Had he seen her then, as truly herself, for the first time? Had he ever truly seen her? Or was this reverence at one with her final denial of him? Her eyes burned with tears.
After that she felt some part of herself struggle to fulfill the social obligation of the following minutes, the retrieval of William’s stick and gloves, the saying of farewells, while in her spirit she felt a grief and an understanding so great that it almost rose up to choke her. Together they crossed the studio and came out into the hall, standing beside one another beneath the portico at the great door.
She watched him climb into his carriage and be driven away, raising her hand to him, as if in salute.
Emily turned back toward the studio like a blind person groping her way through her tears; her body was overcome by sickness and grief. Miss Drake was there to meet her; her hand caught hers.
She cried, wildly, “Oh, I have been such a fool!”
“Do not try to speak, my dear. You shall sit down with me and you shall have some brandy.” They sat side by side on the chaise longue where Miss Drake had first painted her, and her friend called to Anna for the brandy.
“I feel so ashamed of myself.”
“Because your cousin has tried to take you back?”
“For my vanity in ever having been swayed by him. His attention—”
“Was almost too much for a girl of your tender youth and health. But you freed yourself—you came away.”
“Merely to summon him back again. It is only that I have never known what to believe of him. He once did me a great kindness.”
“And now—”
“Now, I am sure. There is something in him that would devour me.” Emily stopped crying and remained quite still, gripping Miss Drake’s hand.
“It is not your fault. I will not have you blame yourself.”
Emily shuddered, recalling Newport, the lamplit hours, their bending heads.
“In truth, there was never very much peace between us. So much of it was what I wanted to be true—not what really was—”
“Sip this brandy. Do not try to speak. Remember you are not so weak. You have always had a mind to strive for a better, wider life; he did not furnish you with it. Your friends do not require your cousin to acquaint us with your qualities, they are quite apparent to us all. To know you is sufficient.”
Miss Drake closed her other hand over Emily’s. “You must forget him. You must forget them all.”
In the carriage William felt not grief, but rage, a pure white rage he believed he had never experienced before. He, William Cornford, had allowed himself to be refused, abased, by this insignificant creature, so obscure until he had raised her up, so insubstantial and abandoned. What a folly it had been of his to try to make a heroine of her. He felt her careless untidy beauty, standing on that ancient loggia, as an affront to his dignity; her very existence an insult to his own.
MISS EMILY HUDSON
PALAZZO———, ROME
BERNE
July, 1863
Dear Miss Hudson,
Once again I fear our meeting has been delayed by the sudden demands of my work. The colleague I spoke to you of has had occasion to call me once more to Switzerland. I shall not tire you with explanations.
I intend to return to Rome before the end of the summer and look forward to calling upon you then.
In the meantime perhaps you might consider writing to me.
May I venture to say that it was a great delight to see you once again.
Yours etc.,
Dr. G. A. Cooper
The warm July days had soothed Emily’s spirits and Miss Drake’s kind companionship distracted her from her thoughts of William. “You must push them away, these memories, my dear. Absorb yourself only in the present,” she said.
In the spirit of their intimacy she took the letter and showed it to her friend.
“This doctor has a very quaint way of expressing himself,” she observed. “Quite old-fashioned, as if he had learned it.” Then she paused, pursing her lips. “I dare say it is because he is not a gentleman and is fearful of making an error that might embarrass him or harm his practice.”
“If you had spoken properly to him you would have seen he is very sincere.”
“I do not doubt it: he is a sincere and scrupulous doctor. You say he did not have occasion to keep an appointment with you before you left London? He would like that opportunity now, I should imagine—in all probability his professionalism demands it.”
Emily longed to say, I think his feeling for me might be distinct from that—indeed I hope that it might be—before realizing she had not the slightest foundation for this thought and wondering if William had indeed been right: she merely flitted from feeling to feeling, loyalty to loyalty, and had no anchor of any kind.
“Would it be indecorous to reply?”
“My dear Emily, are you looking so soon for another deliverer?” Miss Drake looked as strict as if she were dealing with a wayward pupil.
Emily felt so frustrated she was nearly in tears and longed for Augusta. Her companion’s expression softened.
“What is in your heart, my dear? Forgive me for asking.”
“I am no nearer to understanding the world than when I was a child!”
Miss Drake said nothing while Emily composed herself. “But what of this doctor? Are you sure of his wishes? Of yours?”
“No!” Emily burst out again. “I am sure of nothing.”
“Then you must do nothing, my dear. Wait for the answer to come.”
MRS. R. W. HARPER
HOTEL SPLENDIDE, VIENNA
ROME
August, 1863
Sweetest Augusta,
I write on immediate receipt of your letter. Never have there been such glad tidings!! That you are with child is the most delightful, glorious, bright thing to happen in so very very long! I can hardly write but must splutter on to the page!
I understand fully now why you have been quiet for some little time, because of course one must not announce these things before they seem a certainty. I am so gratified to hear that you have had but little sickness and that your appetite is returning. You are perfectly placed, with an excellent doctor, and a thoroughly sensible husband who can tell you not to fuss, to rest every day, etc. On second thoughts I imagine Mr. Harper will be more likely to fuss than you will. In my experience, women in your condition are apt to be remarkably calm.
Oh, my darling girl—I long and long to see you, how could you doubt it? But are you certain that it is wise to attempt the journey from Vienna in the heat of the summer and in your condition? Of course if the doctor and your husband should allow it, I can only add that they must have good reason, and if this is the optimal time, I understand that too. I utterly sympathize with your yearning to spend your confinement in Rome; after all, it is where you met your esteemed husband and were so very happy for so long. But do give the move careful consideration, dearest friend.
I hope you will not take it amiss that I am being so terribly interfering, when really it is not at all my place. You are a grand married lady now—no longer my best friend at school—and I must admit to a feeling of sudden nervousness at the prospect of seeing you again. After all it has been over two years. What should befall us if—despite our happy memories of one another—we find that we have simply outgrown our intimacy, or even interest to each other? I know I should not say this, but no doubt you remember I have always had the unfortunate habit of saying or writing whatever comes into my head at any given moment.
I am so glad—also for your sake—that Mr. Harper is the kind of fellow who writes treatises and publishes articles and so can afford to indulge you and take you to any city that you care to settle in without fear of abandoning his work. It is delightful to have that freedom and independence.
Oh, my dearest friend. I recall you in your girlish beauty as if it were yesterday that I held you in my eyes and arms. I long to see you blooming and matronly before another season has p
assed.
I will, with all speed, make inquiries about lodgings for you.
Please give my regards to your Mr. Harper and all my love to your dear self.
Emily
Miss Drake pursed her lips when Emily said that Augusta was shortly to be returning to the city, and with child. “How disruptive,” was all she said.
MISS EMILY HUDSON
PALAZZO———, ROME
SWITZERLAND
July 23rd, 1863
Dear Miss Hudson,
I hope you have had occasion to receive my last letter. Time hangs heavy here in the evenings, and so I trust you will not object to my writing you another.
I thought I would tell you a little about my work. A dear friend and colleague has recently established a sanatorium for consumption here in the mountains, believing that the purity of the air can have a very beneficial effect on the condition. I was fortunate enough to advise him on its beginnings and am usefully employed in monitoring its progress with a view to beginning on plans for another. Indeed I have had occasion to refer one or two of my London patients here already.
I must tell you that the speed of progress has been remarkably good. The prevailing belief in the medicinal qualities of mountain air has been borne out by some remarkable improvements—even in a few cases, cures—and there is nothing more rewarding for a doctor than to see his patients thrive, particularly when they are subject to a condition so frequently difficult to defeat.
My colleague would like me to spend several weeks here every summer in order to continue to conduct my tests and observation, and I own to being tempted—especially if my visit can be combined with other, perhaps more stimulating, destinations.
But I bore you, I fear.
The trouble with my life’s work is that, while sustaining me, it can weary others, although I hope I am not too presumptuous in attesting to your personal interest in this matter.
The sunsets and the quality of the light here are quite spectacular; of great interest to any artist, I would imagine. I think you would be favorably impressed.
Please write to me from Rome, if you are so inclined.
Yours truly,
Dr. G. A. Cooper
DR. G. A. COOPER
———SWITZERLAND
PALAZZO———, ROME
July, 1863
Dear Dr. Cooper,
Your letter was gratefully received; your work does not sound tedious in the least. I think you are too modest and in truth are blessed with the energy and zeal of a pioneer in your field. I admire that.
Rome swelters in the heat. I am as peaceful as I can be, awaiting the joyous arrival of a dear friend from whom I have been separated these two years.
I have abandoned my work in this extreme weather and become quite idle.
I read and eat fruit and dream far too much.
By all means call on your return to Rome.
Yours truly,
Emily Hudson
In her dream Emily was beside Captain Lindsay in a trench filled with water and blood. He did not know she was there. Mud splattered his face and his hands were bare and raw on his gun. She wanted to ask him what had become of his horse but she could not speak. She could not even convince him of her presence as she laid her hand upon his arm to stay him as he raised his gun.
She woke in cold sweat and shivered until she remembered where she was—the warm climate of Rome enveloping her, the smells and sounds of safety. Lighting her candle she crossed swiftly to her night table and wrote:
MISS MARY CORNFORD
BLUFF HOUSE
NEWPORT, RI
ROME
July, 1863
My dear Mary,
Your last kind letter was most welcome, thank you, and the details of your existence not in the least mundane. I am delighted that Matthew’s leg wound continues to heal well, and that his spirits are good.
I expect that Newport feels a little dull after your season in Boston, but I am only glad that you have been in sufficient health and spirits to enjoy your time there, despite the anxiety and pain caused by this cruel war.
While mourning the calamitous loss of life in this recent push to the South, I am relieved to hear that under General———the Union appears at last set to prevail. I can only hope that the Confederacy will surrender at the earliest opportunity and therefore end the bloodshed that insults the sacrifice of our young men on both sides. It seems all words I can write upon the subject must appear both useless and empty, but let me assure you they are sincerely meant.
There is one question that has been burning in my mind despite the distance in miles and years since our last meeting, and which I feel a little awkward about inquiring over: the fate of our dear Captain Lindsay. While no soul is safe until the end of this war I feel I must know now something of how it has treated him. If he is alive—God willing—I should like to write to him, and any intelligence about his whereabouts would be greatly appreciated.
Here in Rome the heat increases daily, and we prepare to close the school for the summer. I had not anticipated idleness and must redirect my energies into beginning a new work, something painted outdoors. But I long for the sea. I think I will always long for it—or indeed, always long for something!
Affectionately,
Emily
She had never couched an urgent request in such evasive and formal terms.
MISS EMILY HUDSON
PALAZZO———, ROME
———SQUADRON
August, 1863
My dear Miss Hudson,
It is no use—I must call you Emily. I hope that does not disconcert you—any more than receiving a letter from me after so long might. I have been visiting your cousins while on brief leave at Newport not a week ago, and Miss Cornford took the opportunity to confide in me that you had been good enough to inquire after me in your last letter. I am delighted to hear that you are in good health, well settled at Rome and pursuing the subject closest to your heart.
I must admit that I credit you with greater bravery in asking after me than I have shown where you are concerned. I have thought of you many times without saying a word to a single soul, and now that I am at last writing to you it feels not at all as if it were real.
The shore at Newport appeared especially deserted without you. Indeed I half expected to see you coming toward me from the sea in the dazzling light—the strain of this war has made me rather fanciful, I am afraid.
I write to you (from an undisclosed place) on the eve of yet more bloodshed. Yet I am fortunate enough still to be in excellent health, if weary. Some charm seems to be protecting me: bar minor wounds I have survived the war remarkably intact. But thoughts of mortality are ever closer and after a long struggle with myself I have come to the conclusion that there are several things I must say to you.
First, and most importantly, you must know that it was your cousin, William, who revealed your illness to me, warned me of it and advised me in the very strongest terms not to promise myself to you. I believe that as you have always been to one degree or other in his power you should know this. I would not like to be killed without your having had the opportunity to understand what took place at so crucial a juncture of your destiny, just as I could not continue to fight without assuring you of my regard once again, and making it clear to you that while your cousin may have altered events, he has not altered my feeling for you.
Time may have altered many things, but not the high esteem and tenderness in which I have always held you. I should never have told you a word of William’s letter, but I was younger and not the sturdy fellow I have become. You would hardly know me.
It is only because our human life is so short and so precarious that I have decided to write these—I hope not unwelcome—words. If they are unwelcome, forgive me for them, and for the wrong I did you all that time ago.
Should the war end and I survive it, I shall write to you once again. Please rest assured that I understand how much circumstances can c
hange, and that you are under no obligation to me, ever were, or ever shall be.
I write this above all because you are entitled to see clearly your situation as it was then, as it is now. This may well be my last and only gift to you.
Yours truly,
Major J. C. H. Lindsay
The letter induced in Emily a torrent of tears. She read it in the warmth of the balcony but had to put it away from herself in her pocket for fear of soaking it entirely. There are some griefs for another—equal to one’s own—that cannot be quelled, and when she thought of him and how they had longed for one another and how very young they had been that Boston winter, she wept all the more. He had been noble and honorable to offer himself to her in spite of her cousin’s words; she had felt proud and stained and ill and ashamed and it was so very sad. But William, it had been William who had engineered it all.
He had deliberately stepped between them and contrived to divide them from one another and he had concealed it from her, assuming the role of protector, deliverer, moral compass; this last was the grossest and most repugnant hypocrisy. He had tried to drown her in his soul just as the consumption had in its blood. She had always believed him to be so entirely trustworthy, so utterly beyond reproach, while he had sought to determine her very heart and soul and all her actions from then on to this day. So much of what had passed between them became clear to her. She felt sick that she had felt the guilty pang of having wronged him and used him ill. It was inescapable that while she and Captain Lindsay had been blinded, he had brought the darkness to their eyes.
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