“Oh, quite by chance,” continued Firle, without glancing at William. “It is good of you to remember.” And he came forward out of the light. He seemed paler than she had remembered, equally at ease, while she was clammy with discomfort and the feeling of having been caught in some unspecified guilty act.
Looking from one to another, William smiled.
Indeed all the comfort and grandeur of the drawing room, the convivial company, the feeling of alert, refreshed calm at being given a reprieve from the loneliness of the city, had given way abruptly to the same sensations Emily had felt among the pictures: heat, thudding heart, a noise of blood in her ears. The great works of art in the Gallery had held a charisma, an almost animal quality that made real people shadows by comparison. But for all his pallor, this gentleman’s grace, beauty and energy made her remember why he had stood out among them. As they took tea, and Emily fumbled to manage her cup and saucer, her plate and fork, he remained a little detached from the group, leafing through some periodical or other, but also taking the opportunity to look at Emily and study her quite openly. She did not look back. Neither did William, occupied with Mr. Trelawney, offer her a diversion by speaking to her.
She began to converse with Miss Trelawney, who was asking her if she rode and what her interests and accomplishments were, why she had come to England. She was so charming and appeared so genuinely interested and kind that Emily began to become a little less conscious of being watched, and felt engaged. Her cousin and Mr. Trelawney were debating the merits of a new book she had not read with a good humor that comforted her, and soft light fell from the windows, brushing their hair and hands and making long patches of bright soft-butter light on the faded rugs.
On a sudden Lord Firle said, “I shall see you all at dinner,” and abruptly left the room. She heard him go outside, calling to his dogs, followed by his footsteps on the gravel.
“It is true, you have met Lord Firle before?” said her companion.
“I do not know him. I only saw him at the National Gallery—it is quite unimportant.”
“He spoke to you without having been introduced?” said Miss Trelawney, half smiling, half shocked. “He is quite abominable with young women; I am not at all surprised. How disgraceful. And he keeps a wife at home, though nobody ever sees her.”
“Why on earth did you invite him then, Sister, if you disapprove of him so profoundly?” inquired Mr. Trelawney.
Miss Trelawney blushed. “He is clever, and he makes us laugh. It wouldn’t do to be bored to death by all this literary gossip, would it?” she said.
At dinner, the abominable gentleman made no attempt to engage Emily in conversation; indeed expressed not the slightest interest in anything, or any person present, and she felt ashamed to feel so disappointed. All Emily knew was that she was curious about this gentleman, fiercely curious, and she wanted him to be curious about her. He was the first person who had truly interested her in a long time. His obvious lack of belief in anything banished the memory of the hopeful part of her heart that Captain Lindsay had taken with him. Yet she could not prevent herself from wondering how he could have behaved in quite such a brazen manner to her when he was a married gentleman, and she was shocked that Miss Trelawney should have referred to the fact so carelessly. Perhaps this was merely the way of the Old World. A gentleman who openly accosted a strange young lady in a public place could hardly be expected to entertain any qualms about his married state; he would no doubt expect any young lady daring enough to reply to be equally without scruple.
She tried to concentrate on the general conversation, which seemed to her lazy and somewhat self-satisfied. Unlike in Boston, where the habit of inquiry was endemic, the party preferred to refer to things they already knew: a shared history, an unarticulated bond. They also seemed to find things frequently amusing, and she had no idea why.
They took their coffee in the drawing room, listening to the hoot of an owl and discussing country birds and the preponderance of bats.
“I do not like bats,” Emily said.
“Nor does any woman,” said Lord Firle, “but they are very friendly animals. Rather shy, I believe.” Looking at Emily, he seemed to convey a meaning in his words that was teasing, unfathomable, as if his brain was saying something else.
“Sir, are we to understand that you have become a champion of these creatures of the night?” said William, his remark striking Emily as awkward, neither witty nor clever.
“Every creature deserves its place in God’s universe,” said Lord Firle, seeming rather bored.
“We must publish a treatise on the subject,” laughed Mr. Fowler.
Miss Trelawney and Emily retired early.
“Traveling is so tiring, is it not, my dear?” her hostess said at her bedroom door. Emily’s corner room was vast, with the same air of comfort, grandeur and age as the rest of the house. It felt as if she was being encircled by welcoming arms, and she walked into it with a feeling of calm.
“You have a beautiful home. You must love it here.”
“I do. Our father left it to us. It was built by our family. I must admit it still feels strange without him. I nursed him in his last illness, you see.”
Emily could see. She could see clearly. “Indeed. How long ago was that?”
Miss Trelawney looked taken aback and Emily was forced to remind herself that the English did not appear to deal in questions. “Forgive me. I can be very inquisitive.”
“Not so very long ago, my dear.”
Miss Trelawney began to move about the room, turning down the bed, smoothing the covers and adjusting the curtains. There was an air of familiarity about her preparation of the room; Emily felt as if she had seen her perform these duties many times before.
“But I forget—we are both orphans, are we not? Although, of course, you are so very young.”
Emily smiled. “That is a matter of debate.”
Caroline Trelawney stopped in her supervision of the room and looked at Emily. Her eyes were brown and intelligent but were small and lacked brilliance, her nose long and patrician, her mouth thin-lipped and pale. It was a face not inclined to beauty.
“My brother urges me to marry and busy myself with children. I have to keep reminding him that I am twenty-seven and no one has ever asked me. And I think I am content keeping house for him. I am always occupied. And I have my dogs, the greyhounds—I find they take up more of my heart, and I must admit to a great delight in having them run beside my carriage in the park. But these are confidences—and we have only met one another today.”
“I promise I will keep them,” said Emily. “I will keep any confidence for a friend.”
“I am sure you would, Miss Hudson. If there is anything you require in the night, simply knock upon my door. I am just along the passage,” said Miss Trelawney, “and I shall not be disturbed. I sleep lightly. Breakfast at eight. Good night, little American.”
She rustled away along the corridor before Emily could take the opportunity of thanking her again.
The morning, excessively bright and almost balmy for May, was spent with the whole party exploring the grounds and gardens, following the walks through rougher ground to the Thames. They stopped at the riverbank to admire the view of Richmond Hill beyond and above. Lord Firle walked by himself, always a little ahead and apart. Mr. Trelawney knew a great deal about the history of the place and the origins of Richmond Palace, and Emily quizzed him about it.
“You are such a tourist, my dear,” said William, as if apologizing for her. And when the others moved on ahead, he said in her ear, “It is hardly the Atlantic at Newport, is it, Cousin?”
“No, but it is so delightful—so green. However does it come to be so green?” Emily made no attempt to lower her voice in response. She hated soft conspiratorial muttering.
“You know as well as I, persistent rain and damp—appalling for the constitution, perfect for the aesthetic appreciation of the summer months.”
“Don’t pay any at
tention to him, it rains in summer too,” said Mr. Trelawney, at her cousin’s side. “Particularly in June. And everyone is always very surprised.”
“Oh, look at the darling ducks!” cried Emily, to general laughter.
“Do they not have ducks in Boston?” inquired Miss Trelawney; Emily could not tell whether she was in earnest.
“Yes, but they speak a different language,” she replied.
Mr. Fowler snorted appreciatively. “That is really rather good, Miss Hudson.”
“Please,” she interrupted. “Call me Emily.”
“That was quite wrong of you,” said William as they turned for the house at the conclusion of the walk. “Let us address you by your first name, but not Mr. Fowler. He is a publisher, not a gentleman.”
“Oh, don’t be so absurd, William—we are all here together as equals, thinking people—”
“Do not express an opinion upon a subject about which you know absolutely nothing!” he whispered, quite viciously. “English society is a complex and delicate mechanism and far beyond your scope.”
“Snobbery is simply snobbery, William. It is not mysterious or sacred, as you seem to imply.”
“For pity’s sake, Emily, when will you ever leave anything alone? Whatever you encounter has to be altered to fit your sensibility! Have you ever considered how much of a toll that takes on other people?” He was shaking with rage and still keeping his voice low. “I have worked hard to be included here. I am nowhere close to approaching the circles I wish to move in, the—Oh, I waste my breath.”
“Don’t say that to me, William!” she cried. “You are not the one who is entirely alone and without occupation!” Now it was she who was shaking.
“That was your choice. I shall say what I please.” And he left her, breathing hard, alone upon the gravel path.
“Miss Hudson.” It was Lord Firle.
“You must have a very light step. I did not hear you come near.”
“I think because you were absorbed in quarreling so energetically with your cousin. You look rather flushed, young lady.”
“We did not quarrel. We have a lively discourse.”
“It sounded like a quarrel to me.” He smiled. It was a charming smile, very slight.
“Perhaps it was.” And she smiled back at him, valuing his interest, his directness, that he was not afraid to speak his mind about her without offering a criticism.
“Allow me to show you the rose garden. I believe some of the shrub roses have come into bud.” These were the words he used but he spoke them as if he were humorously commenting on them; she had never known it before.
She followed him across the lawn and through the wrought-iron gate in a wall to the side of the house. The paths surrounded beds of thorny shrub roses, barely in leaf or bud, like skeletons clutching at the air. The old walls covered with climbers showed brighter new leaves. But it was beautiful. It would be very beautiful. And the sky over their heads was blue. Gray and green lavender lined the squares, divided the shrubs, and she knew there would be softer summer flowers too.
“I love walled gardens.” Emily was suddenly conscious that they were separated from the others and tried, she did not know why, to appear careless of it.
He gave her his arm easily, as if they had been friends for years, and she allowed herself the luxury of taking it. Perhaps her uncle and cousin were right. She had no notion of how to behave.
“Roses are the quintessential English flower,” he said.
They stopped so she could examine a pale serrated leaf. “Why do you say that?”
“Because they are so tough. They are enduring.”
She looked from the leaf to his face. “That is not what people usually say about roses.”
“No.”
“Their exquisite delicacy and beauty, and how short- lived they are—is not that part of their charm?”
“I did not remark upon their charm. I merely said that they were quintessentially English.”
“Of course.” She felt quite stupid, making ready to turn and walk on.
He bent his head to examine her face. “You should be forgiven for making that mistake. So few people listen and think at the same time, don’t you find? Particularly in the presence of beauty.”
He looked at her with great concentration, and his voice had a teasing, almost tender quality. On a sudden she did not feel stupid any longer.
“I do.”
“Caroline says you are studying to be an artist?”
“Yes. Although I find myself quite left to my own devices at present—I have not yet begun. I am waiting for my cousin to enroll me at the school.”
“Does William indeed approve of this desire?”
“He encourages me in every respect. He knows how much I want to see the world.”
“It seems to me he guards you jealously, as I would should I have such a prize. He looks at you all the time.”
When she failed to answer, at a loss, he said, “A peculiar profession for a woman, is it not? Art.”
He was beginning to overwhelm her, so that she was forced to look away. Taking his arm again she moved and he kept pace with her.
“Yes. But it is not unknown. The pursuit of beauty, perfection, it cannot only be confined to men. The truth is, I do not know if I have the ability to make art a profession. But I am determined to find out.”
“Good,” he said. “Good. It is essential always to find out.”
The entire party came out to the front of the house when Emily and William departed. Miss Trelawney begged Emily to call her Caroline and promised to visit her in town.
“I am afraid I am rather out of the way. I have but two rooms—it is only—”
“How charming,” said her new friend. “I do so like going somewhere altogether new.”
Mr. Trelawney laughed. “You talk as if Miss Hudson’s rooms were a pleasure garden, Caroline.”
“Now that I have no desire to see, Brother.”
“Whyever not?” inquired Mr. Fowler, rather impertinently, Emily felt. Even she knew full well that the sight of everyday people desporting themselves in the open air would be quite inappropriate for Miss Trelawney’s eyes.
Lord Firle handed her into the carriage. She could not see how this could be avoided as he moved to do so.
“A word, Miss Hudson,” he muttered conspiratorially, and she drew back, as if in fear of something improper.
His hand was very warm, his clasp surprisingly firm. It was a finer hand than Captain Lindsay’s, she thought erroneously, more elegant, and she was suddenly flooded by the memory of the carriage ride at Rhode Island in the spring of another year. Closing her eyes against it, she opened them again to see Firle smiling at her, his eyes cool.
“I beg you not to make poor Caroline travel by omnibus. It is not Bohemian. It is merely squalid.”
“There is no need. I invariably walk.”
“Quite the adventurer, aren’t you?” said Mr. Fowler.
Emily felt embarrassed—too prominent, too loud. Ever since William’s galling words the day before she had felt her cousin’s reproach, her own obviousness.
“It is merely that cabs are so expensive, and one can see so much better on foot.”
William gave her a sharp look. She had done the unforgivable: she had mentioned money. He had told her when they first arrived that this must never be done. While back home they talked of money and prices with almost every breath; here it was unspeakable. How had she forgotten? She stumbled and stopped.
“I think what Miss Emily means is that anyone with an ounce of gumption explores a new city according to his own lights,” said Lord Firle in his easy, superior tone.
“Indeed they do,” agreed Mr. Trelawney, and he smiled.
“Let us leave you now,” muttered William, and the carriage pulled away. He did not speak a word to Emily all the way back to town.
MISS AUGUSTA DEAN
HOTEL D’ANGLETERRE, ROME
MAYFAIR, LONDON
&
nbsp; May 8th, 1862
My dearest Girl,
It seems William has withdrawn not only his approval but his attentions from me.
Since we went away to Richmond he has honored our weekly appointment to dine, but has said barely a word to me and seemed irritated by my presence—which is something I have never felt before.
Perhaps I am turning out to be a disappointment to him after all, limited in scope compared to his Europe.
If he does not take me to the college by the end of the week I shall present myself there without him. I tend to forget that he is merely busy and must write and live. When I have begun to study I will not brood so over the uncertainty that has accompanied the loss of his attention.
With love,
Emily
Without reference to or hint of their former quarrel, William at last took Emily to register at the Art School, introducing her to the principal, Miss Norton, with an air of gravity and ostentation she could not help but find uncomfortable. She felt aware immediately that it was his own importance he wished to impress upon the lady, beyond the suitability of his cousin for the school.
Miss Norton was a large, prepossessing woman with abundant red hair and a suitably hawklike expression. She looked on her cousin coolly, Emily felt, as at a necessary evil: a rich American client. But she expressed interest in Emily’s portfolio, and a genuine willingness to engage with the work and its author.
“Which classes would you like to partake in, Miss Hudson? There is no proper life class; we are not permitted nude models, but we draw hands, feet, faces. We offer still life, watercolor, oil painting and drawing.”
“I would like to take all the classes, if you please.”
Miss Norton smiled in a somewhat superior fashion. “Most of our young ladies only undertake one or two. We are in many ways seen as a finishing school; you should be aware of this.”
Emily Hudson Page 13