‘Excuse me, Wilkinson,’ she said. ‘That young lady. Was she calling to leave her card on Mrs Julius Aubrey – is that card perhaps for me?’
‘I am not at liberty to say, madam,’ Wilkinson replied. ‘If you will excuse me …’
‘No, Wilkinson, wait,’ Emmaline demanded. ‘Why can you not say? I don’t understand. Surely you must know what the caller said?’
‘Indeed I do, madam. But my instructions are to relay all calling cards straight to the master.’
The butler made for Julius’s study, followed closely by Emmaline. Julius was at work at his desk when Wilkinson entered with the silver salver, and he did not see Emmaline. When Wilkinson would have closed the door Emmaline prevented him by taking hold of the handle and nodding for the butler to leave. With what seemed like perfect understanding Wilkinson nodded silently to Emmaline and went, leaving her standing in the doorway with the door sufficiently ajar for her to be able to see Julius, who still had his back to her. She watched him read the card and then, having torn it in two, consign it to his waste-paper basket.
Half an hour later, with Julius safely out of the house on his way to the works, Emmaline went straight to retrieve the torn card from her husband’s waste-paper basket and returned to the drawing room without anyone’s observing her.
‘Did anyone call for me today, Julius?’ she wondered at dinner time, asking her question quite deliberately as Wilkinson was serving his master with wine.
‘Not to my knowledge,’ Julius muttered, staring at the decanter in the butler’s hand.
‘I’m sorry, Julius, I didn’t quite hear what you said. Did anyone call for me?’
‘I heard you the first time,’ Julius grumbled.
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ Emmaline replied firmly. ‘But I did not catch your answer. Well?’
‘Well what?’ Julius stalled, hoping he could get away with not replying until Wilkinson was out of the way.
‘Did anyone call for me today?’ Emmaline repeated, this time with a carefully sweet smile. ‘Or any other day for that matter?’
‘Thank you, Wilkinson,’ Julius said, eyeing the butler edgily. ‘That will be all for the moment.’
‘Perhaps I should ask Wilkinson before he leaves,’ Emmaline suggested, ‘since it is he who opens the door.’
‘That will not be necessary. Thank you, Wilkinson.’
‘Wilkinson—’ Emmaline began.
‘That will be all, Wilkinson,’ Julius said, raising his voice. ‘Thank you.’
As he left with his usual half-bow, Wilkinson caught Emmaline’s eye, and for a second it seemed to her that in his she could see a mischievous complicity.
‘I do not much care for this dish, whatever it is meant to be,’ Julius announced, hoping to change tack. ‘I suggest you have a word with Cook.’
‘It’s one of your favourites, Julius,’ Emmaline replied. ‘According both to Cook and to you.’
‘I don’t care, Emma. It isn’t good tonight. Convey my feelings to Cook, please. There’s too much something or other in it.’
‘I shall tell Cook you didn’t care for it. That there is too much something or other in it.’
‘You do not have to say quite that, Emma.’
‘Forgive me,’ Emmaline replied with a small sigh. ‘I thought that is what you wished me to say, Julius.’
Julius said nothing, knowing he was bested and feeling that, as always on such occasions, silence was by far and away the safest thing.
‘So as far as you know, Julius,’ Emmaline continued, about to play her trump card, ‘there were no callers for me today. Or any other day come to that.’
‘If there had been, Emma, no doubt you would have been informed.’
‘By?’
‘By?’ Julius frowned as Emmaline smiled. ‘By whom would I have been informed, Julius? Wilkinson, perhaps? Or your good self?’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about, Emma.’
‘Mrs Algernon Thackeray, for example,’ Emmaline said deliberately. ‘Just a name out of the blue, you understand, Julius. Let us say a Mrs Algernon Thackeray had called on me this very morning, by whom would I have been informed?’
‘Can we please talk about something else?’ Julius begged, looking embarrassed. ‘This really is most uninteresting. There were no callers for you today or any other day, will that suffice?’
‘No, Julius, I am afraid it won’t.’ Emmaline produced the torn calling card, waved the two pieces at Julius, then put them carefully together on the table beside her.
‘Mrs Algernon Thackeray.’ She turned the two pieces over. ‘Mrs Algernon Thackeray of The Little Manor, Bamford,’ she read. Looking up, she smiled down the table at her now tight-lipped husband.
‘So?’ he muttered. ‘I must have forgotten. It must have quite slipped my mind.’
‘I suppose it must have done,’ Emmaline agreed. ‘Possibly like all the others.’
‘Where did you get that?’
‘Mrs Algernon Thackeray left it for me.’
‘Where did you get it, Emma?’
‘Perhaps more to the point, Julius, where did you get it?’
There was a silence, while Julius examined the possibilities of escape.
‘I do not have it, Emma,’ he replied finally. ‘You have it. So rather than where I got it from, surely the point is where did you get it from?’
‘I take your point, Julius, but I’m afraid I find that a rather childish riposte,’ Emmaline told him. ‘That is rather the sort of argument one has around the nursery table. The real point is – and it is an inescapable one – this card was left for me, according to the message written on it, and I did not receive it – and so I must wonder why.’
Wilkinson’s reappearance through the service door prevented Julius from replying. He breathed in deeply, took the last forkful of his by now cold food and nodded to the butler to remove it.
‘Well, Julius,’ Emmaline continued, deliberately blithe. ‘I would like to know not just the whys, but also the wherefores.’
‘Pas devant,’ Julius warned quietly, with a glance towards Wilkinson and Dolly, who had arrived to help.
‘Julius,’ Emmaline scolded lightly. ‘S’il vous plaît, ils comprennent “pas devant”. Truly, they do.’
Julius’s eyes widened a little at that, and Emmaline guessed at once that he had never realised before that she could understand French. He stared at her in surprise. ‘Merci, madame. Nous parlerons dans un moment, n’est-ce pas?’
After the main course had been removed, while they waited for the puddings to be brought in, Emmaline determined on continuing her line of questioning. She would not give up, no matter what.
‘So perhaps now you will be good enough to tell me, Julius, why you saw fit not to allow me sight of Mrs Thackeray’s calling cards? I am sure she is a lady with whom I should do well to become acquainted.’
‘I do not happen to like the Thackerays, that is why,’ Julius growled, having had sufficient time to come up with an excuse. ‘So if we could now leave this matter to one side, please?’
‘Do you not then like anyone else who has called on Mrs Julius Aubrey, Mr Aubrey? Are you saying that I am to become acquainted with no one in Bamford?’
Emmaline was glad to see that Julius was silenced, quite obviously left high and dry, with no answer at the ready. He sat, as always at such moments, folding and refolding his napkin into neat shapes.
‘Wilkinson informed me that all visiting cards were to be taken directly to you, Julius,’ Emmaline continued, watching him. ‘Is this correct?’
‘Perfectly,’ Julius agreed, unable to meet her eye.
‘I didn’t hear what you said, Julius.’
‘I said perfectly, Emma.’
‘There is no need to drop your voice, Julius.’
‘I told Wilkinson to bring me every calling card in case – in case anyone undesirable might come calling on you. You are a stranger here, and need to be protected at all times. You have no ide
a of how tiresome some of these people can be, the local people, tiresome and interfering—’
Julius stopped speaking the moment the service door opened and Wilkinson reappeared with Dolly to serve dessert. While the dishes were put in front of them Julius stared down at his hands and Emmaline watched him with something approaching detachment, feeling more like a nurse watching a patient than a newly married woman watching her husband.
‘You were saying, Julius?’ Emmaline wondered. ‘Something about my being a stranger here and in need of protection, was it?’
‘Yes,’ Julius said, eyeing the servants and then Emmaline in swift succession.
‘You said all cards were brought to you for inspection, in case anyone undesirable might come calling on me,’ Emmaline continued. ‘Is that right?’
‘It can wait.’
‘Very well,’ Emmaline agreed. ‘If you say so. But not for long, I think, not for long. After all, I cannot be expected to stay alone in this house for the rest of the century, can I?’
Wilkinson was giving her a carefully guarded look which could have held more than a hint of warning in it, but Emmaline was feeling almost gleefully brave, although she did have the grace to wait until Wilkinson had left the room once more, with Dolly in tow, before continuing, ‘As I was saying, Julius—’
‘No,’ Julius warned her. ‘That is enough. Yes, you are quite right. I ordered Wilkinson to bring all calling cards directly to me for the reason I have just given you – so that I could vet all callers to this house – please, if you don’t mind, let me finish.’ He held up one hand to forestall any interruption from Emmaline, who was in fact perfectly content to stay silent in order to hear her husband’s explanation of his social censorship. ‘I wished to make sure that everyone who came to this house was suitable for you to know, because the last thing I want is to have my house, my drawing room and finally my dinner table peopled by those with whom I would prefer not to exchange the time of day. I wanted to spare you time and trouble. I trust I have made myself clear.’
‘You have made yourself perfectly clear, Julius. You wish to choose my friends for me, the way you choose everything else.’
‘That is a husband’s prerogative, Emma. You are living in England now, and that is the way we are in England.’
‘And what else is a husband’s prerogative, please? To sleep alone in his dressing room, perhaps?’
‘You go too far, Emma,’ Julius warned, his handsome countenance darkening. ‘Beware lest you stray a little too far.’
‘I am simply curious, Julius, as to the exact measure of an English husband’s prerogatives, that is all. In America, as you know, marriage frees a woman. Here, on the other hand, it seems that it constrains her, until she becomes much like a Chinee, walking several yards behind her husband, on feet that might as well be bound.’
‘I perfectly understand, Emma, that it is very difficult for you, of course it is. I am sure I should find it hard to live in America, as an American husband. But there is little I can do about our situation except try to sympathise with you, as all good husbands must, surely?’ He stared down at his place, looking suddenly miserable.
It was clear that he had nothing further to say at the moment, and Emmaline sat back in her chair, her back straight, her eyes on the dessert served in front of her. As it happened, she was happy to remain silent, if only because she now knew that she had all too much to think about. She was even happy to finally rise and leave Julius to enjoy his port and cigar by himself, as usual, while she took herself off to the drawing room, where she sat playing the piano and waiting for Julius to reappear. But tonight, for whatever reason, he did not reappear, nor did he come to the bedroom door to wish her goodnight. She heard his dressing-room door closing half an hour after she herself had gone to bed, and it did not open again before she blew out her candle, and lay patiently waiting to go to sleep.
Since sleep did not come, she lay staring into the darkness, turning over in her mind what she might do to try not just to bring some warmth into her marriage, but simply to bring it to life. It was almost impossible for her to believe, but in the weeks she had been in England, Julius had not even kissed her. In fact the only physical contact they had was when they were out walking, a rare enough occasion heaven only knew, and even then, it seemed to her, Julius only offered her his arm when he had seen someone he knew coming towards them. It was as if he wished to make a show of affection in front of his acquaintances outside the house, walking arm in arm with his new wife, smiling, happy, quite unlike the real man who lived at Park House.
‘He leaves his smile at the gate.’
That was an expression often used by the older women in the Nesbitt household of some seemingly charming husband who was well known to be a coldheart at home.
As it was, Emmaline knew enough to understand, if only from the novels she had read, that men and women embraced, they kissed, they held hands not just arms, and these shows of affection, in time, led to passion, which sometimes but not always produced children. Her own mother had once said to her, in one of her more lucid moments, Do not worry yourself about such matters, Emmaline. When the time comes, all will be made clear.
Yet nothing had been made clear to Emmaline, certainly not since she arrived in England.
As she lay alone in the big double bed she struggled with the idea that there must be something she could do to ignite the spark that seemed so tragically missing from her and Julius’s marriage. Yet the more she thought about the problem the more helpless she felt as she realised that it was not just her bewilderment at Julius’s behaviour, but her own sheer ignorance, that was holding her back.
The thought occurred to her that if she only knew more about the intimacies of marital life she would know what to do to help her own marriage. Was there something physical she should be doing, or at least know about, that was the key to all that was missing in what was now so patently a truly wretched alliance? And if so, what was this physical thing? The truth was that she had simply no idea, and the more she wondered the more she tossed restlessly in the bed, unable to sleep, worrying endlessly about which way to turn.
In desperation she lit her bedstick and in its flickering light began to walk the bedroom floor, backwards and forwards, round and round, until finally she found herself sitting on the edge of the bed with her head in her hands, her long brown hair falling on either side of her face, her cheeks wet with the tears she had been crying for longer than she cared to realise. The truth was that she had no idea what to do, and she had no one to whom she could turn to ask for help.
Eventually, drawing the curtains back and seeing the faintest light of dawn in the sky, Emmaline sat herself down in front of her dressing-table mirror and began to brush her hair, as she had been taught to do as a little girl, while she wondered for perhaps the thousandth time what she could do.
If only I had someone to talk to. If only I had a friend, or a relative, or anyone – just someone who would help me, who would show me where I am going wrong and how.
But she had no one, no one at all, and so desperate had she become that as dawn began to break over Bamford, and trade carts could be heard in the distance, she wondered if she could at least make a friend of Mrs Graham.
All of a sudden it seemed that this could be a solution. If she made a friend of Mrs Graham, she would have an ally in her own household. It would be a way out of her loneliness, her homesickness. After all, Mrs Graham was her housekeeper, and better than that she was a married woman. She might be able to help Emmaline understand not just English life, but married life. Besides, she seemed such a kindly soul, always smiling and happy, with an encouraging word for everyone.
Emmaline climbed back into bed and snuffed out her candle. It was a solution. More than that, it was a happy solution. She was dropping off into a thankful sleep, convinced that she had at last stumbled on an answer to her problems, when a thought struck her. She remembered reading in an English novel that housekeepers always assumed
the title of Mrs in order to give themselves some authority over the rest of the servants, but that generally speaking they were, like cooks, nearly always single women who had worked their way up through the household ranks until they had enough experience to seek a superior position elsewhere.
Which means I can’t possibly ask her for advice about marriage. If she knew how to help me she would gain a bad reputation for herself, and if she did not know it would be sure to get out that I had asked her and I would become a figure of fun, and, what is worse, remain as ignorant as ever.
Emmaline turned on to her front and groaned into her pillow, realising just how foolish her tortured thoughts had been, up what a blind alleyway they had led her. She would have to give up the battle and return home. Never mind that she would become an object of pity, never mind that her three sisters would hate her for the rest of her life for throwing their chances of marriage into disarray, she could not, would not, go on as she had.
She sat up and yet again lit the bedstick beside her, but as she did so a new thought came to her, and the moment she realised its potential she was able to blow out the candle, and finally, at last, fall asleep.
Chapter Seven
WHEN EMMALINE WENT into the town she always took Agnes along with her, more for companionship than anything else. She had quickly grown fond of her awkward young maid – whom she now called Aggie – for in the warmth of Emmaline’s kindness and good humour the girl had soon become much more confident, eager to learn and to help, so that she now served her mistress well. However, on this particular day, having planned her visit some days in advance, Emmaline knew her task would be made much easier if she went alone.
Agnes looked aghast.
‘You can’t go into town on your own, Mrs Aubrey, truly you can’t. It’s more than my life’s worth to let you even think of doing so, truly it is. Why, Mrs Graham would dismiss me on the spot if she ever caught wind of it, and as for Mr Aubrey, he would cut off my head, so he would. Besides, what about my reputation? You go parading about without your maid, without your Aggie, my reputation as a lady’s maid is going to end up in rags and tatters, so it is. You won’t be going into town on your own, so you won’t, begging your pardon, Miss Emmaline, sorry, Mrs Aubrey, you will stay here, or else we will go together.’
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