Emily Hudson

by Melissa Jones

  “I should feel myself aggrieved that you are playing with me so carelessly,” he said. “But I do not.”

  They did not look at each other but he kept hold of her hand. “I could give you such pleasure,” he said. It was too dark for him to see how she blushed when he said that.

  There was a silence between them and then it started to rain. She could hear it drumming on the roof. “Are you sad?” he said.

  “Not at present. Because I am still with you. When you are gone I shall feel the lack of you.”

  “Let me ask of you one thing, Emily.” His voice was low and not without emotion. “If you are ever in trouble—the winters here are quiet, and filthy and cold—will you call on me? Send to my address. I shall endeavor to treat any request with the respectability it deserves. There would be no need for us to meet if you did not desire it.”

  Her breath caught in her throat, answering him. “You are very—kind.”

  After a while with only the sound of their breathing, he climbed out of the cab.

  “I shall direct the driver to take you through the Park and then back to your lodgings,” he said as he left her.

  She felt rather than saw him go. When he brushed her hand as he passed her heart was too full to allow her a reply.

  When she returned to her rooms she cried for a long time. If he had given her a love token, now would have been the time to return or destroy it—but he had given her nothing.

  MRS. R. W. HARPER

  HOTEL SPLENDIDE

  VIENNA

  LONDON

  October 14th, 1862

  My dearest Augusta,

  Autumn is settling in here with such a storm of rain and tattered leaves the streets are filthy with it, and I worry for the comfort of the cab horses and the people whose living is taken from the streets.

  My dear friend Caroline continues absent and since I have completed my portrait of mother and child I find I am not concentrating on my studies as I would wish. I long to work outside the studio again but of course conditions do not permit—indeed the studio itself is so cold that the girls complain of chilblains.

  Cousin Mary has written to me sending me a knitted shawl and gloves with no fingers—they are ugly but a comfort. Her last letter was very brief. The war goes on in painful circumstances—my uncle continues to ignore it. He quite refuses to allow his own concerns to be eclipsed by this appalling slaughter, most recently at Corinth. How can the war continue with such casualties? And all for what they call strategic victories! Thankfully my cousins continue to be spared. Mary has been well enough to write consistently in her diary: she may not have William’s power to act in the world but she has his inclinations. I am glad of it. No word of Captain Lindsay. The thought of him continues to disturb me. I do not dare to imagine his fate—but that is a lie; I imagine it constantly and curse my own imaginings. I pray the omission of him from her letters augurs well and not badly.

  There is very little to distract me from my thoughts, which I own are not always of the most cheerful. Unlike in Boston, there is no autumn season to speak of here. Houses are shut up and unoccupied and what society there is remains closed to me without Caroline. My cousin dines with me now only very occasionally, and our conversation has become considerably strained since our sojourn by the sea this summer. I believe I have disappointed him so very deeply that there are no amends to be made.

  I cannot but admit that I am wounded by it and wonder if I should make some appeal to him and our longstanding friendship, the bond of trust between us. But I am proud and he is more so, I think.

  I continue to expand my knowledge, not only of the history of art but of the contemporary style. Painters such as Barbizon and Corot are concentrating on scenes actually set upon a beach, so the ideas I have been brooding over, of bringing the outdoors in all its color and movement into a painting, may be not be as far-fetched as all that. If I were to begin to work in this way, however, I would need a more favorable climate for it!

  I long for news of Vienna—although I understand that a girl on her wedding trip has other things on her mind than writing letters.

  Do not worry for me, it is solitary but it is what I have chosen.

  Affectionately, as ever,

  Emily

  MRS. R. W. HARPER

  HOTEL SPLENDIDE, VIENNA

  MAYFAIR, LONDON

  November 11th, 1862

  My dearest Girl,

  Forgive my confusion, but I realize I can no longer call you that for you are a married lady now—unless I can count it as a sign of our continued intimacy, which I hope I can, can I not?

  I was delighted to hear from you this morning. It has felt like such a very long time since I last saw you with my eyes instead of my memory or fancy, especially in these last days. I am so happy that your married state suits you so very well. He does indeed sound “a capital fellow,” as they would say here. Is your existence now utterly devoted to enjoying his devotion of you, or are you continuing with the pretense of educating yourself in Europe? I am teasing you, and you must take it in good heart.

  It has rained all day today. I must admit that until I came into this country I had no notion of what it is to pass a rainy day! I have lost count of the number of times I have been soaked to the skin and it is so difficult to feel wholly warm and dry after a drenching, however short. My feet and stockings are quite soaked and as for the hem of my pretty new dress and coat you would think they had been dragged through the woods that used to surround our old school so long ago. Despite the fire and the warm, if indifferent, dinner, I am still shivering. All except my face, which for one reason or another seems to be burning hot. It must be from sitting so very close to the grate.

  I do not want to leave it for my cold bed. I am convinced the very sheets are damp. I must remember to ask for a hot brick another night.

  I walked a great deal today for I did not want to go to school. I wanted to be outside. I could not cough in the studio where they are all working, in any event. It would not be fair to the other girls and Miss Norton would disapprove.

  I long to hear your voice. Sometimes I imagine I almost do.

  Have you seen the white horses in Vienna yet?

  Are you crammed with cake, whipped cream and opulence?

  Do you love the music or are you tired of the waltz?

  I must lie down but I do not want to go to bed.

  Good night, my dear sweet friend.

  Emily

  [Letter unsent]

  When Emily woke in the night with the blood rising in her throat and in her mouth she felt very calm, as if it were all inevitable, she had known it and had only been marking time before its return. Her first thoughts were of Mrs. Denham’s sheets. She must not dirty Mrs. Denham’s sheets. Her existence could not continue if blood were to be found on the sheets. She coughed into the folds of the shawl that Mary had sent her and that she had worn to bed, lifting it from her shoulders and pressing it to her mouth. When the fit had passed she did not know what to do with it. It was warm and thick with new blood. It would be impossible to wash it out in the basin; there was not sufficient water, and she risked it being seen as it hung to dry. So she folded it as neatly and tightly as she could and hid it quickly in the back of the wardrobe, only to rummage for it frantically almost immediately and bring it back to bed with her in case she should have need of it again.

  DR. G. A. COOPER

  HARLEY STREET, SW

  ———SQUARE

  MAYFAIR, SW

  November 12th, 1862

  Dear Dr. Cooper,

  I write to you in complete confidence.

  I fear I have had a recurrence. Indeed I know that I have. This disease is no respecter of situations but I believe is more afraid of you than of me. Could you come to me at my London address—above—and intimidate it for me once again?

  I will wait for a word from you.

  Yours truly,

  Emily Hudson

  P.S. Not a word to my cousin, i
f you please.

  MISS EMILY HUDSON

  MAYFAIR, SW

  CARLTON CLUB, SW

  November 15th, 1862

  My dear Cousin,

  I fear I have neglected you of late. As Thanksgiving approaches I find I think of you, and as my closest living relative on this continent feel I should bestow a little of the Old World style on your hardworking nature.

  Might you accompany me to a supper party on Thursday next? It is by no means a grand occasion but a few sympathetic souls will be present. I would appreciate your looking your best so as to honor the company not purely with your opinions but also your person.

  Yours affectionately,

  William

  William’s letter came so soon after the terror of the illness had begun again that she found herself grasping at its information as if this one occasion could salve all her woes. He was offering her another chance at society: she must take it firmly; make him proud. Then perhaps there would be peace between them and her path could be straightened out. She would order a new dress; she had had no evening clothes since the spring and must obey the fashion and the season. Although Emily did not consider herself frivolous or vain it gave her joy to choose the stuff, order the trim, decide on the pattern. She even visited a selection of drapers’ shops for the lace. For this occasion she was determined to make herself the subject of her art.

  At the fittings she could see how thin she had become in the mirror, but the dressmaker’s talents transformed this paucity into elegance: the corsetry and the undergarments gave her a silhouette as sharp and clear as a cameo, even if she felt all blurred inside. It was comforting to be tended to even by virtual strangers. It was a solace merely to converse with them after another day of wandering and not having the heart to go to school. They gave her water when she coughed and tried to press more refreshments on her but she did not want to put them to the trouble. Besides, she had no appetite. They tended to her as if she were a fly caught in a web, these benign spider- women who were neither friends nor strangers, but who had one function only, to present her to the world.

  Sensible of what an honor the occasion was for her in William’s eyes, she resolved not to argue with any soul; she would not speak, she would be peaceful and silent and sympathetic and as pleasing to the eye and ear as she could make herself; and all the clever gentlemen could pronounce on her, on themselves and on the world and she would say nothing. She would take care to have her reticule with her always in case the worst should befall her.

  DR. G. A. COOPER

  HARLEY STREET

  MAYFAIR, SW

  November 20th, 1862

  Dear Dr. Cooper,

  If you have been absent from town I hope you are now returned. Forgive my bluntness and brevity, but please send to me as to when I might receive your visit or come to you.

  Yours truly,

  Emily Hudson

  MISS E. HUDSON

  ———SQUARE

  MAYFAIR, SW

  HARLEY STREET, SW

  November 22nd, 1862

  Dear Miss Hudson,

  Please accept my apologies for the delay in writing to you. I have taken the liberty of forwarding your letters to Dr. Cooper, who is at present in Switzerland at the behest of an esteemed colleague.

  He shall either reply to you directly, or instruct me further at the earliest opportunity.

  In the meantime, should I be able to be of any further assistance please do not hesitate to contact me.

  Yours faithfully,

  Nathaniel Mayhew

  Secretary to Dr. Cooper

  It took a long long while to make herself ready for the supper party, for she was feeling not a little weak. Mrs. Denham kindly lent Emily her own maid for the dressing of her hair. Lizzie, she was called. Together they achieved a muted splendor. She had been going to wear her mother’s necklace but could not bring herself to take it out of its box. It reminded her too much of Captain Lindsay. After Lizzie had gone she sat close to the window waiting, gazing into the square.

  William came up to her rooms when he called for her, and Emily realized with a shock that this was the first time he had set foot in them since depositing her here that long ago day in April.

  “You look beautiful,” he said. “I am happy to see you again.” He spoke the words without reservation, the way he used to talk to her at Newport, when there were no clouds in the sky; as if he appreciated her, the way he had used to when he turned her head with the notion of her rareness of spirit and beauty, when he did not believe her damaged and selfish and spoiled. His look was the look she remembered, and felt ashamed to have craved. She was relieved to find him so real, so flesh and blood and solid, and in so benign a mood—indeed, she could feel herself almost overwhelmed.

  “Oh, William—I am glad to see you.”

  “You sound a little emotional, Emily, are you quite well? Would you like a moment to compose yourself?”

  “I am perfectly composed,” she said, swallowing the nerves, imagining swallowing the blood. He must not know. “I don’t believe I have ever thanked you sufficiently for all these beautiful clothes.”

  “My dear girl, it would be most uncomfortable if you were to spend your time constantly thanking me. We have an agreement, we honor it, that is all.”

  She nodded. “Shall we go?”

  He guided her out of the room in that proprietary way he adopted when an occasion was to be public. She did not like it while finding it comforting. She wondered vaguely if the world would always be this confusing.

  “We are going to my friends the Pettifers. Thomas will be there, I believe.”

  In the hansom she listened to the horse’s hooves. Strange it was how alike they all sounded. She wondered if she had ever traveled by the same horse without knowing it. She wondered about this one’s name. It was raining again as they descended on to the pavement. William opened his umbrella elaborately and held it over her head as they went up the steps, the railings glistening in the lights from the house. She was very nervous. She remembered she did not like parties. There would be strangers and she carried the well-known enemy within.

  The sound of laughter from above could be heard as they trod the crimson-carpeted stairs. Their hostess, a handsome woman, no longer young, greeted them with all courtesy in the haughty English way, and the company was lively enough, fortunately, and of sufficient numbers for Emily to feel inconspicuous. She stayed close to her cousin. The large room felt dim even with all the candles blazing.

  Mr. Trelawney quickly found them. “My dear Emily, it has been an age. You are looking exquisite.” But his eyes held little confirmation of these words, and a very slight coolness. She had caused him trouble, after all. No gentleman liked that.

  “How do you do?” she said, “I am so glad to see you,” urged to affection by the memory of him on the beach at Camber in earnest confabulation with her cousin.

  William adopted the same proprietary air toward his friend as toward Emily, and they talked of Caroline’s continued absence, of horses and of mutual acquaintance. Emily thought, This will be perfectly all right.

  At dinner—it was definitely a very formal dinner and not the supper William had described—Emily remained quiet, affecting only small talk with the gentlemen and observing the ladies’ dress, jewelry, the way the light fell upon their hair. It was a strange dreamlike sensation to be so detached. She remembered Boston and Captain Lindsay down the table and wondered again what had become of him. Mostly she did not want to know if he were dead or alive: it was safer preserving him in the amber of the past, but tonight she longed—longed acutely—to know. Had it mattered so very much whether they married if they were both condemned to die?

  The talk was of literary matters only briefly, before it turned to society, of which Emily was largely ignorant. It was not the occasion she had always imagined attending with William in London, where important artists and painters talked into the night with coffee, brandy and cigars, and the ladies would not h
ave to withdraw; where there would be an informality between the ladies and gentlemen and not this feeling of constant watchfulness and assessment; where they would not be served countless courses at a long reflective table, but would move freely in small groups, or perhaps even be an intimate party, known to one another with affection—friends. Would she always view every occasion in her actual social experience as if from a great distance, while intimately observing every physical detail should she need it for her work? The way the candelabra flickered and burned down, the dull glow of the silver and the far greater brightness of the flowers, all these impressions of color and light took her attention.

  So absorbed was she in these thoughts she did not notice that the gentleman to her right was addressing her.

  He had a full set of reddish-gray whiskers of which he was obviously very proud. “So this country of yours is still intent on its civil war?” He pronounced “country” with a sneer.

  “I believe so.” Emily answered gently but her heart was already beating faster. Would this gentleman continue to mock at these struggles of life and death, or would he refrain?