“If you please—will you leave the shawl?”
“Certainly.”
He stepped over it, carrying the books and putting them on his lap. Pulling his chair closer to the fire he watched her work. She did not mind in the least. He had a way of observing her, she observed, that was both hungry and discreet. It did not take long. It was only a sketch.
“That, I presume, is your interest? Drawing.”
“It is just something I have always done.”
“May I see it?”
“Of course.” She held out the book and he passed her the Shakespeare. He glanced at her drawing while she admired the bindings with hands and eyes. “These editions are very luxurious.”
“You are accustomed to the school library. I like my books to be beautiful.”
“And your father can afford to pay for them. I am sorry. I did not mean to say that. It was so vulgar, and I—”
“Don’t apologize, my dear. It is not the first time I have heard you say exactly what comes into your head. That is how you must remain. It is part of your peculiar and considerable charm. But only part. The rest is ill-defined and requires work.”
“I require work?!”
“No. It is I who must work to capture you.”
MISS AUGUSTA DEAN
HIGH TREES SCHOOL
ROCHESTER, NY
NEWPORT BEACH
April 3rd, 1861
My dearest Girl,
First I must assure you that I have received your letter—and regret that I have not had the opportunity at least to dash off a line to thank you for being so faithful a correspondent. Do not for a moment imagine you have not been in my thoughts; it is only that I have been unexpectedly taken up with so many new impressions that I have not had the usual opportunity to brood over a letter.
It does not come as a surprise to me to hear that nothing whatever is changed at the school. That you are resigned to my departure and that the other girls are proving kind in extending their friendship is welcome news to me. And yes, we shall continue to write—never fear. You are also quite correct in pointing out that I am fortunate to find myself amongst a family once more after so long, and that it should not be wasted in longing for you.
But let me say again that there is not an hour that passes when I do not think of you, still shut up in that dreary place amongst those dreary trees. It makes me angry that a creature of such warm and breathing energy as yours should be so confined—just as it made me angry for myself when I shared your confinement. But, my dear girl, without seeking to belittle your fate, I feel I must draw your attention to the future.
Either at the end of this semester or, Heaven forbid, after the completion of another year, your father, in his wisdom, will conclude that your education is complete, and you will be transported in all your golden and abundant beauty, all your tumbling hair and merry spirits and quick mind, to a place far more worthy of you. You will be finished in the civilized surroundings of a great city, and you will be provided for. You will marry well and you will be allowed, within reason, to choose.
I, on the other hand, fear that without independent means I cannot do anything in this world.
I remind you of this not to lecture you, nor to bemoan my own circumstances, but to urge you to take comfort in the notion—the solid idea—that what you endure will have a clean and definite end. The uncertainty of your life and destiny will of course continue, and it will never be entirely in your hands, but its sphere will widen and become more receptive to you and your treasured gifts. Know that I desire an early release for you, but know also that I follow your career with a sense of confidence I fear I cannot attach to my own.
Darling girl, I must also remind you that, despite our separation, we are lucky in our friendship—truly blessed—and never let anyone persuade you to the contrary. I remember and treasure your cream and apricot solid flesh, that healthy complexion that is both delicate and robust—your firm step; your lovely voice and direct way of speaking and listening; your easy manners with any person, whether high or low—and others will love all these qualities with equal passion.
I am reminding myself of you too much and it is making me miss you unbearably. I shall cease singing your praises directly—you must be blushing—and embark on as lengthy a description of the events of the past few days as your patience can bear.
My cousin Mary returned from New York yesterday, her arrival so quiet and subdued it could hardly be called an event. But then she is like her mother, not only in the apparent calm of her demeanor, but in the constant watchfulness of her gaze. In her sideways appraisal of my face and figure I felt an intense dislike: the way I used to know Mrs. Darkins disliked me at school, however much the head mistress protested that it was my poor attitude and performance that was to blame. She has been taking a cure in New York, where, poor thing, she was shut up in an upstairs room of some doctor’s house, away from the light and given a great deal of butter to quiet her nerves. It has had the desired effect; she was certainly quiet but, I might also add, uncomfortably plump, for which she cannot be said to be at fault.
She has the same penetrating eyes as her brother, except, of course, only at close range, for she suffers from severe myopia and must wear spectacles. She is only twenty-five but looks and behaves like a widow. It makes me sad. She keeps to her room a great deal and when she does come down conversation falters as we cast around for subjects so suitably bland as not to cause her distress. My uncle warned me about this before her homecoming, saying extremely sourly, “As everything you say comes out of your mouth as if it were an explosion, it might be better if you were to keep entirely silent.” I am sure in this case he is right. I would hate to be the cause of disturbing poor Mary’s nerves.
I imagine you asking me how the arrival of so gloomy a person could have made me so occupied I have been unable to write, but in truth she has been only a small part of my life’s jigsaw. I have found myself increasingly in the company of my cousin, William, whose opinions and objectives in many ways correspond to my own. We walk the beach with the gulls circling over our heads, continually contemplating his future across the ocean. I am increasingly convinced he might well be the great writer he believes he can be, although I am forbidden to read his stories because of their unsuitable subject matter: just the little topic of the war and its painful accompaniments disease, death and loss, along with unorthodox opinions about such things. The fact that I share his convictions about the monstrousness of war and have seen more death in my short life than he will ever know appears to be neither here nor there. It is very galling, this veil of unsuitability.
But I must add that I am beginning to suspect that my uncle’s displeasure and the question of what constitutes appropriate reading matter for young ladies might well obscure his real reason. I think at heart he is afraid to show me his work. So far he has had only minor attention and been published in a small way—he is choosing me as his intimate—someone so passionate and unformed, as he constantly reminds me—that he is excused for keeping me in ignorance. Yet I sense he fears my judgment. He fears my eyes on the pages he has written. And I suppose I fear it too—but oh, my dear, I am so curious! It is extraordinary, how curious I am.
There is so much time to think. It gives me an odd twist at the heart to be reminded that had my darling Charlie lived he would surely have enlisted and be facing this new mortal danger. You will be glad to know that I have refrained from engaging anyone on the subject of the cruelty of war; I would doubtless be reprimanded strongly. It seems mankind feels compelled to consume itself either from within or without. But I am losing my gaiety. William tells me he loves my gaiety.
So long a letter—I hope you are not bored.
My uncle remarked that I am looking less pale. It is the first time he has spoken to me for several days.
What I struggle to say is that for my uncle and my cousin it is the life of the mind that is their concern. All I know is that I have a horror of blood.
&
nbsp; So very affectionately,
Emily
THREE
From his window William watched his cousin running toward the ocean. He had been up since six writing, finding that to move from dream to page often yielded an interesting if not always satisfactory result, and now, dressing and glancing out at the beach, there she was. Through the glass he could see but not smell the beauty of the morning, the very bright dancing light. It would be warm today. The colors were true, there was no mist or early cloud, it was all promise of summer ahead, and he saw her standing and looking about her and he knew she felt delight, alone and in possession of the purity of the shore. He watched her sit on the ground to take off her boots and stockings, then, abandoning them, she ran without hesitating into the ocean, lifting her skirts but wetting the hem of her blue dress.
He left his desk quite without deciding consciously to do so, hurrying down the stairs to find his coat and muffler waiting for him in the dark hall, and went to join her, walking slowly for fear of interruption, glorying in the vision of her in the waves.
When she turned she seemed only momentarily surprised to see him standing there on the ragged dune grass at the edge of the beach. He did not want the sand in his shoes.
“Good morning, Cousin!” she called to him. “We should breakfast on the veranda, we really should! Have you seen this beautiful day?”
Any reply would have been inadequate, so he stood still and observed her: the bare flesh of her legs red with cold, dark hair tangled, skirts held in her hand. How could it be that with her mouth too wide for beauty, her nose too definite and figure too slight and unbending, how could it be that this creature could catch at his heart because she was so exquisite? He did not feel his own joy, but he could feel hers.
“They will be calling for you soon.”
“Indeed?”
“Searching high and low.” He wanted to prolong the moment of looking at her and embracing her with his eyes.
She smiled as she tried to pull her hair out of her eyes with the hand that did not hold her skirts.
“It is time to come in now.”
“Is it really? What time is it? I lost my watch.”
“Quite eight o’clock. You were up early.”
For a second she hesitated as if to refuse, then waded toward him. “I wonder you were not all up and out on this glorious day.”
“I was awake, but I was working.” He held out his hand as she picked up her boots and stockings. “I will carry your things.”
She appeared almost angry and yet she was laughing. “Why should you carry them? They are my poor old things, after all.”
He touched her hand as she drew hers away from him, clutching at her belongings like a child with its plaything, and with bending head studied the veins that held so much life, wanting to seize that hand and wrist and kiss it, knowing he could not, would not, never should. Her playful glance seemed to understand and they approached the house together, its long gabled structure a gray-blue presence in this new sunlight, made somehow benign. To be by the side of such a creature on this morning held a grandeur for him.
And then she broke away, running ahead and up the steps, across the veranda and into the breakfast room and he followed, out of breath, catching at some indescribable feeling of unease.
He could hear her voice calling, “Good morning, Uncle, Aunt, Mary,” but not their reply. Breakfast was a silent time when his father prepared his mind for the day, his mother her tasks and his sister her spirits. “This day, have you seen it? It’s—”
He gained the doorway and, to his horror, saw his cousin wheeling around the fine old table, still fluttering and running as he had seen her on the beach, more wildly, even, racing past the backs of their chairs like something possessed.
“Emily, stop this at once.”
His father’s words were spoken too late. She had already made herself giddy and collapsed, laughing, on to the floor.
“I do apologize,” she laughed. “What could I have been thinking?”
Now that William’s horror had subsided she was irresistible to him once more. But to his soberly clad family she was an aberration that they could scarcely raise their eyes to contemplate. His father, that fiery scandalous theologian, who could shout his doctrine from any podium in the country, could not suffer this little girl. Their faces began to turn angrily to her and frowning; it seemed to take more time for Emily to comprehend the extent of their distaste than the gasping breath that shook her and froze her smile.
“Truly, I am sorry, Aunt, Uncle. It is only that it is such a beautiful day.”
“Does this mean we must fear the beauty of every day this summer in case we should again be treated to such a scene?”
“Of course not, Uncle.”
William knew his father had not expected a reply, especially one so swift. “You are not properly dressed, young woman. Go.”
In her beloved countenance William saw a flash of pain before the anger rose, and when he knew she was angry he was afraid of what she might say. He should intervene. But she said nothing, and neither did he speak, not one word, nor did she look at him as if she expected it. She turned to the door, showing the presence of mind to retrieve her boots and damp sandy stockings, leaving a faint mark on the dark polished floor with her bare feet as she walked away.
His father stood up, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Emily.”
She turned and looked at him, with no attempt to hide her tears.
“Keep to your room today. You are obviously much excited and will benefit from the rest.”
Did she curtsey? Was there a suggestion of a bowing of the head? William could not be sure.
“Ah, William, I did not notice you were there. Come and sit with us.”
William sat. He drank his tea and ate a slice of toast. His sister’s face bore a look of satisfaction that animated it and filled it with ugliness. He wondered to what degree Emily had already unconsciously become her enemy simply by existing. He understood, if he did not pity her jealousy. His mother’s face, implacable as ever, betrayed nothing.
His father, attempting to contain his agitation by clenching his teeth and rustling his newspaper, eventually spoke. “My house is a temple to my work, to my ideas, and to the development of my thoughts. That young girl has no place in it.”
MISS AUGUSTA DEAN
HIGH TREES SCHOOL
ROCHESTER, NY
NEWPORT
April 10th
11 o’clock
My sweetest Friend,
I have been in captivity today and am feeling very sorry for myself. I was sent to my room at breakfast this morning and have not had a bite to eat since waking. Despite your advice to me to make myself agreeable I have singularly failed to gain the family’s good opinion. High spirits brought on by the beauty of the day caused me to forget myself—that is I treated the breakfast table to a glimpse of my happiness, and I do believe there is nothing this family hates so much as happiness. Forgive my bitterness: but that they should have the good fortune to summer in such a place as this while young men prepare to die on the battlefield, while poverty destroys families such as my own—it makes me angry. Perhaps that is precisely why we should not be happy, but I cannot look at it that way. Every morning could be the last morning—the last—do they not see?
It has felt cruel to be locked up. I have watched the occasional walkers returning from the beach. There was a family; a little girl with fair hair had gathered some shells. Nothing happened downstairs. My uncle and cousin have been working; Mary keeps to her room on this floor; I can feel her uncomfortably close. (I sensed she took pleasure in my disgrace today.) If I could calm my fretfulness and self-pity I could pull my chair to the window and read the Shakespeare and Odes that William has lent me; at least then I would be improving my mind instead of longing and longing to be free.
3 o’clock
Unexpected news. A message came this afternoon from William’s brothers’ regiment—they are t
o call here to say farewell before their first engagement, which is expected shortly. I heard my aunt speaking of it to my uncle in the hall, and now there is some commotion in the kitchen and I believe the boy has been sent to the butcher. I wonder if I will be permitted to come down and when they are expected.
I must restrain myself from walking the floor. It will only perturb them, for I am sure they would hear it.
Forgive my selfishness. If I do not continue this later, write to me with your news.
Yours in affectionate agitation,
Emily
FOUR
They rode their horses up to the house, which Emily felt was very thrilling. She could hear the sound of hooves from the stairs. She had never ridden a horse but had longed to all her life. The creatures were taken to the side of the house, where the kitchen boy held them for the length of the entire visit.
Three cavalry officers with blue uniforms and clanking boots stepped out of the sunlight into the hall, where they became boys again.
The whole family was assembled to greet them, and Emily was introduced to her two cousins and their superior, Captain Lindsay.
“I am honored to make your acquaintance,” he said, taking her hand.
She wanted to say, “Do not trouble yourself to be charming. I am not the daughter of the house,” but her uncle interrupted before she could speak.
“My niece and ward, Emily; she is with us for a short spell. And this is my daughter, Mary.”
Emily Hudson Page 3