The Things We Don’t Say

by Ella Carey

  Emma threw herself into the imaginary world of her art, where colors were alive and real to her and where she could express on the canvas the feelings that she couldn’t speak. She completed a series of still life works, the colors bold, fearless, defiant. She forced herself to find solace in two things—her art and the fact that the people she loved were happy. Ambrose, Patrick, Lawrence, Calum . . .

  By late September Emma focused her artistic eyes on the garden and the outside world. It had transformed into a riot of color. She spent hours trying to re-create the very colors that she picked up with her unwavering eye. Burnt oranges, deep reds, and bright yellows flooded the trees, while stunning golden light glistened every afternoon, and the sunsets were a glorious explosion of pinks. Emma took to working outside until dusk. It was as if she were trying to capture something indefinable. The last of fall perhaps, before winter set in and everything was laid to rest.

  When, after what felt like a decade of silence, Lydia brought a letter from Patrick out to her as she sat painting by the lake one afternoon, she refrained from seizing it and tearing the envelope open. Instead, she eyed it for at least five minutes before wiping her hands on her cleaning cloth and slowly slitting open the seal.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  London, 1980

  Laura fought with every emotion and every complication under the sun. Juggling seemed to be the order of her limited days until the loan ran out. She needed to practice, should be practicing hours and hours every day, and she did so, melding that in with the time she had to spend working at the supermarket and teaching her students so that she did not let them down. And yet all the time, her mind whirred and her insides churned with the knowledge that she had only two choices, and neither of them helped Emma.

  She could accept Ewan’s offer. Leave all the questions surrounding the portrait and Patrick and Em hanging. Or she could go with Emma’s plan to move out of Gordon Square, handing over Summerfield for some new tenant to paint over all her loving decorations. Either thought made Laura feel even more ill than she already did.

  “Laura?” Jasper caught her hand and held it right as she went to knock on the office door of the dean of the Royal College of Music.

  “Stop,” he said. “Don’t you dare.”

  Laura took in his unkempt appearance, the way his shirt hung untucked over his old jeans. He was unshaven, and he wore a baseball cap on backward. Mark’s baseball cap.

  Laura sighed and reached out to take it off his head. “You know, I have a bad relationship with that cap,” she said. “And I never take advice from disheveled men. I’m worried about you. Are you okay?”

  But Jasper only frowned at her in turn. “Why are you protecting Ewan?” he said, his eyes intent on her face. “I don’t understand why you’re not making him speak out.”

  Laura made her way back to the door.

  “You’re giving up.”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” he said, taking her hand. “You are.”

  Slowly she crossed her arms.

  “What are you going to say to the head of the school?” Jasper asked. “That you’re going to stop playing your violin because Ewan makes sense? And because you’ve kissed him? Because if you don’t mind my saying so, that’s bloody ridiculous. Have you talked to him in the last couple of days? Come on, Laura, when I said to seduce him, it was all about getting the intel, not about getting between the sheets.”

  Laura took in the bulletin board on the opposite wall of the hallway. The usual things sat there: ads for concerts at the Royal Albert Hall, a sign-up sheet to audition for a new chamber group, notices that she usually scoured with her notepad in hand while planning how she could procure cheap tickets with a bunch of friends . . . but now there was no point.

  “I broke up with Mark because I know I deserve more in a relationship than he was able to give. It’s going to be hard for a while, but I’m not going to settle for half a life or half a relationship. And it seems to me that you are going to do exactly those two things.”

  Gently he took her shoulders in his hands. “I know how hard this is, but you must go back to Ewan, no matter what your feelings are, no matter how complicated things are, and get him to talk. What happens between the two of you, I don’t know. But you can’t run away, and from what I saw, the fireworks that were sparking were something else. I will lie across this door and attack anyone who walks into that office to tell the college you’re quitting. Including you.”

  Laura folded her arms around her waist.

  His hair stuck straight up like a scrubbing brush. “Don’t worry about my breakup. I’m always here for you, and I know you’re here for me,” he whispered. “But it’s time to take things head-on, Laura,” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Emma hung on to unrequited love, but she had a choice not to do that. She could have been with someone else. And you deserve everything.”

  “But Emma’s determined to move out of her house. I can’t let that happen. Surely you can see that. I have to take responsibility.”

  “I understand about Emma. But in the end, perhaps it’s about turning all this adversity into something worthwhile, even beautiful,” he said. “I think it’s time you stopped emulating Emma and started being Laura.”

  “What?”

  “I’m serious,” he whispered, taking the hat and placing it back on his head.

  She hovered on the spot. Jasper reached up a hand and leaned on the wall next to them. “The way Emma dealt with things was her choice. Isn’t it time to create your own way of living? I know the way your mother lives her life is difficult to watch. It’s hard to understand. I get that. But you and I aren’t going to do that, my friend. We’re going for the full deal—passion for our career and passion in our relationships. Nothing less.

  “And I understand that Emma’s sense of freedom and respect and tolerance for others looks almost divine to us, but you’re Laura, and if Emma believes in anything, I think she knows that everyone is unique. Your grandmother accepts that. She chose her path; surely you can choose yours. Couldn’t you talk to Ewan rather than simply being tolerant, like Emma would be?”

  Laura reached up and ran her hand across the contours of his cheek. “Jasper, can you promise me that you’ll find someone who treats you well next time? Someone who doesn’t let you down over and over again?”

  “Only if you promise me you will not walk in there and quit.” He held her gaze. “The only reason I’m able to walk away when things aren’t right is because of the heart-to-hearts I’ve had with you. Your uncompromising pursuit of the best in your playing and in your life so far has inspired me to no end. But I will not see you give up on yourself. I won’t let you walk away from everything you deserve.”

  “But the bank is requisitioning the loan,” Laura whispered. “I agree that sometimes we can be our own worst enemies, and I realize that my life is completely different from Em’s, no matter how much I admire her. But what about the forces that run against us in the outside world? Because they seem pretty insurmountable to me right now . . . It’s not only about Emma and Ewan and whatever’s going on in my head. There is the problem that the bank needs to be paid back. And I should be the one to do that because the loan is mine, not Em’s.”

  “And giving up your music is in your best interests? What about you? Self-sacrifice is a measure of desperation sometimes; it’s not a show of strength when you have such a choice as you do. You’re running away from the man you’re attracted to. He’s running away from his passion for painting. Emma ran away from society, and your mother ran away from being the artist she could have been. Fear is a pretty big de-motivator, Laura. Avoidance won’t fix this; it will only make you angry down the track.”

  Laura looked away.

  “What do you want to do? Forget what everyone else wants. Forget all their issues. You’ve been caught up in those for too long.”

  When she spoke, her voice was so soft she could hardly hear it, but it was there. “I want to
play music. I think I want Ewan, and I know I want you in my life no matter what.”

  Jasper pulled her to him roughly, and she rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. But comforting as Jasper was, it was one thing to know what you wanted but quite another to know how to get there.

  Summerfield, 1923

  Emma held Patrick’s letter. She sat at her desk in the late afternoon, and with her free hand, she sipped at Lydia’s strong coffee. She couldn’t help but ask herself one question: Could the landscape that love roamed over ever truly be accompanied by her beliefs in rationality?

  She read his note for the ten thousandth time. And if the feelings that were growing in her rapidly swelling body were borne out of any reality at all, then she was going to run with them.

  When it came to Patrick, she’d never had any choice.

  Dearest Em,

  I miss you, and I find that things are not the same without you around. I have been wanting to ask you to come to Paris. But I want to come home to you and to Summerfield even more than I want you here. I’m going to catch a train down to Lewes on Sunday. Can I come home? It will just be me, darling. Jerome is returning to America. He’s decided New York is a better place for him.

  Thank goodness for you,

  P

  When he appeared in the front garden, throwing his suitcase down on the driveway in front of the house, Emma went to him with her hands held out, but instead, he enfolded her in his arms.

  “By God, I’ve missed you,” he murmured, ruffling her hair with his mouth. “And look at you!” He held her out in front of him. Gently, he ran a hand down her distended belly.

  Emma felt herself blush. She had ended up rushing off a telegram to him in London, telling him it was fine to come home, while adding a quick aside about the baby. She’d reverted back to her painting in a frenzy of energy afterward.

  “Oh, Em,” he said.

  Emma stepped back a little, but he drew her to him again.

  As they wandered toward the open front door, the porch scattered with late autumn leaves, Emma fought a sudden stab in her insides. Once they stepped into the entrance hall, her eyes flickered to the dining room and the parcel that still sat, unopened, against the wall. She hated to admit, even to herself, that opening it seemed too much while Patrick was traveling with Jerome. She shot a glance toward him, starting a little at the way he frowned when he saw it sitting there untouched.

  He moved toward her.

  She knew she didn’t need to say a thing.

  “Shall we open it together?” she asked.

  He nodded, reaching out and tucking a strand of her hair behind her cheek. Silently, he reached down to pick it up, carrying it to the dining room table and laying the flat parcel on it with great care. His artist’s fingers prized open the brown wrapping paper that hid the portrait, and as he revealed his work, Emma leaned over his shoulder and drank in the colors, the sight of what he’d done for her.

  Her face. He’d rendered it as if he knew everything she never said; her eyes seemed to stare away into the distance. It was hard to tell her age—was she thirty-three as she was now or that girl in her early twenties as she was when they first met in France? It was as if he’d captured all the Emmas he’d known over the years—the long war years with Rupert by their sides, the time spent working in London with Lawrence, the painting and traveling in France . . . the turmoil that had accompanied his relationship with Jerome. Every expression she’d ever known, every feeling she’d ever had seemed to stare out at her from his portrait of her. Because he knew her, and that was all she needed right now. If we are defined by those whom we love, then it was also true that the man she loved undoubtedly knew how to define her. For him, she was not a closed book. And for her part, she knew she’d learned to love Patrick as he was, which in the end was all she could do.

  Emma rested her hand on the table, her eyes scanning his exquisite taste in color—the way her green skirt shimmered in the sunlight, while the pearl buttons on her blouse shone, each one with a lustrous light.

  There were no empty chairs in this portrait, no melancholy scenes on desolate verandas. He’d chosen a backdrop that was perfect: a painting she’d done of a bunch of oranges and lemons he’d brought her once in London as a gift. Bright colors, her looks honest. She was in love with the painting, and it reassured her that everything was all right.

  “I adore it,” she whispered, her fingers itching to reach out and touch it, bottle it. Instead, she ran her hand over the simple wooden frame.

  “You know, I’ve worked out what is so unique about my relationship with you,” he said. “It is never possible to be lonely or to feel alone whether we are together or not, because I know you are always with me.”

  Emma reached out her hand to him. It seemed clear now that sometimes in life, one had to sit out the bad times, because what made life bearable was the knowledge that some feelings never changed.

  London, 1980

  Laura reached for the phone in the common room at the Royal College of Music, only to place it back down on the receiver. She glanced around the empty common room. Everyone was closeted away practicing. With such a short time to performance exams, no one was lounging around in here. They say doubt is the preserve of the intelligent. Right now, Laura could do with a barrage of decisiveness instead. When Jasper appeared next to her, she arched her brows at him.

  “You should go and practice,” she said, reaching out an arm.

  “Have you called him?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re worried that he could tell you a truth you don’t want to hear.”

  “Exactly!” Laura leaped away from the phone. “I’ll just go back to plan A.” She turned toward the dean’s office.

  Jasper caught her. He took her hand in his and held it, his fingers intertwined with her own. “Isn’t it better to find out—better out than in?”

  She regarded him.

  “So.” Gently, he took the piece of paper with Ewan’s phone number written on it out of her hand. “You call him. And you go and sort this out. This is very unlike you, by the way,” he said.

  She shrugged.

  Jasper scanned the number. “Are you going to call him or am I?”

  “I will. But you stay here while I’m talking to him.”

  Jasper rolled his eyes. “Goodness, what are we? Twelve?”

  Laura picked up the handset. She kept her tone businesslike. Arranged to meet Ewan at the sunken garden in Kensington Gardens.

  “Happy?”

  He grinned at her. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” he said.

  Laura held up her head. “How are you going with your . . . stuff?”

  “I am actually okay.” He smiled. “I’ll be fine. It just wasn’t meant to be with Mark. That’s all. Let’s focus on your . . . stuff for now.”

  “Go and practice, Jasper. And you know I’m here if you need to talk to me.”

  He picked up his viola. And waved to her as he made his way out into the corridor.

  Half an hour later, she stood overlooking the spring flowers in the sunken garden outside Kensington Palace. Laura tried to take in the sea of color in front of her, but she turned when she heard the sound of footsteps coming along the path. She took a step back as Ewan approached, reaching out her hand to hold on to the low stone wall that surrounded the gardens.

  He stopped a few feet away from her, a darkness across his handsome features. He wasn’t dressed in a suit, nor did he look in any way like he’d come from work on this weekday. Instead, he wore a pair of faded jeans, with a white shirt hanging, untucked, above it. His hands were stained with paint.

  His eyes softened as he looked at her. “I’m taking a week off. A painting retreat, you could call it. First time I’ve done so in . . . well, ever.” He smiled, that dimple showing up. He placed his hands in his jeans pockets and hovered. “It was good to hear from you,” he said.

  “Can we go for a walk and have a chat?”


  He nodded, stepping aside so that she could come out from under the canopy of wisteria that edged the perfect spring garden.

  “You know, Emma never comes here anymore,” she said. “She grew up around the corner, but she’s avoided this part of London for years—it doesn’t fit in with how she lives her life.”

  “No.”

  She stopped. They’d passed the Round Pond and were heading up one of the wide paths that led into the wilder part of the park, where old English trees were dotted like beautiful green havens, canopies over the stretching lawns.

  He looked out over the landscape. “Let’s go this way,” he said, choosing one of the narrow, quieter paths. Dogs scampered in the grass.

  “But this was her old stomping ground. It was where everything began,” Laura said. “Her imagination developed in these gardens, you know.” She took a glance over at Ewan.

  He kept walking. “Go on.”

  “Kensington Gardens was a retreat from the rigors of her life. The colors in nature inspired her to paint, and I think it must have shown her what a man-made construct society was. How things were made to seem important that were . . . not so important. An appreciation of beauty and nature—no one can ever take that away from you no matter what is going on in the world. That was the philosophy of the Circle. She’s offered to move out of her house for me, you know. She’s insisting on selling everything she owns so that I can continue at music school. She says she doesn’t need any of it.”

  Ewan stayed quiet.

  Laura fought with the dreaded knowledge that this was unplanned. Her meticulous, strategized career, hours of practice, a position in an orchestra somewhere, was being floored by feelings she’d never had before—but somewhere, a new force was emerging, a willingness to throw away her safety net, to simply go with the flow, to head down a path she knew she had never taken before. Even her love for Jasper was slipping into some cool, safe abyss of a place, replaced in turn by this strong need, this wanting to get to know Ewan better, to see his truth now, while knowing at the same time that she would not settle for anything less than she deserved in either love or what she wanted to do with her own life.