I frowned. Planning a visit with Emily felt more like a duty than a pleasure. I did not think I had felt quite so much this way before I had left for Barbados, but Emily’s recent letters put me off in a way I couldn’t quite articulate. I had already realized that there was an arrogance in her insistence upon communicating even if no one was there to receive the message. Now it was coming to me slowly that that was what Emily always did, in her notes, in her poetry.
I walked cross lots to The Homestead and rapped on the door, and was greeted by a surprised Vinnie.
“Oh, Miranda!” she gushed. “Emily will be so pleased to see you.”
She gripped my hand and tugged me into the house. Startled by her aggressive enthusiasm, I stumbled a bit over the threshold.
“I must tell you,” Lavinia confided, “Emily has missed you. She’s had no company at all while you were away. Other than me, of course,” she added.
I hid a smile. There was nothing unusual in Emily’s seclusion, but perhaps in these winter months, without her garden or bird-watching, Emily had relied a bit too heavily on Lavinia for Lavinia’s comfort. I suspected Vinnie was the one who was glad to see me back, to distract her demanding sister. I heard Emily’s door open upstairs, then saw the slanting light illuminate the upper hallway. “Lavinia, I believe you are detaining my guest,” Emily scolded.
I smiled. This was the Emily I knew well, who had been listening at her door since Vinnie brought me into the house.
“I’m welcoming our neighbor home,” Vinnie replied. She made a little shooing gesture at me, waving me toward the stairs.
Emily hovered in the doorway, her pristine white dress looking crisp and cool.
“Why, you’ve gone as bronze as a Greek soldier’s shield,” she said as a greeting.
I laughed. “I was certainly not off to battle in Barbados.”
“Of course you were,” Emily countered. “Battling INERTIA. Battling sameness. Battling for your soul.”
I was startled at the image. She was right on all counts. I had gone to Barbados as a way to wage a war against ennui. I battled my fears about Roger and then fought with the constraints placed on me by society.
“Then I need some laurel from your garden for my victor’s crown,” I said, settling into “my” red chair. “For I have surely won.”
“But what of your friends?” Emily demanded. “For we were the sorry victims you abandoned to go to war.”
I choked back a laugh. This too was an Emily I recognized. I remembered how she had taken the enlistment of her Mentor Thomas Higginson during the Civil War as a personal slight.
Emily sat at her desk and arranged her skirts in a peevish manner. “Now, Miranda, I must scold you. You never told me you were leaving. And to be gone so long! Think of how I felt!”
Her posturing irritated me. “Your brother must have told you the state I was in before I left,” I said. “He was the one who suggested a trip away.”
“Perhaps he said something to me, but I don’t recall. We don’t speak regularly, you remember.” Then Emily’s brows knit together. “And how is your delightful charge? It is . . . Elena? ”
“Splendid and thriving. With quite a personality of her own. She — ”
But Emily was not interested. “Are the flowers in Barbados quite exotic? I remember that you learned your admirable flower-arranging skills from your Miss Adelaide on that mysterious island.”
I barely knew whether to laugh or to scold: she remembered my flower arrangements but not my daughter’s name!
“The flowers are lovely. And yes, you are right. Miss Adelaide taught me a great deal.”
“And while she was teaching you domestic arts, did she never teach you to cook?” Emily teased.
When I had stayed as Emily’s houseguest several years before, I had confessed my complete inadequacy in the kitchen.
“No.” I smiled. “Aunt Helen has been my tutor in that art, but I will never achieve your artistry as a baker.”
“It is by necessity that I take on such chores, though I am pleased that my efforts do not go unnoticed.”
For all of Emily’s rejection of “doily talk,” this was our laciest conversation by far.
Emily sighed heavily. “We have had such a time finding the right girl,” she complained. “The household falls heavily upon my shoulders.”
“There is always so much to do,” I agreed. “I don’t know how I will ever manage it when I have a household of my own.”
Emily stared at me. “You? Running a household?”
Her surprise insulted me. “Of course. Why should I not?”
“You’re so young,” she protested. “And independent. I can’t imagine you married. I always assumed you had come to the same conclusion I have made regarding marriage.”
“Why would you think that?” I bristled.
“Why? Because it is sensible. Perhaps even more for you than for me. You have ambition. You travel. You want to see the world, be influential. How could any man accept that?” She thought for a moment. “I, on the other hand, could be a wife, to the right man,” she said almost smugly. “I would always be at home. And if he would leave me be, then I could write as much as I wanted to. But there are other reasons I could not marry. Men expect . . . children.”
I was not sure if that was what she had meant to say, but I did not want to pursue it. Perhaps touching on such a personal matter unsettled Emily, for she quickly changed the subject.
“How did you spend your time on your island paradise?” she asked.
“Enjoying myself,” I answered.
“How did you accomplish that?”
I thought. I would not discuss Roger with Emily, certainly. What had I taken pleasure in before his arrival?
“I was able to see the natural world around me,” I said. “I could take the time to really pay attention.”
“Ahh, then your journey was worthwhile.” Emily nodded her approval. “So few people really NOTICE things. But we do. We’re alike in that.”
This comparison to Emily did not rankle. Her capacity for intense observation was a quality I admired. Having arrived at a more harmonious moment, we settled down to a happy discussion of the books she had read in my absence.
But once I had left her close and suffocating room, I felt unsettled. There was a neediness in Emily that I had not seen before. She always demanded attention — her very manner compelled it — but this was different. She had never wanted my attention in particular before. I had always felt like a captive audience in Emily’s personal drama rather than a real person. Yet it seemed to be my specific presence she had missed — why else make her laughable attempt to ask after Elena, except to enter into what was important to me, if only for a moment? Perhaps for the first time she had admitted my importance to her. It was how friends were meant to feel about each other. Then why did it bother me so much?
Is she a friend? That had always been the question. I had never been sure what our relationship really was, and if it was not friendship, then what might it actually be?
The next day as I sat at my desk, Aunt Helen came in, bearing a tray holding iced tea and ginger biscuits. “I thought you might be feeling a bit parched by now.” She sat down in the side chair beside the desk. I thanked her and took a sip of the cool amber liquid.
“Is there an understanding between you and Mr. Daniels that perhaps I should know about?” she asked, coming straight to the point.
I should not have been surprised, but how could I answer? I would not lie — I would not claim that he was an unmarried man and a suitable prospect. But I could not tell the complete truth — particularly now, when the feelings and intentions that had seemed so plain on Barbados were still muddled and unclear.
“Mr. Daniels is not free to marry,” I said. I sipped my tea and avoided looking at my aunt. “He has a wife, and she is an invalid. He does not speak of it because he does not wish to be looked upon with pity, although he is quite deserving of our sympathy. As is his p
oor wife.”
I gave Aunt Helen a brief outline of Roger’s situation. “Mr. Daniels has always treated me with respect,” I added. “I cannot deny there is a — a sympathy between us, and he told me of his history so that I would have no misunderstanding of our circumstances.”
“Oh, my dear!” Aunt Helen cried. “I don’t want you pining away for him.”
So my attraction and my confusion in the time since I had returned from Barbados had been that obvious. “Do I seem to be the pining sort?” I teased.
She would not be diverted. Aunt Helen laid her hand on mine. “My dear, you have had so much disappointment. First losing Davy, and now, if Mr. Daniels is someone with whom you had hoped . . .”
“Dear Aunt Helen, I value Mr. Daniels for his enthusiasm and his knowledge; the foundation benefits greatly because he and I work together.” It was not an answer, precisely, but it was the truth. My direct honesty must have reassured her — she knew the truth when she heard it.
“I am glad. And much relieved, though it is a shame! Poor Mr. Daniels.”
“And his poor wife,” I added, meaning it.
Aunt Helen left my room, and I tried to return to my work. I had written to Roger a few days before to explain that I would not be able to make the trip to New York until July, a full two months since we had parted. The delay was unavoidable: there was too much to be attended to in Amherst before I could comfortably leave. And settling in until July would do Elena good; she needed to become reacquainted with her Amherst routine before my leaving disrupted it. I had written, I think, with the hope that his disappointment at the delay would evoke from him a fuller, more passionate expression of feelings than did the two letters I had received from him since my return, both of which had been short and formal. It was too early to expect a response yet, but I was certain that his heart was as hungry as mine for contact.
Then I laughed, thinking back to my afternoon with Emily. I had not told her I meant to leave again so soon, and thus I could not please her with news that I was postponing my departure!
I received Roger’s letter a week later.
Dear Miranda,
I entirely understand the necessity of delaying your trip to New York. You have work to do and so do I. My trip to Barbados, undertaken on short notice, left me with a good deal of unfinished business for the foundation and for other concerns. The delay will permit me to neatly tie up these loose ends and devote myself entirely to the business of the school.
I hope Elena and your aunt are well.
I remain, yours
What was I to make of this? Roger expressed neither disappointment nor hope. Only the brief subscription at the end, “I remain, yours,” gave any hint of feeling. Was he mine in any sense other than that of the formal letter writer? I sat at my desk, the afternoon light streaming onto the page. The words blurred with unshed tears; I was confused, angry, hurt, afraid. I was unsure which of these feelings was the proper one — mine was not a situation in which a well-bred, well-educated young woman expected to find herself, and to whom could I turn for advice? Was it simply that the magic of our love on the island had been just that — fantasy, dispelled by our return to the real world? Had we really imagined we would be able to carry on this relationship? Roger was married, and I had chosen to become his lover. By Amherst standards, by the standards of the society in which I had been born and raised, this was scandal. It was wrong.
But it did not feel wrong. Wrongness was far removed from my actual experience with Roger and the true nature of our relationship. I had no interest in marriage per se: I would like to share my life with Roger and have my union accepted by the people I loved, but as I had no desire to give birth to a child, I felt no hurry. Elena was all I needed, and I could mother her without a husband. But what would the people I loved — Aunt Helen and Elena, and Ethan and his family — think of my relationship with Roger? I might feel that I should be free to do what I liked with my own body, but the matter was not that simple. If Aunt Helen could hear these ideas, she would likely lock me up and throw away the key! And Ethan! He would remove Elena from my custody before my depravity could damage his daughter’s moral growth.
Loving Roger might not feel wrong, but it was dangerous. Perhaps, I thought, this was why his letters were so passionless, so guarded.
But I so needed to confide in someone. At this moment I missed Kate sorely. There was so much we would be able to share now that I had shared Roger’s bed — the delicate feelings Roger inspired, the wonder of the union. Kate might have been scandalized by the circumstances of my love for Roger, but I could not believe my cousin would have shut me out entirely.
But there was someone I could confide in: Miss Adelaide. So I poured out all my concerns, my radical ideas, my fears, in a lengthy six-page letter. It felt good to express these ideas even though I knew that, by the time I received a reply, my New York trip and its accompanying anxieties would be behind me. I understood a bit about Emily’s need to write, even if the recipient would be unable to respond to the immediate concerns of the letter writer. Perhaps I had judged Emily too harshly.
I left for New York on July 6. Roger had informed Alan Harnett that he would be happy to collect me from the train station himself. Roger had taken rooms in a genteel boardinghouse midway between Washington Square and the Harnetts’ home on Rutherford Street. The location was convenient for meetings, but I found myself hoping that Roger would be spending his nights with me.
As I reached the end of the train ride, I leaned against the high back of the seat and shut my eyes. I was grateful that I had had a train compartment to myself for the last few station stops, as I wasn’t sure I would have been able to carry on the superficial banter of strangers thrown together in such circumstances. I had been anticipating this moment for so long; it was hard to believe it had arrived. I pictured Roger on the platform, tall and dashing, his hands clasped before him, as I’d seen him stand countless times. What was he feeling? Was he as excited as I? As nervous? It was such a startling combination of emotions that I felt nearly breathless.
With a great screeching of brakes, the train came to a stop. I tugged the curls at the nape of my neck and my temples, arranging them in the soft tendrils that Roger had loved to stroke. I stood, smoothed the creases from my blue traveling suit, and adjusted my hat. I took a deep breath and alighted from the train compartment.
The platform was crowded — men and women disembarking, people calling to servants for their luggage, porters darting in and out of the milling travelers. I spoke quickly to the porter, indicating my large leather valise, and he set it beside me.
“Do you need a carriage, Miss?” the porter asked.
I scanned the crowd, wondering where Roger was. “No,” I replied, a little uncertainly. “I am to be met.”
The man tipped his cap, nodded, and vanished into the crowd.
I turned and stared back along the track. Was Roger waiting at the other end? It would be easy to miss him amid the throng. As people boarded the train and travelers met their parties and left the station, the platform cleared. The train let out a whooping hoot, and then slowly, loudly, in a gush of steam, it pulled out of the station.
My heart sank.
Could Roger have misunderstood the time? Or worse — had he decided that this meeting was a mistake, that our time at York Stairs was a mistake? The cool formality of his letters since Barbados had prepared me to half believe such a thing was possible. With Roger returned to everyday Chicago, had my willingness to enter into an unsanctioned relationship appeared to him in a different light? Had his opinion of me changed?
I shook my head. Whatever I knew of Roger, he was not a coward. Even if he had second thoughts, even if he believed we should forget what we had been to each other and return to a formal, collegial relationship, Roger would not announce it to me by leaving me standing at the train station. I folded my hands and prepared to wait all night if necessary.
“Miss Chase!”
It wa
s Roger’s dear voice.
I turned to see him striding toward me. I wanted to run to him and be enfolded in his arms, to smell his scent and learn the lines of his face anew, but something, his expression or the formal way he carried himself, held me back. He extended his hand and shook mine.
“A thousand apologies, Miss Chase. The carriage that lost its wheel and tied up traffic did not realize I had an appointment with a very important visiting dignitary.” In one movement he had pulled my arm through his, taken up my portmanteau, and turned me toward the waiting carriage. “Now, let us get you out of here.”
Bewildered, I let Roger hand me up into the carriage and give the driver his instructions. Then Roger himself climbed into the carriage and closed the door.
He took the seat across from mine and looked at me for a moment, as if to memorize me.
“You are still lovely. Amherst agrees with you,” he said lightly.
How should I respond? I longed to reach across and touch him, to kiss him, to know he felt as much as I did. Instead I smiled tightly, waiting to be guided by his behavior.
“Miranda, sweet Miranda.” Roger looked away from me, out the window. “I know we said — in Barbados we said many things, believed many things would be possible. And perhaps in time they will. But for now, for this visit, I think we must be —”
“Colleagues?” I asked. There was a cold, empty space in me.
He looked back at me and smiled. “Always that. But . . . discreet. Working as closely as we must, surrounded by so many other people, any behavior which might hint that we are, have been, other than just colleagues, would be dangerous.”
“Dangerous.”
“To the foundation. To our work. Your work. Even our friends would likely misunderstand —” He stopped and cleared his throat. “I meant every word that I said to you, every gesture, every touch we exchanged in Barbados. It was not until I returned to Chicago that I faced up to how our feelings jeopardize the foundation. For your sake, and for Davy’s, and for the sake of the many children I hope that our schools will help, I hope you can be patient with me, and believe that, while once we leave this carriage I will assume the manner of a friend and coworker, my feelings are as much engaged as ever.”
Afternoons with Emily Page 45