The Land of Summer

by Charlotte Bingham

  Agnes stopped, her face quite flushed with the effort of trying to get across to her young mistress just how disastrous her plan could turn out to be.

  Emmaline smiled. ‘Why, Aggie, I do believe you are cross with me. Very well, you and I will go into town together, but there are some things that I must accomplish, even so, on my own. I will leave you in the carriage for a few minutes, somewhere quite central, and then re-join you, after which we will return to the house.’

  Agnes knew better than to enquire into the nature of her mistress’s business, and although she considered Mrs Aubrey to be above suspicion she was none the less curious as to the reason for the change in their routine. Nothing was said on their carriage ride into town to indicate that this outing was any different from any previous one, until they had finished some light shopping. After a call at the dressmaker’s, Emmaline instructed Agnes to get back into the carriage to wait for her, then turned away and walked quickly up the High Street.

  From the window in the carriage Agnes watched her mistress for as along as she was able, until eventually Emmaline turned down a side street and disappeared from view.

  For a moment Agnes was tempted to step down out of the carriage and follow her, not because she was worried but because she was curious, having already guessed from Emmaline’s demeanour on the ride into town that whatever it was she had chosen to do was making her unusually fretful, or perhaps excited. But she knew she had to resist the temptation. It was none of her business, and prying would get her nowhere. She would just have to possess her soul in patience and wait in the carriage, watching what seemed like the whole of Bamford on their way to the shops.

  Besides, as George the under footman was forever reminding them, as they sat eating their meal round the table below stairs, You may make what you like of ’em, but in the end there’s no telling. They’re them, and we’s us, and there’s a world of difference between being them and being us, but sometimes we have to draw a line, especially when they forget that they are them and try to become like us.

  So Agnes remained sitting, more than somewhat impatiently, in the carriage while Emmaline hurried to her destination, namely the shop owned by Mr Arthur Hunt, bookseller.

  When she arrived outside the tidy, freshly painted frontage of the bookseller’s premises, she found that there was a cluster of carriages waiting nearby, and a general air of something that was more than just a shop, more of a meeting place, perhaps, where like minds, and like souls, congregated.

  And so it proved when she pushed in through the door to the interior. There were even more people in the shop than could have been anticipated from the horses and carriages standing outside. Emmaline had never had the pleasure of visiting the bookshop before, but since it was still early in the day, not to mention the beginning of the week, she had hoped for fewer people, with luck no more than two or three other customers. But she soon came to realise that a crowd could be in her favour, since the staff would be preoccupied and most likely would hardly notice her, or pay much attention to her request.

  ‘Might I help you?’ a soft male voice with a distinct Scottish accent said from behind her, startling Emmaline, who had, with a purposefully casual air, begun to browse through the shelves in the hope of being able to find what she wanted without actually having to seek any advice.

  The owner of the voice held out his hand – a slim, elegant hand used more to turning pages than to smoking cigars or riding horses.

  ‘I am Arthur Hunt, and I don’t think I recall seeing you in here before, madam.’

  Emmaline looked at the owner of the voice, who must also be, she imagined, the owner of the shop. Mr Hunt was a tall, well-built and handsome, if red-faced, man, already in late middle age, who looked to all intents and purposes to be both very prosperous and very serious, until you noticed his twinkling blue eyes, which betrayed a good deal of humour.

  ‘Is it fiction you might be after, madam?’ Mr Hunt enquired. ‘Some poetry, maybe? Or perhaps something a wee bit more – more earnest?’

  ‘Oddly enough, sir …’ Emmaline began, only to be promptly interrupted.

  ‘Oddly enough?’

  ‘Yes, oddly enough,’ Emmaline said, stalling.

  ‘I am at a loss, an embarrassing loss, madam. May I know who you are?’

  ‘Mrs Swallow,’ Emmaline announced, her head on one side.

  ‘Mrs Swallow.’ Mr Hunt smiled and nodded. ‘Well, let us hope you do not take your custom elsewhere in wintertime.’

  Emmaline stared at him, not picking up on the rather laboured joke until he began to explain it, when she held up a hand, laughing.

  ‘Of course, of course, I do see, yes. English swallows do not stay here in wintertime. Yes, I do see.’

  ‘Forgive me, Mrs Swallow,’ Mr Hunt said, cleaning his spectacles carefully on a spotless white handkerchief. ‘A weakness of mine, alas – the making of dreadful jokes. So what guidance might I give you, Mrs Swallow?’

  ‘Do you have a – a …? What I am looking for is something – something scientific.’

  ‘The scientific books are over here,’ Mr Hunt said, leading Emmaline round several large shelves towards the back of the shop. ‘In what particular field of science might your interest lie, Mrs Swallow?’

  Behind Mr Hunt’s back Emmaline hesitated, despite knowing that to do so might mean she was lost.

  ‘Biology,’ she said in what she hoped was a firm voice but soon realised was coming out as a whisper.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Swallow?’

  ‘Biology,’ she repeated, this time too loudly as several customers, both men and women, glanced sharply at her when she spoke. ‘I am interested in books written on biological subjects.’

  ‘Biological,’ Mr Hunt repeated calmly. ‘You do mean biological and not botanical, now?’

  ‘Biological is what I mean, Mr Hunt.’

  ‘Good. Then we must look along this shelf here. Would it be physical biology, I wonder? Anatomical biology perhaps? Natural biology – or simply general biology?’

  ‘If I might have time to peruse your shelves, Mr Hunt,’ Emmaline replied, making a great effort to sound calm, ‘I think I shall find what I’m looking for.’

  ‘Of course, Mrs Swallow,’ Mr Hunt said with a nod. ‘But if you need any further guidance, please do not hesitate to seek me out. I shall be behind my desk over there. In the meantime, if I might suggest this volume?’ He took a book from the shelf and handed it to Emmaline. ‘We find it to be particularly well written and most educative.’

  The book was titled Haynes General Biology – a basic textbook, fully illustrated. Emmaline was about to open it when she became aware of someone standing at her shoulder, so at once she shut the book and pretended to survey the shelves in front of her.

  ‘What are you doing here, Emma?’

  ‘Julius!’ Emmaline jumped, trying her best to look pleasantly surprised. ‘What brings you here?’ Once again she strove to keep her voice normal, even as she realised that the colour was draining from her face.

  ‘Nothing.’ Julius shrugged, trying to see what Emmaline was holding. ‘I saw the carriage in the main street, with your maid sitting in it alone—’

  ‘I told her to wait for me,’ Emmaline interrupted, anxious to establish an alibi of sorts. ‘She had an errand to run so I told her to wait in the carriage. Besides, I didn’t want Mr Hunt’s shop to be crowded out with people who were not customers. It is perfectly safe to be alone in a bookshop.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I only called in, not knowing you would be here. I was on my way back to the offices, which as you know lie at the end of this street.’

  ‘Of course.’ Emmaline smiled fixedly, having quite forgotten the proximity of Julius Aubrey Ltd. ‘It’s all right, Julius. I wasn’t going to call on you, you need not be concerned.’

  ‘So, what is the reason for your being here, Emma? I would imagine you still have plenty to read at home, surely?’

  ‘I …’ Emmaline began, trying t
o think as quickly as she could. ‘I read in your newspaper about a – about a new anthology of Alfred Lord Tennyson’s poems—’

  ‘You will hardly find them on the scientific shelves, I would have thought,’ Julius cut in, staring at the titles in front of him. ‘Might I see what you have selected?’

  He put out his hand for the volume that Emmaline was still hugging to her chest just as Mr Hunt arrived back on the scene with an armful of books. If he had been the Archangel Gabriel himself he could not have been more welcome.

  ‘Ah, good morning, sir,’ he said to Julius, giving him a warm smile. ‘How delightful to see you here, and in such pretty company!’

  ‘Mr Hunt. Good day to you.’

  ‘Ah, I gather you two know each other, Mr Aubrey,’ Mr Hunt continued with a nod in Emmaline’s direction.

  ‘Yes, we have met,’ his handsome customer replied, laughing. ‘We are indeed known to each other, since this lady is my wife!’

  ‘Then you will be aware that she is a lady of impeccable taste,’ Mr Hunt said, a little too slowly, as Emmaline gave him a look that reminded him of a frightened animal caught in some hideous trap. ‘I have been helping her with a selection of books. Allow me, madam – that volume you are holding is not the anthology you were after at all. How silly of me. Here …’

  The bookseller, having deftly removed the biology text book from Emmaline’s hands, tucked it under one of his arms and handed her a red and gold leather-bound volume in its stead. ‘I will fetch you the Tennyson anthology as well,’ he added, having obviously overheard the end of their conversation. ‘But if you have not read Robert Browning, I would very much recommend this volume.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hunt, you are too kind,’ Emmaline said, doing her best to hold out a steady gloved hand to take the book and giving him a tremulous smile. ‘I am sure everything will be much easier once I know my way around your fine shop.’

  ‘I too am sure it will be.’ Mr Hunt smiled back at her. ‘But just remember, if you need anything, I am at your service – Mr Aubrey?’

  He bowed at Julius, who returned the compliment. ‘Mr Hunt.’

  The bookseller departed, leaving Julius alone with Emmaline. He took the slim volume out of her hand and examined the spine. ‘The Ring and the Book. Good. That is one I have not read so far either, so if I may? After you have finished, of course.’

  ‘Of course you may, Julius,’ Emmaline replied. ‘I had not realised you were an admirer of Mr Browning.’

  ‘I vastly prefer him to Tennyson, I assure you. Tennyson is a fine epic poet, no doubt about that. But Robert Browning has much greater profundity. Have you finished here now?’

  ‘I have, thank you,’ Emmaline replied, with a small look backwards at the science shelves as they started to leave. ‘Yes, I have for the moment, thank you. Now I dare say you wish to return to your business, Julius?’

  She gave him a pointed look, a look that said, ‘If I may not come to your offices, then you may not chaperon me in a bookshop.’

  The look worked its own stern magic. Julius made her a little bow and left the shop, and Emmaline went in search of the owner.

  ‘Mr Hunt.’

  ‘Mrs Aubrey.’ Mr Hunt gave Emmaline a calm, avuncular look, the sort of look that could as well have been a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘One of the grand aspects about owning a bookshop,’ he continued, ‘is that one gets to know the most interesting people, and sometimes those people have need of discretion. All my customers know they can rely upon my complete discretion, Mrs Aubrey. Now, this volume I was recommending to you …’

  After her narrow escape Emmaline made no immediate attempt to return to the shop, not only afraid that Julius might bump into her again and this time catch her red-handed with a volume that he would consider to be completely unsuitable for a well-brought-up young lady, but worried too that despite Mr Hunt’s undoubted kindness (why else would he have rescued her from her dire situation?) she might be trespassing upon his good nature if she reappeared in his shop demanding to buy some sort of educational textbook on that most sensitive of all subjects – biology.

  The real problem for Emmaline was that Mr Hunt’s very kindness might set up some sort of conspiratorial relationship between them, and if Julius, who would not even countenance her receiving ladies’ calls, chanced upon his wife and Arthur Hunt together a second time, he might well jump to an entirely wrong conclusion.

  Despite realising that she might be making dramas where there were none, Emmaline decided it was better to play safe and eschew the bookshop until some time had passed. Besides, she had a feeling that she might have come up with a better idea, for while they had been in the bookshop together she had become aware that they shared an interest in poetry, a rapport out of which perhaps some sort of emotional contact might be made. It was of course possible that she was clutching at all too famous straws, but she decided to try to continue their poetry discussion at home, knowing that the more interests they found in common, the greater chance she had of founding a true relationship with Julius, of the tall figure and the thick dark hair, of the sudden bright gaze, and the elusive ways.

  So while Julius was away on business, planning the redecoration and refurnishing of some neglected castle on the Scottish borders, Emmaline plunged herself into reading everything by Browning and as much as she could about Browning, starting with The Ring and the Book. She soon discovered that it seemed to be a sort of epic poem, not at all the kind of verse that she had somehow expected.

  Confused, and feeling foolish, no matter which way she approached the work Emmaline could find no easy way into understanding it. She tried reading it aloud, she tried copying out passages – an old device much used by her governess when she was trying to get across some point – but still the meaning remained all too obscure.

  It was a great disappointment to her. She longed to find that elusive key to Julius’s personality, a key that she knew once found must open the door to his heart. Browning was a poet he obviously admired, but who was very new to her. The page was a blank to her, just as her lack of knowledge of fundamental biology was also a blank. Yet again she had to bring herself to realise that she needed help, and where better to seek assistance in deciphering Robert Browning than the place where she bought her very first volume of the poet’s verses, Mr Hunt’s bookshop in True Street? At last she determined to put aside any trepidation she might feel about returning there. The matter was too important. At least, since Julius was away, she would not be running the risk of his suddenly reappearing, even though this time she would be clutching the right kind of volume, and not a book of biology, with illustrations.

  ‘Of course I would like to help you, Mrs Aubrey,’ Mr Hunt assured her when she reappeared in his busy bookshop. ‘The trouble is I am not quite as well versed as I pretend to be, my main concern being the recommendation and selling of books rather than their finer innermost meanings. However, do not despair – I can see from that pretty young face of yours that you are beginning to imagine your quest is hopeless, but it is not. For here within my own portals I have a young assistant, a graduate of Oxford no less, who is really quite brilliant when it comes to the illumination of modern poetry. Of all poetry in fact – it was and of course still is his subject. Naturally, a young man of such brilliance is only working here to pay his way while he tries to make his own name as a poet. If you like I can call him across and he will enlighten you about Robert Browning, and any other poets you might choose to try.’

  ‘That would be very kind of you, Mr Hunt,’ Emmaline replied. ‘But are you sure he would not find it a burden? On top of all the work he has to do? I could perhaps pay him, of course—’

  ‘Mrs Aubrey,’ Mr Hunt cut in, holding up a hand to stop her. ‘I shall introduce you to the young man and you may ask him whatever questions you need to ask about the poet and the verse. After all, that is what he is here for, that is what I pay him for. When a book is purchased here in my shop, I like to think that I and my assista
nts give our customers the very best attention, not only while they are thinking of buying it, but after they have done so. I make this a boast of mine, that my bookshop provides a unique service in this way. I doubt if you will find many other booksellers, if in fact any others, who adopt this philosophy.’

  Leaving the acquiescent Emmaline by his desk, the courtly Mr Hunt went to find the person for whom he was looking, returning shortly afterwards with a fresh-faced young man, good-looking in a traditional Anglo-Saxon way, with curly flaxen hair and large inquisitive hazel eyes. He was tall and well proportioned, although not as tall as Julius, and Emmaline’s first impression as she shook one strong hand was that his looks were more akin to those of a sportsman than a poet.

  ‘May I present Mr Bray Ashcombe to you, Mrs Aubrey,’ Mr Hunt was saying as Emmaline shook his hand, already aware of the bright hazel eyes trying to sum her up. ‘Mr Ashcombe, this is Mrs Aubrey, and she is most anxious to learn to appreciate Mr Robert Browning’s poetry.’

  Bray Ashcombe looked at the pretty face staring up at him with such innocence of expression, and wondered at it.

  ‘Are you a native of Bamford, Mr Ashcombe?’ Emmaline enquired, much taken by the young man’s open expression as well as the definite touch of mischief about his eyes.

  ‘Most certainly, madam,’ Bray replied. ‘While I would guess that you are a long way from your home, which I think might be … in or near Boston.’

  ‘Why, Mr Ashcombe!’ Emmaline exclaimed, in mock surprise. ‘How very clever of you. Have you been to America?’

  ‘Sadly, no, Mrs Aubrey.’ Bray smiled. ‘I had a great friend at Oxford who was – well, he still is, actually, an American and a very fine mimic of accents from all parts of the world, especially his native country. We’d often pass the time doing accents. I taught him some English regional ones and he taught me to recognise various American ones. It’s a bit of a party trick.’