Afternoons with Emily

by Rose MacMurray

  Aunt Helen must have heard the horse’s hooves as our carriage drove up to the house. She flung open the front door and ran toward us before the driver had even instructed the horses to stop.

  “Grandmama Helen!” Elena cried beside me, waving furiously.

  We clambered out of the carriage while Bridget and Sam organized the removal of our trunks. Aunt Helen swept us into an embrace; I buried myself in her flour-and-lemon scent, Elena squealing and snuggling with furious intensity.

  Aunt Helen gazed at us appraisingly when she released us. “Look at your sun-kissed faces. You’re positively aglow.”

  “My shells!” Elena cried as she spotted Sam carrying her precious cargo. Aunt Helen and I linked arms and chatted our way into the house.

  I was arriving home at the end of May, a time of mud and promise in Amherst. Today the contrasts delighted me: the dark fecund earth, the delicate first blooms. Every flower, every dappled shadow edging across the lush grass lawn, seemed infused with renewed energy, made all the more intense in the vivid scarlet sunset. The colors, the scents, resonated in me like a struck gong. Was this how Kate had felt when she and Ethan began their lives together as lovers, their new physical knowledge of each other? Did her body feel suddenly, completely, alive?

  By the time Aunt Helen and I had arrived in the house, Elena had already charged up the stairs to dictate the proper handling of her precious collection. Aunt Helen and I chuckled at her bossy little voice, giving orders.

  “She certainly knows her own mind,” Aunt Helen observed.

  “Do you think she gets that from Kate?” I asked.

  Aunt Helen smiled. “I think she gets that from all of us. Which makes her quite the formidable personality.”

  She gave my shoulders a squeeze. “The trip has done you such good,” she said. “I can tell it.”

  “It was exactly what I needed” was all that I said. It was far too soon to mention Roger — too soon for Aunt Helen and too soon for me. Leaving Barbados was like being brought from one world to another without being able to distinguish readily which was real and which the dream.

  During my months in Barbados, Aunt Helen had spent much of the time with Ethan in Springfield, visiting her grandchildren. I was happy to hear that Aunt Helen and Ethan’s new wife, Ann, got on splendidly during this extended stay. I had wondered if it would be difficult to see her daughter’s husband married to another woman. Now I was relieved to see that the delight she took in Kate’s boys, and her obvious relief that her grandchildren were well cared for, counteracted any lingering discomfort.

  Bridget had kept the house dust-free while we were gone and had collected the mail that arrived in our absence. I was astonished to see the stack that had accumulated. Aunt Helen saw my expression and gave me a rueful smile.

  “I have not been able to bear facing it all,” she confessed.

  “I’m sure there is much that is my responsibility,” I assured her, picking up the pile of letters, newspapers, circulars, and journals.

  “My subscriptions!” Aunt Helen shook her head. “How will I ever get through them all?”

  “Tomorrow,” I said. “We’ll do it together. But tonight, let us enjoy our reunion.”

  Aunt Helen smiled and gave me another quick hug. “How I’ve missed you. We have so much catching up to do!” She bustled off into the kitchen, where I could hear her humming and pots clanking.

  Elena appeared at the top of the stairs. “Would you like to come help Bridget in the garden?” I asked her. She dashed down the stairs and took my hand. I grabbed a basket by the back door, and together we went outside to a scarlet sunset. We strolled to the kitchen garden, where Bridget was working, and we three tore loose the spinach and the dandelion greens for dinner. I pressed a clump of soft earth between my fingers. “We should be getting the seedlings planted,” I murmured. “The ground is just right.”

  “Let me!” Elena cried. “I want to do it.”

  I had not realized I had spoken the words aloud, but the eagerness on Elena’s face gave me an idea. “Would you like a garden of your own?”

  Elena’s eyes widened, and she nodded her head vigorously. “Yes, please!”

  Dusk enveloped us as we returned to the house. Dinner was brief that first night; Elena nearly fell asleep before our main meal was finished and missed dessert entirely, and I was ready to do the same. By the time I carried Elena up to bed, Aunt Helen and Bridget had already cleared the table and started the washing up. I said a brief, sleepy good night and at last completed my homecoming by falling asleep in my own dear room.

  The next morning, Aunt Helen, Elena, and I went to work creating Elena’s private garden. We dug the rows, planted seeds, and transplanted some of the shoots Aunt Helen had started inside to their new home in the earth. Elena was particularly pleased with the small tomato plant we bequeathed her. When I left them to tackle some of my waiting chores, Elena and Aunt Helen were drawing a careful map of the new garden so that Elena could make identifying signs for each plant variety.

  I carried the mail into the study and separated it. I placed Aunt Helen’s pile on the small table by the armchair near the window, then sat down at the desk. Soon Aunt Helen came in, carrying a tray with a pitcher of fresh lemonade and a plateful of cookies.

  “Mmmm,” I murmured, biting into the rich shortbread. “Precisely right for facing all this mail.” Returning my attention to the pile, I spotted a broad, familiar handwriting. Roger. My heart soared at the sight of my name on the envelope. If my own name, rendered by his hand, could trigger such a flush of sensual memory, could I risk reading the entire letter in Aunt Helen’s presence? I glanced at her as she sat in her armchair, a newspaper turned to catch the afternoon light. She seemed quite engrossed. I opened Roger’s letter.

  Dear Miranda,

  You will, by now, have returned to Amherst. I hope that your sojourn in Barbados has left you refreshed for the tasks that we have ahead of us in the next several months. . . .

  It was a very proper, businesslike letter, filled with useful and encouraging news of the foundation’s progress while I had been away. But there was nothing personal, no mention of our changed relationship. No word of love. From the evidence of Roger’s letter, I might have dreamed our nights in Barbados.

  “I don’t know how I will ever get through all of these subscriptions,” Aunt Helen muttered. She lay the newspaper down on the side table. “Well, it is no longer truly news if it was printed back in March, I suppose. Are any of those letters from Mr. Daniels?”

  I hid my confusion. “Yes, this one is,” I said.

  “I thought he might have written you in Barbados,” Aunt Helen said. “He was quite keen to learn of your whereabouts.”

  “Yes,” I said absently, my attention returned to the letter.

  “Miranda, is something amiss with the foundation?”

  I forced myself to look up and smile. “Not at all, Aunt. Why should you think so?”

  “You looked — stricken — for a moment, my dear.”

  “Everything is fine,” I assured her, folding the creamy paper and slipping it into my pocket. “In fact, the remodeling of the new building is ahead of schedule, and we have had a large number of inquiries regarding enrollment here in Amherst.”

  “That is certainly nothing to frown at,” she said comfortably. “I had been worried when he contacted me. Matters seemed quite urgent.”

  “It was a misunderstanding,” I said, struggling to give my aunt an answer that would satisfy her without betraying my own confusion. “I had written Mr. Daniels a letter that he felt needed an immediate response, and when he found that I had gone, he was concerned that the matter might not be resolved in a timely fashion.”

  “So nothing is wrong now?” Aunt Helen looked at me.

  I forced another smile. “Not at all. For a moment I think I was as overwhelmed as you by the sheer amount of mail — and the work it represents — that piled up while we were gone.”

  Aunt He
len put her newspaper aside with a grimace and picked up an issue of Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper from her stack. “I can well believe it, my dear. And I’m glad that you and Mr. Daniels sorted out the problem. He is a very interesting man.” She smiled and opened the magazine.

  I took up another letter, opened it, and stared at it without seeing. What was I to make of Roger’s letter? Was he merely being cautious lest my letters be read by someone else? Did he regret what had happened between us? The mere sight of his handwriting had called up memories that made my hands tremble as I opened his letter. Was it possible that our joining had meant less to him? I could not believe it. But we had, both of us, left the enchanted isle and returned to our workaday world. It would take some time for us to find a way to work together and to express our love. I must be patient. I must believe.

  I returned my attention to the letter in my hand — an invitation to a lecture now several months past — and put it aside to answer later. The next letter was addressed in Emily’s distinctive handwriting. Rifling through the stack, I found several others and pulled them out to read together.

  The first letter was an invitation to visit on Monday afternoon. The request had gone unanswered for three months; I could imagine her petulance in hearing no reply. This was another contradiction Emily never recognized in herself. I’d seen her rage against the silence of others — while insisting upon silence for herself. She admonished others for “chatter” and “social insistence” while demanding they respond instantly to her irregular contact.

  I was surprised, however, what with her gossiping sister living in her house, that Emily had not known immediately that I had gone to Barbados.

  When I opened the second letter, it was clear that Lavinia had performed her duty and informed Emily of my itinerary.

  Miranda,

  You have forsaken winter and taken crimson and violet with you. In Amherst the air is hushed — there are no birdcalls now. But though you have gone, I know you will return. I remain, as ever,

  Emily

  Emily’s acknowledgment of my trip made me all the more curious about the third letter, dated a month ago. She knew I was still away, yet she sent another message.

  This one was a poem without a personal note.

  The Definition of Beauty is

  That Definition is none —

  Of Heaven, easing Analysis,

  Since Heaven and He are one.

  “It is as if it doesn’t matter whether I read these or not,” I said, perplexed. “She’s sending them for the sake of the sending, I think.”

  Aunt Helen sniffed. “You know my feelings about that woman. She is as strange as . . . well, I actually cannot think of anything to compare her to!”

  I laughed. “You’re quite right, Aunt Helen. Emily is incomparable.”

  Aunt Helen glanced at me. “Two hours is enough time to work on your first full day back,” she stated. “Give yourself a chance to rest and recuperate from your journey.”

  “I think you’re right,” I told her. “Shall we come back to this later? The weather is too beautiful to stay indoors.”

  “Quite true.” Aunt Helen stood and rubbed her hands together as if to warm them.

  “Is your arthritis bothering you?” I asked.

  “Nothing to fret about,” she assured me.

  With her lively manner it was easy to forget that Aunt Helen was growing older. After all, she was only a few years younger than Father. I vowed to help her more with the household duties to ease some of her burden.

  I suggested we go for a walk, and we wrapped ourselves in woolen shawls: early spring in Amherst was not always warm, particularly compared to the weather I’d been enjoying in Barbados, but arm in arm, we toured our neighborhood, taking note of new plantings and tiny decorative changes around us.

  “I see Adele Summers has repainted her porch trim,” Aunt Helen pointed out.

  “It goes nicely with the shutters,” I agreed. “And I see her cat had another litter.”

  I took in deep, satisfied breaths. Although Amherst did not provide the exotic floral perfumes mixed with salted spray of Barbados, the scents of the New England spring were invigorating. We passed The Homestead on Main Street, and I automatically glanced at the upstairs window. I certainly am well trained, I thought, and then pushed the unworthy idea aside. “I really must go see Emily soon,” I said, though I was oddly reluctant, contemplating the idea.

  “If you must,” Aunt Helen said. “But surely not today. Let us go back to the house. This cool spring air has made me hungry.”

  After lunch I peeked in on Elena, who was already fast asleep, surrounded by her shells. I carefully removed each one, worried she’d roll over onto them in her sleep. I placed them in rows on her desk, enjoying their faint, briny smell, their undeniable reality a testimony to our having actually been to the islands.

  Then, although it was the middle of the day, I too lay down upon my bed, letting my thoughts drift, my body remember.

  I slept through until the next morning. We had been at sea, on trains, in carriages, in many different climates and cultures, all as part of our return home. I knew Aunt Helen was right: it would take time for my body to adjust. Elena, however, seemed entirely reacclimated. When I came into the kitchen to discover that she was tucking into a large Amherst-style breakfast — griddle cakes, fried ham, coddled eggs — I knew she had made the transition and that all was well.

  “Then we practiced swimming with the waves,” Elena was explaining to Aunt Helen. “Miranda can float very well. But Roger was the best of all.”

  I clutched the high back of the wooden kitchen chair. The power of my grip made the chair legs scrape a bit on the floor. Elena looked up from her plate at the sound. “Will Roger visit us soon?” she asked. “I want to show him my room.”

  “Mr. Daniels, dear,” Aunt Helen corrected. Her tone was wary. “And when do you expect to see Mr. Daniels again, Miranda?”

  “I cannot say for certain. There will undoubtedly be foundation business for me to attend to in New York,” I suggested, attempting to regain my composure. “It’s only four months until the school opens there, after all.”

  “His business with you was more urgent than I surmised,” Aunt Helen said coolly. “I am surprised that you did not mention his visit.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said simply. “I was more tired than I knew yesterday.” I could see that she was unsatisfied and that Roger’s visit to the island required further explanation.

  “There are some things more easily resolved in person,” I continued. “As I said, we had misunderstood each other in our letters. Mr. Daniels was determined that we clear up the misunderstanding so that we could go forward. He was also quite a help to Miss Adelaide — he is now her representative on several matters regarding Dr. Hugh’s property.”

  Reminded of my genteel and proper chaperone, Aunt Helen’s frown of concern softened. “I am glad, then, that I helped him to reach you.”

  I sat down and joined Elena at breakfast, but I knew I would have to be careful of what I revealed about my relationship with Roger. If Aunt Helen were to learn what had actually occurred in Barbados, she almost certainly would not view the situation as I did. In the intoxicating air of Barbados, I had had no difficulty in putting aside thoughts of what might be considered impropriety. Returned to the bracing, Protestant air of Amherst, back to relatives and expectation and concern with appearances and social standing, I saw that I needed to be careful. Aunt Helen was not hidebound, but neither was she unconventional; in an argument about the absurd value placed upon virginity, we would almost certainly be on different sides. Those rules had receded into the background in lush and pliant Barbados; this short conversation had caused them to leap to the fore. But I was also determined to guard against the encroachment of rigid New England mores upon my newfound happiness.

  After the first few days at home, I slipped easily into working for an hour or two in the morning while Elena tended to her n
ew obsession, her garden. Afternoons, I made good on my private, personal promise to help Aunt Helen more with the domestic chores, despite my embarrassing lack of natural aptitude. I could tell she enjoyed my companionship and the passing on of womanly arts, and — as I intended — she didn’t suspect that my increased interest was an effort to lighten her load.

  I also began to organize my work schedule. June was fast approaching, and the New York school would open in early September. The major building renovations were complete, with only cosmetic choices left to be made. We needed to furnish the upstairs apartment, which had gone far beyond simple kitchen facilities in the final design. We would invite important educators and school administrators for conferences, to observe the school. As some of these visitors would be unchaperoned ladies, we must provide safe and respectable lodging.

  I put my pencil down and allowed myself a bit of daydreaming, watching the soft cottony clouds drift across a pale blue sky outside the study window. Might those lodgings enable Roger and me to be together? I smiled. Whatever the distance between us now, I was certain that, face-to-face in New York, Roger’s feeling for me would match my own for him. Would anyone question ordering a larger bed? I flushed at the thought. Then I admonished myself to concentrate and focused once again on the papers in front of me.

  By the end of the week, I had separated my foundation tasks into two columns: New York City and Amherst. I was pleased to discover that this summer my duties in New York would require my presence in the city several times before the opening reception. Roger would also need to be there, and at that thought my blood quickened.

  But for now I had Amherst calls to make. First on Sue Dickinson, for suggestions on our all-important guest list for the New York reception when the school opened. I would send her a note today; this was a task that she would enjoy. Mrs. Austin relished her role as intellectual and social matchmaker; it was a position that suited her well. Lolly had invited Elena and me to tea next week. Mary Crowell had sent an announcement of a lecture that she suggested we attend together. And there was Emily’s request.