The Land of Summer

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘I do not think that a man of Mr Aubrey’s standing would play such a practical joke, Ambrosia dear,’ Emmaline had replied with as much conviction as she could muster, knowing that the wretched girl might well be right.

  ‘Perhaps it is just a way for Mr Aubrey to become better acquainted with the family,’ Charity suggested. ‘And once he does and once he grows bored with poor Emmaline—’

  ‘Which he very soon will!’ Ethel, the youngest of the four Nesbitt girls, exclaimed. ‘How could any gentleman as dashing as Mr Aubrey not soon grow bored with our elderly sister?’

  ‘Before he started dancing with Emmaline I am sure he only had eyes for me,’ Charity continued blithely.

  ‘And the only reason he was not dancing with any of us was because he knew all our cards were full!’ Ethel laughed. ‘Mine was full before I ever even set foot on the floor,’ she added, smoothing down her dress.

  ‘Mine too,’ Ambrosia asserted. ‘You were not the only one.’

  ‘Well, that is neither here nor there,’ Charity went on, staring at herself in a hand mirror, loving what she saw. ‘Now, now, girls, we all know Mr Aubrey would rather have one of us, but Emmaline must marry, or we will all be left on the shelf, so we will have to let her marry Mr Aubrey!’

  ‘I do declare Charity is right. But as soon as the dashing Mr Aubrey tires of Emmaline here, he will deny ever wishing to be married to her and instead he will send for one of us, I am sure,’ Ambrosia announced.

  The three sisters regarded each other unsmilingly. They knew that Emmaline must be married first, and yet the fact was that now the possibility of Emmaline’s betrothal had actually become a reality, it posed the question of whether any of them would be able to find a husband. Not only that, but Charity would now have to be married before either of the other two could leave home. For once the mouths of the garrulous trio remained firmly shut, and only their eyes reflected their fears. The marriage market was such a lottery that even very pretty girls sometimes turned into sour old spinsters.

  Emmaline turned away. She loved her younger sisters, as a good sister should, but now that she knew she would be leaving them – whatever happened after her journey to England – she knew that she would be forever grateful to Mr Aubrey for removing her from her home when she had quite given up all hope. She was only too aware that thanks to her mother’s open despite for her eldest daughter, she had not really enjoyed any kind of life in the Nesbitt household, whether in Massachusetts or at their town house in New York. The truth was that in a prosperous family, with many servants, life held nothing for an unmarried young woman of twenty-five: so even if Mr Aubrey proved to be a cad or a bounder or even a bigamist – which she very well knew that he was not – Emmaline was quite certain that she would always be grateful to him for throwing her a lifeline. If it weren’t for him she would not be journeying to a new life, but sitting at home waiting for her mother to ring for her, or sewing some useless welcome cushion for the coming baby of a happily married friend, or an evening purse for an elderly relative.

  So, as she sat and considered her situation while the train drew well clear of the dockland station and gathered speed for London, Emmaline reckoned that with all things being equal – as her father was only too fond of saying – she most probably was facing no worse a prospect than she had faced back at home, and possibly a far, far better one. At the very least she would be getting married to a man with a flourishing business, whose personal and professional contacts were substantial. That at least was certain.

  None the less, one thing concerned her, something about which she had been unable to seek advice before leaving the shores of her homeland, although it concerned so many young women with similar upbringings. While she was sure she could cope with the social side of marriage, however complicated the rules of class and behaviour in England might be, when it came to other aspects of intimacy she drew a complete blank. She could never ask her mother, and certainly not her father, what she knew she must learn about how to make a happy union, and she certainly could not ask any of her sisters, for they were just as ignorant as she was. True, the maids were often caught sniggering about the summary dismissal of one of their number, but the reason for the dismissal was never, ever disclosed to the Nesbitt sisters, despite the fact that hints were often given that nine months later the individual concerned had been seen in the company of a baby, and, if she was lucky, its reluctant father.

  When she eventually came back down to earth, and removed her gaze from the landscape beyond the window, Emmaline noticed that Mrs Winfield was staring at her. The moment Emmaline met her eye Mrs Winfield smiled, and at once looked away out of her window to study the countryside in her turn.

  ‘That was the pretty village of Tintbury we have just passed through, my dear,’ she said. ‘And did you have a nice sleep? I find it very difficult to sleep on trains myself.’

  ‘I wasn’t really asleep, Mrs Winfield,’ Emmaline replied. ‘I was daydreaming, considering my situation, wondering about my future.’

  ‘I find train journeys so very interesting,’ her companion continued. ‘And new train journeys particularly so. They allow you time to yourself while engaging your interest in new scenery, don’t you think?’

  Mrs Winfield gave a sudden and sad little sigh, which made Emmaline look away. It was as if the older woman was actually dreading the moment when she would reach her destination. Emmaline immediately felt an unusual sense of discomfort settling on her, and so with a polite excuse she produced a book from her handbag and began to read. She hoped that her travelling companion would take the hint and do the same, for not only was she disinclined to continue talking, she also needed some quiet in order to try to quell the strange fear she felt rising in her as the truth of her odd situation really began to dawn on her.

  Happily, despite her recent assertion, Mrs Winfield fell fast asleep not ten minutes later and remained comatose until the train drew to a halt at the end of the line.

  ‘My goodness,’ she gasped as she was woken by the juddering of the braking train. ‘Where are we? This must be – goodness, it can’t be, surely? I must have dropped off for a moment—’

  ‘I think we have reached the terminus, Mrs Winfield,’ Emmaline replied, lowering the window to look out across the busy station. ‘Yes indeed, we have reached Waterloo.’

  ‘Waterloo? I really cannot believe it,’ Mrs Winfield said, straightening her skirt and jacket before pinning her hat carefully back on her head. ‘It must have been all that sea air, do you see. Do forgive me. I really never ever fall asleep on trains, Miss Nesbitt, truly I do not.’

  ‘You have nothing to excuse yourself for, Mrs Winfield,’ Emmaline assured her. ‘I was quite tired myself and I too slept for a good deal of the journey.’

  ‘I suppose this then is where we make our farewells,’ Mrs Winfield said a little later as they stood under the large clock on the station concourse. ‘You are quite sure someone is to meet you here? I think I must stand with you until I see—’

  ‘I am quite sure, thank you, Mrs Winfield,’ Emmaline said, thinking she saw a tall man in a black stovepipe hat with a white flower in the buttonhole of his overcoat coming towards her. ‘And thank you for your companionship on this long journey. I am only sorry we could not spend more time together on board.’

  ‘One thing I have always been blessed with, my dear,’ Mrs Winfield said as she shook Emmaline’s proffered hand, ‘is good sea legs. I cannot imagine why, since there is no sea whatsoever in my family, but there it is. Now, the luggage? Where is that wretched fellow?’

  On cue a porter arrived with a trolley bearing both the passengers’ luggage, Mrs Winfield’s steamer trunk and four large suitcases taking up most of the space, quite dwarfing Emmaline’s small leather-strapped trunk and one medium-sized case.

  ‘Miss Nesbitt?’ the gentleman with the white flower in his lapel wondered, raising his tall hat. His expression showed no sign of having remarked on anything unusual. ‘Henry Ralph at
your service, miss – Mr Aubrey’s works manager. Please leave all your luggage as it is and I shall see to it that it is taken to our carriage. I trust you had a good journey over?’

  Once the niceties had been observed and final farewells exchanged with Mrs Winfield, Emmaline embarked on the third phase of what was turning into an exhausting journey, across London to Paddington under the protection of Mr Ralph.

  * * *

  In the privacy of a suite in a small hotel, two men were closeted in private conference, one standing by the window that looked out over gardens already blanketed in new snow, the other sitting behind a handsome partners’ desk whose top was covered in fine black leather tooled in gold. There were papers in front of the man seated at the desk, papers which were being closely consulted even though practically every word and phrase was known to both the men present.

  The one reading the documents rhythmically tapped the blunt end of his pen on the leather-topped desk while the man at the window slowly smoked an oval Turkish cigarette.

  ‘I fail to understand the delay—’

  ‘There is no delay,’ the man at the desk replied slowly. ‘I am simply checking that everything agreed is implemented by these documents.’

  ‘I think you’re simply delaying the moment, my dear fellow,’ the one at the window sighed. ‘You aren’t going to fail me now, are you? Look on me as having done you a very good turn—’

  ‘No, of course not,’ came the weary response. ‘How can I fail you now? If I fail you I fail everyone. No, no, what must be, must be.’

  ‘It’s all in order. You know that as well as I do. The beagles went over it with fine-tooth combs, as did you, as did I.’

  ‘It is all in order, no question of that.’ The man at the desk carefully cleaned the nib of his pen on a corner of blotting paper preparatory to signing. ‘I think we may proceed to call a witness.’ He rang a bell by the desk and sat back in his chair to wait for the summoned person to appear.

  ‘Remind me when you intend to leave, will you?’ he said, adjusting the immaculate white cuffs on his shirt. ‘Is it still to be next week?’

  ‘I sail for Australia next Friday, yes. By the end of next week I shall be out of your way for good, you will be pleased to hear. Finally out of your hair, think of that.’

  ‘That it should come to this.’ His companion shook his head, then looked up at the man still standing by the window and watched him as he lit a fresh cigarette. The smoker took no notice of the look, even though he could see from the reflection in the glass that he was being observed.

  ‘It’s all right, my dear fellow,’ he said with a smile. ‘I don’t need reminding, and I don’t need a lecture. I know what a bad boy I have been, and I know that without your help … But, my dear fellow, just think. You may well find that it turns out to be the best of all possible eventualities in this best of all possible worlds.’

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door and the appearance of the hotel manager. The man at the desk thanked him for coming up and informed him that they needed him to witness their two signatures on the document that was lying ready on the desk. The manager nodded his assent, duly witnessing the signing.

  ‘I trust everything is to your liking, gentlemen,’ he said as he returned the pen.

  ‘Perfectly satisfactory, thank you,’ the man at the window replied. ‘And have them bring up a bottle of champagne, there’s a good fellow.’

  As the manager withdrew, the other man poured two large glasses of dry sherry from a heavy decanter standing on the sideboard and handed one of the glasses to his companion.

  ‘So,’ he said, taking up the other glass, having lit a cigarette from his own silver case. ‘That, then, is that.’

  ‘That then most certainly is that,’ the other agreed. ‘Or rather that then most certainly is the end of that bit of that. The rest of it – or that, depending entirely on how one sees it – the rest of it starts now. And with that in mind I drink to your good fortune, and your future happiness.’

  ‘And I to your future in the Antipodes,’ his companion replied. ‘Bon voyage.’

  The other man smiled.

  ‘Mm, quite. Bon voyage indeed.’

  Chapter Three

  THE HOUSE WAS a painting of a winter landscape executed by a talented artist of some sensitivity. The air was as still as a summer day and the fresh fall of snow glistened under the January sunshine. Emmaline’s carriage drove carefully up the long driveway, which was still being cleared by a small army of estate workers armed with shovels and brooms. Naturally the two coach horses were only allowed to walk, their feet clad in sacking to prevent snowballs from forming in their shoes and the wheels of the carriage studded with small spikes to prevent them from spinning or skidding.

  From under her wrap of two heavy wool rugs Emmaline could not help but feel stirred at the sight of the ancient house and the fine parkland under its mantle of snow. The carriage passed by one of the great trees that lined the driveway, and as it did so a welt of snow slid from a thick branch, stripping off as quickly as an evening glove taken from a lady’s arm by an impatient maid, while the horses walked slowly round the sweep to the front of the house and into the full beneficence of the sun, so that Emmaline found herself shielding her eyes against the brilliance of the reflected light.

  From nowhere a servant, well muffled against the weather, appeared to open the carriage door with outstretched mittened hands. The end of a red nose was visible above his scarf, and a pair of half-shut dark eyes took due note of the slim and elegant young woman in her fur-trimmed velvet travelling clothes and fur muff, who was now being helped from the carriage by her travelling companion.

  ‘Here we are, Miss Nesbitt,’ Mr Ralph said, once he had got his charge safely to the ground. ‘All in one piece, praise be. Still, be careful, mind – you might have come halfway round the world in a week but icy steps like these could still carry a person off.’

  On his arm, Emmaline carefully climbed the flight of stone steps leading to the half-glassed double front doors, which were opened from within the moment she appeared before them. A man in liveried uniform bowed as they entered, then all but silently shut the doors. A vast fire of huge logs burned and crackled in the hallway grate, and yet the great house was so cold that any visitor would have had to stand very close to the blaze to feel any warmth. In spite of the comfort of her father’s last gift to her – a thick fur cape to be thrown over her travelling clothes – Emmaline shivered as she stood in the echoing stone-flagged anteroom taking in the apparent vastness of the house, while Mr Ralph informed the butler of their identities.

  ‘Miss Nesbitt and Mr Ralph,’ she heard him say. ‘For Mr Aubrey.’

  Turning, Emmaline saw a look in the butler’s eyes which she realised she was either too tired or too unversed to be able to read, although she was quite sure it was not a warm look of welcome. The grave-faced servant only made a half-bow before walking slowly across the hall and opening a polished wood door.

  ‘If the young lady and your good self would like to wait in here, Mr Ralph,’ the butler announced, ‘I will try to locate Mr Aubrey and inform him of your arrival.’

  Indicating to Emmaline that she should go before him, Mr Ralph followed her across the hall and into a book-lined morning room warmed by a coal fire burning in a small wrought-iron basket. Thankfully the room, being smaller, and of a more informal shape, was considerably warmer than the vast hallway, and Emmaline at once took herself to the fireside, where she sat as close to the burning coals as she safely could.

  ‘I would have to say that when we first came inside, why, it was even colder than it was outside in the driveway,’ Emmaline remarked with a smile. ‘That hall is positively arctic.’

  ‘Often the way with these great houses, Miss Nesbitt,’ Mr Ralph replied. ‘They are a mixed blessing indeed. Few owners of such places are much envied nowadays, I think you will find.’

  Emmaline glanced up, for some reason finding herself slightly di
sconcerted by the remark yet not knowing quite why.

  ‘It’s a very – a very fine house, Mr Ralph.’

  ‘Fine as maybe, Miss Nesbitt. But fine is as fine does when it actually comes to living in these places. They are inclined to make the visitor unwelcome. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to return to our offices – and given the prevailing conditions I should leave now if I am to be there before dark.’

  ‘Of course. I quite understand, Mr Ralph,’ Emmaline said, standing to make her farewell. ‘Thank you for all your kindness.’

  ‘It has been my great pleasure, Miss Nesbitt, I do assure you,’ Mr Ralph replied, shaking her hand so carefully, it was as if he thought it might otherwise break. ‘And please, please remember if you ever need any help or – or anything at all, for that matter – you must get in touch with yours truly. This is a strange and foreign country for someone like yourself, so if any help is needed, just let me know.’

  ‘Help?’ Emmaline frowned. ‘Heavens, why might I need help, pray, Mr Ralph?’

  ‘You never know, Miss Nesbitt,’ Mr Ralph replied, after a moment. ‘Strange town. Strange place. Strange country. You can always find me through the company offices.’

  ‘Thank you again, Mr Ralph,’ Emmaline said. ‘You really have been most kind.’

  When he had gone, Emmaline found she could not move from the fire, such was the cold elsewhere in the room. And she was more than a little curious about Mr Ralph’s remarks regarding the great house. Was it as difficult and uncomfortable to live in as he had implied? If so, what would happen to her? After all, this was going to be her future home. Could living here in England really be as daunting as Mr Ralph had hinted? Cold certainly it might be, but also, surely, quite splendid?

  She turned to look around the room in which she was standing, and became aware of large damp patches on one of the walls by a bookcase. Closer examination revealed a section of the wallpaper to be coming away, and when she went to look out over the snow-covered park she had to pull her coat about her against a freezing draught caused by the ill-fitting window, and quickly returned to the fire. It was now starting to sink, and Emmaline found herself searching the grate for wood or coal, anything to rekindle the flames. Finding nothing, she went out into the hallway hoping to discover a servant in attendance, but there was no one in view, and no sight of anyone down the long dark corridors that led off the anteroom. She went over to the great hall fireplace to see if any small logs might have been left there, but that too yielded no comfort, only vast cuts of wood designed for the larger fireplaces, so, pulling her fur cape even more tightly around her, Emmaline returned to the morning room to make the best of the dying coals.