When he handed her out into the melee of the docks—the shouting and the coming and the going—for a second the world tilted as if her senses could not inform her brain fast enough of what it was they absorbed. Then the world righted itself and she welcomed it: people about their business; the trading, unloading, buying and selling, the glistening fish, the churned up snow, the great ships and little tugs and the sun on her face again and the blue blue sky.
“William, I fear we are in the way,” she called above the noise.
“Just pick your path gently, my dear. Take my arm if you wish. The carriage will wait.”
They had not been in such close proximity to one another in the open air for a very long time. It came to her that she remained fond of her cousin and that they had become in some way estranged since their coming to Boston.
“Does this please you, Emily?” He was forced to shout to be heard over the din and she was reminded of the cliffs at Newport.
She smiled broadly. “Most definitely.”
They walked carefully along the docks, past ropes and crates and all manner of obstacle; he with his stick, she with her skirts to contend with, her eyes moving from ground to ocean, to horizon to sky, biting cold on her cheeks. In a quiet and more sheltered spot toward the end of the semicircle, he paused. She felt elated merely to look and to freely breathe.
After some silent reflection, he said, “Partly I brought you here to tell you I mean to go away.”
She stopped gazing at the water and looked at him. “Indeed? Where?”
“To England. I must go to London and begin this literary endeavor of mine without wasting any more time. I had meant to go before this but … there has been someone close by whom I have been privileged to observe and did not feel as if I could be parted from.” He held her gaze now.
She had a sudden feeling of sickness, a contraction in her throat. “And is your observation concluded?”
His voice sharpened. “I don’t believe it ever shall be. But it is suspended for the present. I believe this person is about to embark on a most conventional course—quite beneath her, I am convinced—and I do not care to see any further for the present.”
His lips looked white, tinged with blue. She swallowed. There was no point in pretending she did not know what he meant.
“But you said that I should marry! In so many words, you said that!”
His reply was quick. “I do not recall recommending so—limited a gentleman for the purpose.” She saw he was on a sudden truly angry, even more pale, and hoarse. “There are so many literary, well-versed, thinking young men—”
“And you have taken such pains to introduce me to them!”
“Now it is I who am at fault.”
She was shaking at this sudden emotion between them and there were tears in her eyes. “I did not say that, William. Let us get our breath. You brought me here to explain that you are going away and that it is entirely on account of the narrowness of the choice I may be about to make? Did it ever occur to you that I would like to travel also—to improve myself—in fact that I long to do so?”
He spat out, “You may not go to the corner of the street without a chaperone!”
“Here I cannot! But if we were abroad—you are my cousin—you would be chaperone enough!”
“You want too much, Emily. Not content with Boston, now it is London you would like me to give you.” His words hurried over her senses.
Her face burned and there were tears in her eyes. She knew now he was determined to quarrel and would not be stayed.
“It was my uncle who brought me to Boston.”
“Only at my persuasion. Do you think he would have done so otherwise? You yourself know the slight regard he has for you. He, too, did not wish to see me go abroad.”
“I see.” She dropped her head. She had been the subject of a simple bargain: a trade.
“But we are neglecting our subject: Captain Lindsay. What a charming, easy-mannered, sociable, conventional choice for a girl of intelligence, wit, beauty such as yours—for the possessor of so much life.” He was still in a fury. She had never heard such malice in his voice.
She looked up and directly at him. “You have never praised me so highly until now.”
On a sudden he gentled. “Do not lie to yourself. For pity’s sake, Emily, you are exceptional.”
“I am sure everyone in Boston agrees,” she said bitterly, turning her face from him.
“You are entrancing, if reserved, in company. It may take time. Not everyone who has met you has the advantage of seeing what I see.”
“And what Captain Lindsay sees!”
“You would be bored and suffocated for the rest of your life. If you did not die in childbirth.”
“Sometimes I think you are an extremely wicked person, William. You would not have me marry a man who is earnestly attached to me, but you would have me wait for the ideal match, a person of whom you could approve before I could venture on any step! I am not your creature.”
“You are entitled to your opinion on that, as on many other matters, of course.” He spoke as if he had written the words beforehand.
Turning her back on him, she began to walk as quickly as she could toward the carriage, aware he was watching her slipping and sliding awkwardly on the snow-deep, uneven ground. Her anger was so great that she did not care: it was as if her true self was returning. Who was he to tell her what it was that she should do? Who was anybody? This intricate path she trod, this way among the cables with the gulls screaming overhead and the cold salt air in her lungs, this heady oxygen, this freedom, she must grasp it somehow, and not let it go.
The silent journey back to her uncle’s house—cold glass, hot cheek, blurred eyes—this could not be prevented. Just as the silence that grew between them after that could not be curtailed. It was not so much the silence of estrangement as that of complete understanding: she could see clearly how he meant to involve himself in her destiny, and she perceived in some fashion that it was connected to his feeling for her. That the feeling was not disinterested, she knew keenly, but the pain of it was the tenderness she felt for him. He, who would never present himself as a lover, who could not—she deeply understood—ever do so, nonetheless claimed a stake in her that she resisted with her whole self. And yet, apart from the captain, and her darling Augusta, he was the only creature in the world that cared two figs what her destiny might be. That he could be cruel she now no longer doubted; how cruel remained to be seen. She did not want to see it. She wanted him to be as he had been at Newport, with his teasing and his books and his tender gentleness. She could not bear the hardening in him that came with this snow, this winter.
As time and days passed she found herself dreaming of Captain Lindsay, but in an increasingly distracted, peculiar way, like a child’s dream of an angel or of God. Her idleness and restlessness returned—and her uncle had to remind her on many an occasion to make herself agreeable.
MISS AUGUSTA DEAN
HOTEL D’ANGLETERRE, ROME
BOSTON
December 28th, 1861
My dearest Augusta,
Your Christmas at Rome sounds as if it has been a splendid one, for not only does it appear pleasingly opulent, but you have the gift of making friends wherever you go. I do not even have to close my eyes to imagine a plentiful quantity of crimson and gold—more specifically velvet and brocade—and your bright laughing face.
I also begin to understand that to picture an event or place in advance and respond to it accordingly can be a very ill-advised exercise: misconceived, I think William would say. We have quarreled terribly over my possible acceptance of Captain Lindsay. I am brooding over the concerns nearest to me: how to regain the goodwill and confidence of William (which at present I am too proud and angry to attempt, even if I secretly desire it) and how to answer the proposal, should it come.
We have kept a stern Christmas, solitary and cold, despite the presence of William’s two brothers returned from the w
ar. They are treated more as embarrassments than heroes. I cannot think of my beloved family and all the merry times we had together, or even of the peace and solitude of Christmases at school when I could be alone with my dreams. These are long slow days between Christmas and New Year. I am increasingly of the opinion that if the captain were to make a declaration it will come before he returns to the front early in the New Year.
My spirit is weary with the pain of my cousin’s disapproval—and to be at table with him and in constant contact I find at times unimaginably painful. He keeps close to the house because of the season and does not busy himself with his usual many visits. In what society there has been I have become more practiced at the art of manners and the correct small talk, of seeming to be present while being elsewhere, but it is not my natural way of being. I have never before achieved such tiny stitches in my sewing.
Later, before bed
I have pondered alone and I have made my decision. If Captain Lindsay were to propose to me at the party I shall accept him and it will grant me safe passage from this house for ever.
I think it the only wise decision I could make. And do I love him? I surprise myself by believing that I must—as my deliverer, as the best friend I have in the world apart from your dear self, and beyond that, for the joy in life I always feel in his presence.
I shall write to you when I am no longer poring over the obscure map of the future. When I can decipher it, you shall hear.
Affectionately,
Emily
“Forgive me for disturbing your family during this Christmas season.”
It was the unexpected voice of Captain Lindsay in the hall below, conversing with her uncle. It was New Year’s Eve and Emily was upstairs, laying out her evening dress upon her bed: restless, she had decided to sketch it.
“But I wonder, if it is convenient, if I may have a few minutes’ conversation with Miss Emily.” His voice sounded loud, as if he had been shouting out of doors, and it was full of eager confidence and delight. “Perhaps just briefly, Sir?”
“I will send for her directly,” said her uncle.
But Emily could not pretend she had not heard. She came running down the cold stairs without hesitating.
He wore a greatcoat and muffler but was bareheaded. Spots of snow were melting on his shoulders. After glancing at him, she looked at his hands, embarrassed. They were red-raw with cold.
“Niece, you have a visitor.” And her uncle withdrew without ceremony.
“I apologize for coming here unannounced. I could not wait until tonight.” He was out of breath and he looked at her beautifully.
“There is no need. I am very pleased.” She could think of nothing and had to look away again, as if nothing had happened in past or future or ever would—just his presence, the height of him so cold close to her, his eyes. She forced herself to look at him. He appeared uncharacteristically serious, but only for a second.
“It is only that I am returned and we have been walking in the snow—playing, I must admit—and I thought of you as we were close by. I have been with my sister, who desires me to convey her impatience to meet you this evening. She hopes that her sudden recent transformation into a matron will not prejudice you against her quite.” He laughed as if it were all easy.
“I would be delighted to make her acquaintance.” She was aware of sounding very monotonous and withdrawn. He was so alive, so vital always, and she, despite her quickened heartbeat and trembling hands, felt like a shade.
“I do apologize. You seem out of spirits. Perhaps this has not been the right thing to do. My sister did warn me—”
Emily tried to smile, aware that she was looking at him strangely. This creature she had fretted over as if he were a problem in Latin grammar had now become a solid, joyous friend who had come to claim her. She was alert yet quiet in her soul, but the house surrounded her. Perhaps he might offer to take her for a walk, as he had once done.
“I am perfectly well. It is only the lack of air.”
He smiled at her simply. “I am so happy to see you again,” he said. “Are you sure you do not mind?”
“On the contrary, I …”
They were utterly alone. She could whisper any words to him freely, but could think of nothing. Part of her longed to confide in him about her quarrel with William, but she knew it would be quite wrong. She took a breath as if to begin.
“Emily, has something happened?”
It was not her uncle but William who came almost noiselessly into the hall.
“Captain Lindsay. How do you do?” he said, with an imitation of surprise.
“How do you do, William,” said Captain Lindsay, shaking hands in his open, gracious way.
“Will you not take tea with us? We could light the fire.” Her cousin spoke languidly and without interest. Emily could not look at him but only at Captain Lindsay.
“You are very kind, Sir, but I must return home to offer my assistance in this evening’s preparations. This was merely a quick call, a little ill-advised, I fear.”
Emily saw William smile, slightly, raising his eyebrows. “Indeed. Quicksilver speed.”
The captain shook hands again with her cousin, then with Emily, glancing at her with a little hint of uncertainty in his manner, and was gone as quickly as he had appeared, banging the door and clattering down the steps as if in a great hurry. There was no backward glance.
Emily turned on William. “That was very rude of you, Cousin.”
“I merely asked the gentleman if he would take tea. You make it sound as if I offered to shoot him.”
“As usual, you exaggerate. It was in your manner—your manner of asking.”
“I am sure he will recover. He does not strike me as a man particularly attuned to the nuances of things.” He smiled at her and left her standing, shaking in the cold hall.
“Your pallor has quite returned,” said her uncle, as they gathered on the steps that evening while the carriage was brought round. “How regrettable.”
And he turned from her. They all did.
Emily wore her mother’s necklace even though he had not requested it. She required the charm of its protection. William noticed it but pretended not to. It was the same dress; she would look precisely as she had at Thanksgiving and all of a sudden she longed to appear seeming altogether new. During the journey she suffered the floating feeling of unreality that had begun that evening when the captain had begged for a word, as if she were a jewel. And now, crowded in the shadows opposite her uncle, beside William, she felt almost invisible.
There had been a fresh fall of snow and the Lindsays’ white house, generous and classical in proportion, boasted flickering tapers on each of the steps, while lights blazed from every window, flooding the snow. The splendor made her chest ache, breathing in the cold night air. In the vestibule, standing between his parents, Captain Lindsay looked so very different from the way he had appeared that afternoon: all formal and dressed and restrained. She could not tell whether he was pleased to see her; perhaps he thought she did not care for him. In the formal, patrician looks and cordial greeting she received from his mother and father she glimpsed the possibility of her future family, yet she sensed that they were ignorant of any significance she might one day have for them.
William shook hands with the Lindsays with an air of studied lack of interest, and guided Emily quickly into the ballroom, where she had no choice but to allow him to introduce her to the company while the captain continued to receive his guests. He seemed to command her in so arch and superior a way that it angered her, taking care rarely to leave her side, following her, clasping her elbow firmly, allowing his hands to hold her by the waist. The rooms were beautiful, decorated, and brimming with hothouse flowers, the Christmas tree covered with gold and white ribbons. There was an ebullience and youth in the company, a feeling of vigor in the house that began to thrill her. The young men of the captain’s set were open and generous in their manners, many enlisted and in dress unifo
rm, and the young women had a similar lack of reserve she found charming. These might one day be my friends, she thought, feverishly.
She did not dance. She did not want to dance with anybody but Captain Lindsay, but first she had to explain to him that she had not said the right thing that afternoon, that she had not shown—but she felt a little confused about how this was to be conveyed and what she should say. When he came to her it was arm in arm with a young woman, undoubtedly his sister. She looked pretty and kind, as if nothing bad had ever happened to her in her life, nor ever would.
“I am Margaret,” she said. “But you must call me Meg.”
“I am Emily.”
“I will not embarrass you by telling you that you are very much as he described you.”
If the lovely young creature that might be her sister had wanted to set her at her ease, it had been a good beginning. As Emily laughed and blushed, an acquaintance came to claim the captain’s attention, and he excused himself for a moment. She felt a little giddy. She had not eaten or taken any refreshment all day. The importance of the occasion must be telling on her nerves. She tried to close her throat but the laughter she could hear coming from inside her began to catch at her as she breathed and became a gasp, and the gasping, rasping, choking cough, at first unnoticed, mingled with the music and dancing, all at once echoed loud as the musicians paused before commencing the next dance.
Her handkerchief was in her reticule on a chair in the next room, so she could only press her hand to her mouth to stifle herself.
“Come,” said Meg, “we shall find you a glass of water,” and she escorted Emily, whose head was bowed, fighting to contain herself, fighting to breathe, with all gentleness into the dining room where servants attended to the table and only one or two couples conversed. “Wait there but a minute, Miss Emily—” and she hurried to the table for water. But Emily could not sip it because the cough would not stop, until with all her strength, she swallowed it down. At last she took the glass from Meg, seeing the captain come into the room; he was visible approaching behind her in the huge gilt mirror, a golden reflection.
Emily Hudson Page 9