of course I shall help you. But there is one thing.”
“What is that?”
“I’ll do all I can to help entertain your friend, but you mustn't forget about Evie Bartlett’s dress. Getting it for her is more important now, so she can wear it when she meets Lord Limpsfield. Promise me you’ll come up with an idea for giving her the dress before he arrives,” said Georgie.
“How you work me! Of course I will!” said Lucia, with an enthusiasm which hid the fact that she had no idea how to manage it.
“Well, we haven’t much time then, if he’s arriving on Friday,” said Georgie. “By the way, I’ve already bought the dress. I went into the dress shop and had Miss Greele put it away for me; I told her I’d have further instructions about it later. She wasn’t as surprised as I thought she would be. She said there are many husbands in town who purchase dresses for their wives,” said Georgie. “Although she may be surprised when she learns for whom I bought the dress.”
“Perhaps we are making this harder than it needs to be,” said Lucia thoughtfully. She removed her pince-nez and distractedly laid it on the tablecloth next to Lord Limpsfield’s letter.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You bought the dress. What about the little extras that Evie will need?” asked Lucia, side-stepping his question for the moment.
“I spoke to Miss Greele about that. She gave me a . . .” Georgie paused, trying to remember exactly what the dressmaker had said. “A ‘cost estimate’ for the extras, three estimates actually, in the ‘high, low and medium range,’ she said. Of course, I chose the high range: If we’re going to do this, it must be done right. She did say she would refund any overage.”
“How thoughtful and kind of you, Georgie,” said Lucia. She was relieved that Georgie did not ask just what, exactly, the “extras” would be: perhaps he suspected what “extras” meant. “And now that it’s been taken care of, you can telephone Miss Greele, and tell her to telephone Mrs Bartlett and say she has a new dress and to come in for a fitting. A gift from both of us, so that Miss Greele does not get the wrong impression. Simple, and without subterfuge.”
Georgie was doubtful, and for a moment he thought Lucia was dodging the dress problem in order to focus herself upon Lord Tony’s visit, then he dismissed his doubt as unworthy of him; also, there seemed to be no other alternative. “All right, I’ll do that,” he said uncertainly.
“Georgino! Oo no lookie at this righty!” said Lucia, in the teasing Italian and baby-talk that two sometimes used. She lapsed into modern English in order to “sell” Georgie on her plan. “Simplicity. You’re Evie Bartlett’s fairy godmother, getting her a dress and everything she needs to meet Lord Tony! Just like in the fairy tale.”
“Well! I never thought of it like that!” Georgie was happy with this adjustment in his perspective. “I suppose I am Mrs Bartlett’s fairy god-father. Just like you’re Tilling’s fairy godmother, only I’m on a smaller scale!” The munificent Lucia was gratified by Georgie’s comparison.
Georgie picked up his letters. “I shall call Miss Greele as soon as the dress shop opens!”
He paused as he went out the door, “And Lucia,” she looked up, “Thank you ever so much! I’ll do whatever I can to help make Lord Tony’s visit a success.”
Lucia heard him in the hall, exclaiming happily to himself, “Simple! Just like the fairy tale!”
~~~~~~~~~~
Of course it turned out to not be that simple. Georgie telephoned Miss Greele, who telephoned Mrs Bartlett, who telephoned Lucia, who explained and then passed the call on to Georgie.
“We’re having Lord Anthony Limpsfield, a great friend of Lucia’s from London, down for a weekend, so we thought we’d play fairy godmother, as it were,” he explained. “I know how much you want that dress, and I know you’ll get years and years of wear out of it, so it’s not wasteful or extravagant,” he continued on, afraid that Evie Bartlett would refuse the gift, but Lucia was not the only Pillson who knew how to "sell" and idea. “I know that parishioners say mean things if you spend any money on yourself. Think of it as a birthday present or Christmas present from Lucia and me.”
“I don’t know what to say, Mr Georgie! So generous of you, thank you!” Evie squeaked into the telephone. “And did you have anything to do with my visit to the hairdressers?”
Georgie giggled. “That was my idea and Lucia’s gift to you,” he said. He recalled what Mademoiselle had said. “We thought you might like a little luxury for once. And it fits so nicely with Lord Limpsfield’s visit, which we didn’t know about when we planned this. I do hope that you and the Padre aren’t offended, but Lucia and I didn’t want anyone from the parish getting upset,” he explained.
Evie Bartlett professed herself overwhelmed by gratitude. “I have my appointment at Tilling Salon this very afternoon,” she said. “And my dress fitting tomorrow. But you and Lucia don’t have to pay for that: I can tailor it myself and save you a bit.”
“Or you can count it as part of your church tithe; Elizabeth often does so,” said Evie.
This was news! “No, we don’t skimp when it comes to our parish duties,” said Georgie, hoping that Evie would not realize the information she had let slip in her excitement: Elizabeth Mapp-Flint was so penny-pinching that she even cheated on her church tithe. After being thanked again several times, Georgie rang off.
“It sounds as if Evie’s happy with the dress,” said Lucia, who had been in the same room with Georgie while he spoke on the telephone and heard his end of the conversation.
“She’s happy with everything. Excited, really! Has her hairdresser’s appointment today and her dress fitting tomorrow. I do so look forward to seeing Evie all ‘fixed up’. And in her excitement, you’ll never guess what she let slip about Elizabeth Mapp-Flint's church tithes . . . !”
THE END
Text copyright 2012 Kathleen Bradford
Some very nice touches there! I especially liked the parfum exchanges.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Nancy! I'm glad you like it.
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