“You may.”
And she was alone again, walking along the beach and holding the letter. The sky was unexpectedly overcast but it was not cold.
It would not do for her to brood over this man and the extreme tenderness of what he had written, the charm of its light-hearted tone. She had never received such a letter before. She understood that if a person were about to enter circumstances of acute danger it would be quite understandable that they should attach undue importance to a drive through a town along a wild and beautiful shore, and allow the company of the young girl who had—by an accident of fate—been accompanying him to somehow feel significant. It was quite understandable. That in itself was not what moved her; whether he saw her truly when he imagined her was of very little importance. How could it be compared to the hideousness of the ordeal he was about to face? A battle with killing and maiming and blood. It was quite terrible that her face should be streaked with tears, try as she might to convince herself that she did not cry for herself but for him.
The awful recollection came to her of holding Charlie’s lifeless form in her arms the night he died, the girls sleeping in their beds, her father exhausted in his chair before the fire, and she, with Charlie, holding him, but so alone because he was no longer there. At least her mother had been spared that. It was not right a child should die before its parent, and yet nature had no respect for what was right. Of God she had long ceased to think, though she still prayed out of habit. Darling Charlie. She had closed his eyes, smoothed his hair and tucked him in before her father could be afforded a glimpse of him.
It was bad, this new pain for another human being. It laid her quite low. It would not do. It would not do at all. Her mother would chide her. She would tell her to make herself useful. And yet she could not bring herself to turn toward the house, reach for her sewing, for her books, even for her pencil. She must walk and arrange her thoughts.
It was a long walk, and as she made her way back and approached the house the cloud parted a little and a few shafts of light fell over the ocean. It moved and heaved as if some sleeping beast were stirring beneath the mirrored waves.
William was waiting for her, reading in the shade.
“You are sad, Cousin?”
It was hard to be on guard after such thoughts and feelings as she had so recently endured. They had not spoken privately since their painful and trivial quarrel the day before. His eyes were gentle.
“Perhaps. A little.”
“Come and sit with me. We will discuss the Odes and if you consent I will fetch you something new to read.”
She said nothing, but brought her chair close to his, pressing the backs of her hands against her cheeks and eyes to ensure they were no longer wet.
MISS AUGUSTA DEAN
HIGH TREES SCHOOL
ROCHESTER, NY
NEWPORT BEACH
May 2nd, 1861
My dear Friend,
I am so glad to hear your spirits have lifted and that the summer promises such delights for you. It is hardly imaginable, picturing you borne off by your father to taste the delights of Italy. Do not concern yourself about the heat. Providing you guard against fatigue by frequent rests and make sure your clothes are not too restrictive, you drink water often and do not travel in the heat of the day, you will be quite safe and secure. In his youth my father traveled extensively and would always entertain us with his stories of the many precautions taken by female travelers against the rigors of their journeys. And now here I am, repeating his observations and sounding more like a maiden aunt than your rebellious friend! Remember, too, that your father is a most experienced traveler, having essayed most of these places before—and I do not imagine you will venture too far south.
How thrilling to have such a trip to plan for and to occupy your thoughts—but how extremely frustrating that he refuses to commit himself in either direction about whether you will return to school in the fall. Perhaps he intends to test your company first while you are in Italy, so take my advice and take care not to anger or oppose him, but be an irreproachable traveling companion throughout the journey! Easier said than done in my opinion: if it were your devoted Emily I would cause some disturbance by an untoward remark before even setting sail. For his sake we must be thankful that he has sweet-tempered delightful you as his daughter and not this unfortunate girl.
Do I mean to describe myself as unfortunate? I confess I do not—for it is not the case—and yet my spirits have not been high these past few days. Perhaps it is all the novelty of making the captain’s acquaintance (as described in, I hope, not too tedious a length in my last letter!) and that very touching missive which I have now consigned to my locked bureau drawer. At my uncle’s request I have not replied to the letter, and in this case perhaps it is for the best. I should not like to brood over it and become sentimental. I have heard nothing from him since, and am both relieved at it—because I do not wish my feelings to be brought to such a pitch of fearful anticipation on so slight and brief an acquaintance, and in so short a time—and disappointed because I would like to be assured at every hour and minute that he is alive and well. As, I hasten to add, I would all those foolish and brave young men who have undertaken this rash war so unthinkingly.
My uncle spends the breakfast hour in study of the newspaper, but I think he considers it unseemly to discuss its contents, or for anyone else in the family to know too much. It is not as if the lives of his two sons are bound up in it, or any such thing.
I have been troubled with a slight but persistent cough that I am sure I have caught from William and this unseasonably damp weather is doing nothing to subdue. It will not rain properly, but only denies us sunlight, and there is a fine mist, not even a drizzle, in the air. I have been taking my daily exercise regardless, but William does not approve. Relations with my cousin are now more secure, even though I did not apologize for daring to disagree with him. He treats me with a consistent affection and consideration that eases my spirits. We have progressed to that new and exciting novel of George Eliot’s, The Mill on the Floss. I must confess to being far more interested in Maggie than its description of the changes in rural society in that particular corner of England. Doubtless I am proving myself to be quite as young as William persists in telling me I am.
My aunt, uncle and cousin Mary appear to have settled into a routine of barely acknowledging my presence. We do not converse except in the most limited and expedient way, such as “Could you pass the salt and pepper?” or “I wonder, shall it finally rain in earnest today?” They do not like me. They wish I were not here. And it is wearing to know that my fate is in their hands. Before I continue in this self-pitying vein I will sign myself,
Your ever affectionate,
Emily
FIVE
A brilliant morning brought the end of Emily’s days of low spirits. She went out early with her sketchbook, determined to attempt to catch some of the light on its paper, and settling in a sandy hollow in the dunes, fell asleep in the unexpected warmth of the sun. Its returnin had seemed to promise her less uncertainty. She felt she could work clearly in the light and, satisfied, she could sleep.
Only the sound of a little party of walkers passing close by woke her. Her face was hot and the glare considerable. A glance at the sky proved it was beyond midday. Luncheon. Tying up the ribbon of the sketchbook and walking rapidly back toward the house—she did not run in case her uncle should be watching from the window—she had that all-too-familiar feeling of distracted and vague guilt. She was in the wrong: unconsciously she had put herself there again.
Now she could see them, already eating in the dining room, a subdued tableau of soberly clad shadowy figures. Determined not to burst in on them from the veranda and cause displeasure and annoyance by her lack of consideration, she decided to go around the house and enter at the front. The maid would come if she knocked quietly. But there was no need. The door had been left open and in the hall she put down her book and attempted to smooth her clothes and tidy
her hair. It would take too long to go to her room and try to mend her appearance better. She must hurry. With a light step she crossed the morning room and parlor and approached the dining room door. Her uncle’s voice boomed from within, easily penetrating its thickness and that of the walls.
“… her carelessness, her lack of decorum, her insulting ignorance of every subject including the manners of polite society—all these things I have come to accept, but your unaccountable affection for this troublesome girl, this I cannot countenance, William. I absolutely cannot. Do not exercise yourself to defend her. Who knows where she is now. She cannot come to her meals without being called, it seems—no better than a dog.”
Standing still and slight outside that tall dark door, Emily had never felt so mortified and alone. But in that quick, breathing second where her ears were noisy, her eyes full of tears, her face hot and every part of her body quivering, she did not think to turn away. She knocked, sudden and quick, and entered the room.
“I am afraid I am late for luncheon, Uncle.” She tried to speak as an honored guest might. They all looked at her with eyes hollow and unreadable, except for William, whose expression was compassionate. He did not scold her or ask her where she had been.
“You are very pale, my dear; are you quite well?” inquired her aunt.
“Quite well, thank you, Ma’am.”
“Then you must take your place with us.” It was strange that it should be her aunt who should question her, that her aunt should decide, but no one appeared to think it strange. Her life was strange; these people were strange, floating around the shiny table, strange and unreal.
She found her place quietly and sat. Her uncle rang the bell for her to be served, then lifted his own knife and fork and recommenced eating, followed by his family. Emily took a sip of water. No better than a dog, no better than a dog, and now her heart was racing to the sound of the words. If she could gather her belongings and go—she suddenly had a picture of herself gathering her belongings into a reticule—if she could walk out of this house and along the cliffs and follow this shore to the end of her strength, in the hope of finding somewhere she would be welcome … But she was wild and desperate, and there was nowhere. She sipped her water again. Her uncle was saying something but she could not understand the words. She knew he did not require an answer from her.
She looked over Mary’s shoulder to the window and to the moving ocean, but that was no good, her eyes were blurred. It seemed she would not be able to maintain her composure after all. She thought of Augusta, laughing in the woods on a summer day as they counted patches of sunlight. She thought of the captain handing her into the carriage with a delicacy that indicated she was precious. Her lips and mouth were dry and she kept on thinking of these two friends, as her plate was put in front of her and she chewed the bitter bread.
When they stood up to leave the table she was forced to lift her eyes. William was studying her face, quiet and intent, begging for a look, which she gave him. He knew that she had heard, they all knew. His expression—she was not prepared for it—was all curiosity, an excited curiosity, and his face was quite flushed and damp as if from sudden exertion. She had anticipated sympathy, a sympathy she would have wanted hastily to push away. He was quite absorbed in her, looking in so acute a fashion, and even though she had offered him a glance he kept on looking, she could tell, as she put her napkin on the table and turned away. He wanted to stop her, she knew, and she did not know if she wanted to be stopped. The thought of the silence of her upstairs room oppressed her. Now that the days were becoming warmer her uncle encouraged the ladies to rest after lunch. She hated rest.
“Cousin.” He put his hand on her arm as she moved toward the door. It was peculiar. He rarely touched her and the sensation was strange, adding to the strangeness of the day. “My dear.”
She was very tired. Being compared to a dog had made her very tired. Her uncle had gone. The effect of his insult had not interested him sufficiently for him to seek an interview—or even a look. He did not appear to wish to admonish her. He had other things on his mind.
“Yes, William.” Her face was turned from him.
“My dear, I cannot help but be aware that you must have heard my father’s outburst. He was much exercised. I hope you understand—”
She looked at him directly. “Do you apologize for him?”
“I apologize for us all. I lack courage when it comes to my father. I fear I should have defended you. I was distinctly ungallant.”
“William, I have never believed you in the least gallant.”
“Might you smile then? You know him for an old rhinoceros.”
“It seems I am a dog.”
“Oh, my dear, I—” In their look he seemed at pains to assert their mutual bond. “Are we serious, or do we laugh about it? Is it painful, or is he our little joke?”
“He is a joke for you who are not tied to him. You have the means to escape him whenever you choose.”
He allowed himself a smile, his expression turning inward as if to examine himself, the same flush on his cheeks. Emily herself felt drained of color. “How little you know about me.”
“On the contrary, I feel I know rather a lot.”
It was still in the room and his hand remained on her arm. “Tell me, Cousin, I long to know, tell me about your mother. Let us remember her together. My father will not speak of her, and yet I know that once she was his favorite little sister.”
This was an unexpected request and Emily was disarmed, raw from her uncle’s anger. “Why should you mention her now?” He had never referred to her family before.
“I do not know. It is just I think you must be very like her—I think she was very proud. I think my father sees her shadow in you; we all sense it.”
She felt a little faint and unsure what was for the best. “Must I, William? Must I talk of her?”
His hand increased its pressure. “Come. Come. Please. I would like to know her better. And it will distract you from this unpleasant scene. Tell me the story.” His hand guided her out on to the veranda, the reassuring heat of the afternoon tempered by the overhanging roof, the gentle breeze easing her. They sat on the steps, close together, like children sent outside to eat fruit. The backs of their hands were touching, their forms huddled together. It was a comfort. She did not look at him but down at the step.
“I thought her very beautiful. I adored her.”
“No. Start from the beginning,” he insisted. “It is not enough that she was beautiful. You must start from the beginning of the story.”
“I doubt if I know it all.”
“No. The whole must be assembled. But your part is what interests me now.”
“Well. You know there were three of them.”
“My father was the eldest.”
“Then brother Ernest—”
“He lives in New York, and they do not speak. And then there was your mother.”
“She was the younger sister—they spoiled her and loved her,” said Emily in a low voice.
“That is not my understanding. Their upbringing was strict, but they held her in high esteem. She was their girl, their precious, beautiful girl. And when it came time for her to marry—”
“Our grandfather was very rich—land prospecting.”
“I know that they moved a great deal to remote places, and our grandmother pined for her family. He was always in pursuit of money to be made.”
“But eventually they settled in New York to find my mother a husband from their acquaintance among our grandmother’s more respectable family. She had a large portion and competition was fierce. But she fell in love with my father, who was her drawing teacher. He had not a cent, nothing by way of land or even connections to bring to the match. She told me that her father wanted more than a respectable family for his daughter, but a grand and established one. I do not think they planned to elope, not in the beginning. My father did not want her to forsake her expectations or break her bond with he
r family all for him. He begged her to wait until he had made his way better in the world. But she was very young.”
“The same age as you are now, I think.”
“And eventually he let her persuade him. They were both terrified she would be married against her will if they delayed and then it would be too late. My uncle, your father, believed he had her trust and her confidence—and it was true, he did—but that did not prevent her from wresting her own destiny from his hands and from her father’s hands, and leaving them all.”
“It was a most terrible outcome. Regrettable. Painful.”
“I do not think so.” She was still looking at the wooden step beneath her feet and fancying it very warm by now. “They loved each other very much. They were happy.”
“She was ruined. She died young. They all perished.”
“All except me.”
“My father sees it as God’s punishment.”
All before Emily’s eyes was the home she had lived in with her mother, father, brother Charlie and the girls, and she could not speak.
“What were your sisters’ names?”
“I was just thinking of them. Isabella and Helena. Very unfashionable in our age of plainness. She was a romantic. We lived at Buffalo; you probably know that. So much building going on. They kept a poor but respectable house. They taught us a great many things. Mother said a person must always think for themselves. I remember stories before the fire, and in the summer, excursions to the lakes—you should see them, Cousin. But the winters there are cruel and neither of my parents was particularly strong. The life is hard. She used to laugh and talk about the pioneer spirit but that was not how she had been raised. She had been cosseted. I think it grieved her deeply not to see or hear from her family. She did not say so, though. She remained a loyal, dear heart. She was fond of music. It was she who gave her time to teaching me to play; her touch was superior to mine. My father instructed me in drawing.”
Emily Hudson Page 5