“I wish that they would not,” she said, looking directly into his eyes and hoping her firmness might check him.
“Is that why you left your home and came away?” he asked.
His question felt overly intimate to Emily. “Indeed, no. I simply wanted to take the opportunity to—to—” and she felt a horrible blush stain her as she fumbled for the words. Words were clearer in her head than in her mouth tonight. She stopped, swallowed, started again. “I came into this country to study to be an artist.”
“How unusual,” he said, with complete lack of interest. “But tell me, my dear—why are your countrymen a nation of such savages? First they subdue the Indians, and now they are at one another’s throats.” He began to raise his voice and attract the attention of the table. “These people behave with primitive barbarity, while continually going about making declarations—is that the word?—about rights and other such nonsense. At best they are fortune-seekers and would be better off acknowledging the fact.”
William looked at her. She must not disappoint him. “Indeed,” she said mildly.
“You haven’t got much to say for yourself, have you?” he expostulated. “I thought American girls were meant to be so independent, cast quite in a different mold.”
“It doesn’t do to generalize,” said Lady Pettifer easily, and seemed about to change the subject.
“But it is impossible not to in this case. If there were ever a people so intent on impressing their wrong-headed ideas upon the world—”
“I think you could accuse Napoleon of that, before the Colonials,” said Thomas Trelawney, with a smile and to general laughter.
“Yes, it is true that we are the only ones to have escaped these absurd revolutions,” her companion continued, triumphantly.
“Charles the First was executed,” said Emily, in a clear, carrying voice. “We learned all about it at school. Men have been killing each other for no discernible reason since the dawn of time.”
“You are not comparing a brief and shameful episode in our domestic history to the continual lack of respect with which these other countries approach the future of the world? Everywhere, revolutions—the old order is being destroyed, and for what?” He was very exercised now, and his whiskers were trembling.
“It will be trains and factories that do the most damage to the future, I think,” said William quietly.
“It is all moving too fast. But these Yanks are a bad lot, posturing savages in tailcoats, nothing but criminals and fanatics, the lot of them, nothing but criminals and fanatics. We should never have let them go.”
“You could not control us,” said Emily, reddening again. “We are not to be controlled.”
“Are you a patriot? If you care for the fate of your nation so deeply, what on God’s earth are you doing sitting here with me?”
“I am no patriot, Sir,” said Emily. “Merely a human being who cannot abide a stupid opinion.”
A silence fell upon the table as complete as a fall of snow. Emily, breathless, cheeks throbbing, got up from the table, murmured her excuses and stumbled from the room. There seemed no alternative. Her uncle would never have allowed her to stay.
The drawing room was empty, made ready for the return of the company. There were mirrors on the walls. She had not noticed before because there had been such a crowd when she arrived. In the mirrors she looked tiny and ridiculously dressed, like a doll with red- painted cheeks. Une poupée. It would be better in French. What must she do? She must leave the house—but she could not go without an apology to Lady Pettifer, without saying or writing something. What she had said had seemed inevitable just a moment ago, but it was not. She burned with shame, with pain, with longing, with loss, with the utter loneliness of her predicament, lit from within by the fire of her disease. She began to shiver.
Perhaps William would come. He did not. Neither did her hostess. Nobody came. It was so very English: they must be pretending, going on as if nothing had happened; no appalling ill-judged words had been spoken. She had been angry with this gentleman for engaging her, with his fat whiskered cheeks and his fat lands and doubtless his fat healthy family—but she could not defend her actions even to herself. She knew that her rage had been indefensible. She too must be an American savage, unable to disagree quietly with an overbearing gentleman at dinner, unable to keep her feelings to herself. It must be another accomplishment learned by English young ladies that she had not been taught.
She thought all this as she hurried down the stairs. In the hall, the butler approached her and she asked him to call her a cab. He sent a footman out while he helped her into her things with a blank, impenetrable expression that she felt it delighted him to adopt. It was not until she was safe in the darkness of the cab that she began to cough. It was just about to pull away from the curb when she saw William come down the steps without his coat. He called to the driver to stop, approaching her with a horrible deliberation, white in the face. It seemed to take a long time for him to reach her and she could not stop coughing.
They looked at one another through the cab window without speaking, his eyes narrow with rage.
His voice, when it came, was full of disgust. “I shall never take you anywhere again. You can be assured of it.”
She was coughing and thought she could not stop.
“I am tired of appealing to you. It is at an end.” She threw out the words. That was not what she had intended to say. She had not realized she was angry with him; she had thought it had only been shame.
With one of his abrupt changes of tone, he took a step toward her with an expression of concern. “Are you ill again, Cousin?”
“Please—keep my secret,” she whispered. That was all she cared about now, her own privacy, the refuge of it.
“I have always kept it,” he said. And seeing her draw away from him, hissed, “I have always kept you.”
“And what have I kept, William?” she burst out before the cough choked her again. “What have I kept? For me?!”
“At this moment I never want to lay eyes on you again,” he said. He tapped the cab. “Driver, drive on—take her where she wants to go,” and, turning his back on her, he remounted the stairs.
The blood was very bad that night.
Emily could not rise from her bed in the morning; she had not the strength for it after a sleepless and terrifying night. At nine o’clock Mrs. Denham had tea brought in to her and stood at the foot of the bed looking elongated and frightening in her dark widow’s colors. I must not be frightened of her, thought Emily, nor must I show my fear.
She must try to think what to do. It seemed a crisis—severe, inescapable—was impending in her illness and so in her life, and she must think what she must do. She knew she was feverish. She recognized the symptoms. It had been hot in the dining room but cold in the streets. Now it was both hot and cold. There was no further possibility of Dr. Cooper. Even if she beseeched him he could not come to her.
Her only thought was flight. It was a foolish desperate thought but it was all she wanted. She could not write and beg the help of Caroline. It would be immediately forthcoming, she knew, but Caroline had her own private family obligations and their bond, although warm, was based on only a few months’ acquaintance.
Of her cousin she could not think without a shudder of the spirit. He had wronged her. They had wronged one another. He was ashamed of her. And this brought her to the worst of her predicament. It was his fortune that fed her, clothed her, kept her from destitution; to reject his protection was to take away her means of survival. And yet had he not intimated that he regretted extending it to her? As a gentleman who thought well of himself she did not think he would willingly withdraw it—but … Her head ached. She could not allow it to continue, this debt to him.
To call upon Firle was out of the question, although she believed he would make good his offer and wrap her in his wealth, should she ask it of him—even if the rapid change in her, her sickly feverish mien, repulsed him. B
ut she did not want to accept his help and she had sufficient vanity, or pride, not to want him to see her without her beauty.
Perhaps she could pawn her necklace and secure enough for a safe passage, but she could not bear to leave it behind. And where would she fly to? What would she fly toward? It was perplexing. These feverish fervent wishes, this longing to be gone, to be free, was it death itself she wished for—the extinguishing of all her worldly trials? But no. It was not. She did not want to die. She wanted to live and live freely. It was difficult to puzzle out. It made her cry.
She slept, waking to more hemorrhage. When it had passed she slept again, coming to consciousness at the sight of Mrs. Denham in her room once more. This time she approached and sat upon the bed. That was very strange.
“Miss Hudson, I believe you are gravely ill.”
“Indeed.” Emily smiled. There were no grounds for denying it.
“I am sorry for it. But you must understand that I cannot undertake to nurse you here, in my house. You are making us quite frightened. I would like to send to your cousin.”
“You cannot. He left for the country early this morning.”
“Did he leave no address?”
“No. He will return tomorrow. I beg you to wait until tomorrow.”
“Perhaps I should call for a doctor then. You cannot merely be left in this condition.”
“Please, Mrs. Denham, I have sent to my doctor. And I shall send again to him today—the letter is written. He will come tomorrow, and I have friends—I will remove from here with all speed. But please, do not send to Mr. Cornford today.”
“Very well, my dear. I will respect your wishes. The ill so rarely have their wishes respected; I know that for a certainty. But if there is no doctor by noon tomorrow I will send for one, and to your cousin. I cannot bear the responsibility of this illness of yours alone. If you were my daughter, I—”
“Please. Before you go, could I have pen and paper? They are in my writing case, on the chest of drawers. Could someone take a message for me? Would it be too much trouble?”
“I shall send for Lizzie. She will attend to you and it will be despatched with all haste. First try to take a little gruel.” But Emily could not.
When Mrs. Denham withdrew Emily cried: human kindness made her cry.
Lizzie brought the writing materials to her bedside and adjusted the pillows so that Emily could sit upright. She remained in the room while Emily wrote, turning tactfully away. Tact, thought Emily: another virtue I have never known. When she had finished, Lizzie promised to deliver the letter with all speed and wait for a reply.
After she had gone, Emily put on her clothes. It was the simplest of tasks, but it took a very long time because of her frequent bouts of dizziness and her trembling fingers. She rested before beginning to brush her hair. Then she sat in the window and waited until she saw Lizzie’s bonnet appear amongst the heads of the passersby at the corner of the square. The day was overcast but the sky had not yielded up its rain.
The contents of the note were satisfactory, and she prepared herself to leave the house, to make that desperate effort, because it had to be done.
“Is this wise, Miss?” said Lizzie. “If Mrs. Denham were here I am sure she would not be pleased to see you attempt any journey alone.”
“It is only a little errand. But I must perform it.”
The banking hall was as hushed and high as a church. Mr. Sinclair greeted her promptly and ushered her into a private room. He was very deferential, and younger than she had imagined him, but he made her feel afraid. Anticipating what she was going to say sickened her and her head ached terribly.
“Miss Hudson, I am delighted to make your acquaintance. What can I do for you?”
They were both seated. Emily did not believe that any person from the other side of a desk had ever spoken to her in such a way before. If she had been in health and high spirits, what a terrific joke it would have made. She tried not to shiver but could feel her flesh begin to crawl.
“Mr. Sinclair, I understand that my cousin has arranged with you that if I were ever in sudden need of funds beyond my weekly allowance that I should call on you. That time has now come.”
“I see. What sum would you like me to advance you, Miss Hudson?”
Emily told him.
He did not raise his eyebrows, he did not appear to take a breath, but simply said again, “I see.” Now he would ask her for what purpose she needed the money and now she must say what she had prepared. But he did not.
“I shall arrange for the draft to be made out directly. Do you require any ready money?”
“I should like it all in cash, please.” Emily tried to appear sensible and cool.
He paled slightly, but did not argue with her. “It is fortunate that we have such a sum put aside for you by your cousin for such eventualities.”
“Will Mr. Cornford have to be consulted before the funds can be released?”
“Indeed, no. Did he not explain to you that these arrangements were made solely in your name?”
“He did. It is just that I imagined such a sum … He is very generous.”
Mr. Sinclair looked a little taken aback that he should be asked to comment on any personal characteristic of one of his clients. Perhaps he was used to extravagant young ladies. Perhaps he thought she had lost it at cards. He made a sort of brief sound of assent accompanied by an awkward nod, but avoided meeting her eye. Emily began to sweat, feeling clammy and cold.
“If you could care to wait here for a few moments, I shall make an arrangement with the cashier and return directly. Miss Hudson, might I ask if you have considered the wisdom of carrying so large a sum about your person?”
With trembling hands Emily opened her reticule and produced her mother’s jewelry box with its lock and key. Opening it, she showed him wordlessly that the jewels and velvet had been removed, leaving what she hoped was sufficient space.
“The lock is sturdy?”
“I have no reason to doubt it.” She felt an acute discomfort. She hated questions unless it was she who was asking them.
“Please excuse me.” He left the room quite silently. She wondered if this were a prerequisite for his position at the bank.
It felt as if she were waiting for a very long time. She had to try with all her might not to cough for fear she would not be able to stop. When he came back into the room she half expected him to be accompanied by an outraged, white-faced William. But he was alone, apart from a brown paper packet. Sitting down carefully, he cleared his throat and adjusted his chair before opening the envelope and deliberately counting out the money with his practiced fingers.
Emily had never seen so much paper money in her life. There had been her allowance, handed to her by William in an ostentatiously unostentatious manner at the end of the weekly dinner they had together; everything else in her existence was charged to him. Seeing that crisp heavy paper so beautifully embossed, she wondered how it must make William feel to have so much of it—how it must make any gentleman feel. That he had been prepared to give it to her “in case of emergency” seemed a most curious fact. William had never given her anything freely—and now she was taking. She was robbing him. Any minute she expected the police to storm into the room.
But the transaction was reaching its conclusion. “If I could just ask you to sign for the amount, Miss Hudson. Here.” He indicated a generous space on an official- looking document, which she was too blinded by panic to read. Her signature surprised her by remaining steady and when she had finished she passed him the paper and his pen and looked him full in the eye.
“You will be careful, Miss Hudson?” he said. “If any thief or vagabond on this city’s streets should have any intimation you were carrying such a sum—”
“I do understand.” Her heart was hammering. She stood up and he stood also, because she was a lady.
He accompanied her into the murky throbbing street and she felt London’s vastness and her own insignificanc
e very keenly.
“Might I secure you a cab?” he asked. He does not want his bank’s money to be jostled, thought Emily, with one of her gleams of understanding of the comedy of it all.
“Thank you, Sir, but no. I would prefer to walk.” She did not want him to know where she was going.
He bid her good-bye on the pavement, aware, she felt, of the gravity of the situation but not of its true nature; that she fervently hoped.
Emily might walk in either direction to reach her destination: up Lower Regent Street to Piccadilly and along to the corner of the Hyde Park, or along the Mall. She felt a little confused about the clearest, quickest way, sick and trembling in the winter daylight. Not caring for the sight of Buckingham Palace, an unprepossessing building at the best of times, she turned up Lower Regent Street, clutching her reticule and attempting to breathe as deeply as she could. If there were a world of some description where she could walk without being encumbered by lacing and undergarments, she longed for it.
Looking into the windows of the saddler’s and the apothecary’s, and the splendor of Fortnum & Mason, she began to feel a peculiar gliding sensation. She was in the city but not of the city. It was truly nothing to do with her. She had loved its majestic splendid buildings, its generous thoroughfares, the grandeur and newness of its plan, its history and its beauty. But she shrank from its chaos, its filth, its poverty kissing riches, its greed.
She thought of the pictures in the galleries she had loved—at the memory of lifting her head to gaze into St. Paul’s cathedral that glad day in April and her feelings of awe and rejoicing and wonder—and how in so short a time she had reached the end of the road. Was she so tainted that everything she touched turned to dust and ashes, or was the world so encrusted with cruelty and sadness and lies that it had diminished her without so much as a pause for breath?
Pause for breath. That is what she must do. She had been wandering and thinking of the past, when she must think of her destination—that was what mattered, she must reach it if she were to accomplish everything she had planned. It would not do to weaken now.
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