The Land of Summer

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘Yes, now, well, this is all very sociable, I’m sure.’ Mr Hunt laughed. ‘But our customer is here on a mission, young man. She wants a tutorial on Robert Browning. One of your own personal favourites, is he not?’

  ‘Indeed he is, sir,’ Bray replied, his eyes still on Emmaline. ‘What in particular do you need to know, madam? How may I help you? Are you reading anything in particular?’

  ‘The Ring and the Book, as it happens,’ Emmaline replied. ‘I purchased it here only the other day.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I remember seeing you come in. You were wearing a dark red coat, and a fur hat. You reminded me of a painting I had just seen in London, by Mr Sargent, also an American.’

  ‘I did? Are you sure?’ Emmaline asked in some surprise, and she coloured a little at the idea that anyone could have noticed her at all.

  ‘Indeed I do. Although my recollection is of the lady in dark red browsing in the science section rather than the poetry shelves.’

  ‘I was looking for all sorts of books,’ Emmaline said quickly. ‘I like to read on many different subjects. I have a catholic attitude to knowledge.’

  ‘As do I,’ Bray agreed. ‘I just don’t have the time I need at my disposal.’ He smiled at her, as if expecting her to say something, but Emmaline stayed silent, not wanting to seem too forward, while at the same time becoming all too aware that Mr Ashcombe’s bright eyes were the twin beacons of perhaps a truly fine intelligence, and his attractive appearance was somehow the more startling for his standing in a bookshop discussing poetry.

  ‘Very well,’ Bray said, pulling a chair out for Emmaline to sit at one side of the desk. ‘Please allow me. Nothing will give me greater pleasure than to help you to an understanding of Robert Browning. The distinguishing feature of Browning’s poetry, the way he differs from his peers and predecessors, Mrs Aubrey, is that his style is to write mainly in monologues, not only so that he may best convey the setting and the dramatic action, but also to demonstrate the protagonist’s character.’

  ‘It is, I confess, not at all the sort of style I have been used to reading, Mr Ashcombe,’ Emmaline told him, looking at him a little apologetically. ‘I suppose I’m more accustomed to epic and narrative poetry, and this is where my difficulty seems to lie. I am trying to see him in a particular way and failing, and I know that, and yet I still founder, truly I do.’

  ‘There’s no need to founder, truly there is no need,’ Bray assured her. ‘We must still think of Browning as a Romantic poet, even though his style seems quite at odds with what we have become accustomed to see as Romantic poetry. If I may go on a little?’ Emmaline nodded her consent, attending closely, loving as always to listen and learn. ‘Many of these poems, not particularly the one before us, but much of Browning’s verse, seem like soliloquies but this is just not so, believe me, and the deeper you journey into Browning the more you will understand this. Unlike normal soliloquies, the meaning of what Browning says in his dramatic monologues – which is how I like to describe them – is not what his protagonist actually seems to be saying, but often lies in what his subject reveals involuntarily – sometimes when trying to explain away something in the past, or to justify what he believes is the rightness of his actions. It’s rather like sitting and listening in a court of law, which is where we come to the poem you are reading now – we hear Browning’s character composing his defence, which we as his readers are challenged to accept or throw out of court, if you like. You’ll find he chooses some pretty odd characters as his protagonists, Mrs Aubrey. No easy path for Browning – no handsome, heartbroken, dashing heroes in these pages. No, in his poems you will find some very debased characters, debauchees, perhaps even those who seem to be murderers.’ Emmaline put a hand to her mouth and widened her eyes at the thought of reading about such characters in verse, the form of writing she had always taken to be the most romantic of all.

  Seeing this Bray smiled, and nodded before continuing in his rich, light baritone. ‘Have you read “My Last Duchess” for example, Mrs Aubrey?’ When Emmaline shook her head, he went on, ‘Then you will be in for a great surprise when you do, I promise you. It is written in a very sophisticated and cultivated rhetoric to suit the Duke, who is narrating it, yet it contains passages of sheer unadulterated horror, a depiction of someone losing their mind entirely, even though the lunacy is so eloquently expressed. Within the verses we learn that the duchess, the eponymous “last duchess”, was murdered not because she was unfaithful or because she had no respect for her position, but merely because she enjoyed simple everyday things and habits and customs, which did not fit in with the mad Duke’s scheme of things at all – while in the poem you are endeavouring to fathom Browning has written what may be described as a modern epic in which he tries to justify the ways of God to us, the readers, the jurors if you like, through twelve long monologues written in blank verse, all of them uttered by a group of people who are standing trial for murder. So you can see, if you will, that Browning is asking questions of his readers. He wants us to take an entirely different journey in poetry from the ones we have taken previously, and if we can learn his ways and accept his forms, then we shall see things in an entirely new light.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ashcombe,’ Emmaline said, after the short silence that followed when he had finished. ‘I know that I could never, ever have arrived at such an erudite explanation.’ She shook her head. ‘He is obviously very demanding, is he not? Mr Robert Browning, a very demanding poet, possibly even a very demanding man, but then a man of genius, which justifies his poetic stance, does it not? Thank you so much for your exposition.’

  ‘No need, no need at all, and you must remember, however much one is brought to appreciate verse, one can’t be made to like it,’ he said. ‘Nothing and no one can make you like the poem other than yourself. We can admire the structure, the conception, the skill – but finally it has to involve us emotionally or intellectually. So if you are asking me to help you like this poet because you think you ought to, then there is no point, because that will not be the result. As is the way with so many wretched schoolchildren, who end up hating Shakespeare precisely because they have been taught to like him, instead of being taught to understand him while being allowed to form their own opinion.’

  Bray’s expression was so intense, his emotion so honest and so real, that Emmaline felt herself unusually affected. It was as if by sitting beside him she had drawn a chair up to a warm fire. His personality seemed to be radiating an impetuous vigour, a delightful determination to engage.

  ‘Mr Ashcombe,’ she said, rising and picking up her fur muff from the desk, ‘I have taken up far too much of your time, but if you don’t think it impolite of me I must say I have absolutely no regrets for my selfishness. You have been so very helpful with the brilliance of your explanation, and I leave this place with an altogether different and much enriched understanding of the work I am trying to read. Thank you, Mr Ashcombe. Thank you most sincerely.’

  ‘Please, Mrs Aubrey.’ Bray longed to catch at her arm, to stop her leaving, but refrained, determining instead to try to remember the exact line of her cheek, the way her eyelashes cast their shadow on that same cheek, and the delicate nature of her fragile personality. ‘I assure you the pleasure has been mine. And if at any time you feel you might need any more guidance, I should be only too happy to help you.’

  He felt suddenly overwhelmed by her femininity. She was not just a young woman, she was a whole essence, an aura, something come to life that he had never thought to meet.

  ‘Thank you again, Mr Ashcombe,’ Emmaline said, and turned for the door. Looking back, smiling, she called, ‘Good day to you, and forgive the intrusion.’

  ‘Good day, Mrs Aubrey,’ Mr Hunt said as he showed his customer out, before glancing back to where Bray Ashcombe stood gazing after Emmaline as if he could not believe the vision that had come into the shop, that had seated itself beside him, that had listened to him with such reverence.

  Arthur Hunt w
atched as Bray stooped to pick up a lace-edged handkerchief which his auditor had inadvertently dropped from the confines of her furs. First he gazed at its delicate fabric, and then he held it to his nose, inhaling its scent, before slipping it into his coat pocket.

  The bookseller turned away, knowing all too well what trouble that particular action could spell.

  From then on Emmaline, in between setting herself to study, determined that she would also learn the rudiments of managing her household. While she was expected in the main to leave the running of the house to Mrs Graham, Emmaline, who had always liked to be involved in what was going on, decided that she was going to play a more active part in the domestic administration, so long as she did not upset any apple carts. She began by trying to find out more about the house itself.

  ‘Is it not strange, Mrs Graham,’ she asked her housekeeper one day, ‘is it not passing strange that at Park House we have a newly installed telephone room—’

  ‘Many of the larger houses in Bamford have telephones installed, madam.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but we have electricity running everywhere downstairs, and upstairs – candles! It is as if part of the house is still living in the last century, another part in this century, and a third part, in other words the telephone room, looking towards the next!’

  ‘I would agree entirely with you, Mrs Aubrey. The reason for it, I have been told, is that Mr Aubrey senior, whose house this was for so many years, would not compromise the plasterwork upstairs in any degree, and some of it is very old indeed, whereas downstairs it seems that it had already been altered, and could be replicated at a lesser cost.’

  ‘You don’t mind my mentioning this, Mrs Graham?’

  ‘Certainly not, Mrs Aubrey. Mr Wilkinson and myself were talking about it only the other day.’

  ‘Perhaps one day the upstairs will be brought into the present, Mrs Graham?’

  ‘That would certainly be a delight. Candlelight causes so many accidents, and the marks on the ceilings, and the mess by the beds from the drips, are all too irritating, as you may imagine, Mrs Aubrey.’

  ‘I will bear that in mind, Mrs Graham.’

  Emmaline did bear it in mind, thinking as she did that it was positively dangerous to go to bed by candlelight just as if the nineteenth century had not happened. Her next project was more practical, however. She was determined to take a hand in the running of the house as far as the menus and the flower arrangements were concerned. Accordingly, she eased herself into the daily routine of talking to Mrs Graham and Cook, carefully consulting them about all the forthcoming menus, always suggesting rather than giving orders to either woman.

  Before long Emmaline found not only that she was readily accepted by the servants, but that her active interest and even her contributions were actually appreciated. With Julius away once again on his business travels, Emmaline had plenty of time to get to know the people who worked for her, and due to her considerable diplomatic skills, as well as her innate good humour and charm, the atmosphere in what had previously been an eerily perfect house was now positively cheerful, on either side of the green baize door that led to the servants’ quarters.

  As it transpired, Emmaline’s very real interest in domesticity proved to be a salvation for her, since instead of finding herself every morning and afternoon reading either in front of the fire or, now the weather had turned warmer, outside in the garden or in the conservatory, she was busy helping to organise anything with which she thought she could genuinely be of assistance. The result was an altogether better run and happier house, and an increasingly fulfilled mistress.

  ‘One thing that concerns me, and I’m sure you will be able to help me with this, Mrs Graham,’ Emmaline announced one morning as the two women were finishing their lists for the week, ‘Mr Aubrey doesn’t seem to entertain much, and I was wondering whether this was perhaps something in which I could take a hand? After all, it is normally the part of the wife to arrange the social calendar, as I understand it, and because of Mr Aubrey’s preoccupation with his business it might be an altogether useful and good thing if I were to pick up the reins, perhaps? What do you think, Mrs Graham?’

  ‘It might and it might not be, madam,’ Mrs Graham answered carefully. ‘As you have just said, Mr Aubrey does not entertain very much, and I understand that before his marriage, when he took over the house, although none of us were here at the time, it was never his custom to entertain, except perhaps at his club. At least, that was my understanding from reading the accounts books of my predecessor. She had been at Park House for many years, do you see, so she must have known exactly how the place was run. I understand from the many and varied menus for many and varied guests – all carefully annotated, I am happy to tell you – that Mr Aubrey senior was a genial soul, and enjoyed a busy social life, but it seems his son does not take after him.’

  ‘Well, quite; that is something I have noticed, Mrs Graham. My husband, for whatever reason, prefers solitude at home, perhaps because his work entails so much travelling.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, madam. However, I have it noted in the household diary that it is Mr Aubrey’s birthday at the end of next month, the twenty-third to be precise. So perhaps that might be a good time for you to start to entertain, madam? With a dinner in honour of Mr Aubrey’s birthday, perhaps?’

  ‘What a perfectly splendid idea, Mrs Graham. Thank you so much.’ Emmaline was about to continue with a question that had come into her mind, but the housekeeper was clearly keen to carry on talking.

  ‘I have a list of the people who have called, something of which I always make a note,’ Mrs Graham told her with growing enthusiasm. ‘Sorry, Mrs Aubrey, begging your pardon – you were about to say something.’

  ‘No, no – we must finish this piece of business first, Mrs Graham. If you would be kind enough to bring the list with you to our meeting tomorrow we could begin to draw up a guest list then, perhaps?’

  ‘Very well, madam. Now, you were going to ask me something, Mrs Aubrey?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emmaline said, with a slight frown. ‘Yes, I was. You were saying that Mr Aubrey senior enjoyed a full social life and that his son does not. Surely this might be because he is perhaps still in mourning for his father? As I understand it, the loss of a father can be particularly hard on an only son, very hard.’

  ‘Hardly, madam,’ Mrs Graham said, with a look of some surprise. ‘From the records of the house which I have studied, I understand Mr Aubrey senior passed away some time ago now. Over four years ago, I think I am correct in saying. It would be surprising if Mr Julius Aubrey was still in mourning for him, unless he takes mourning to the same lengths as our dear Queen.’

  ‘Four years ago?’ Emmaline echoed, trying to keep the dismay out of her voice. ‘Are you sure, Mrs Graham?’

  ‘Quite sure, madam,’ Mrs Graham replied. ‘As I say, it is all recorded in the previous housekeeper’s day-to-day house diary. There is a longhand entry as well as a set of press cuttings from the local newspapers. Mr Aubrey senior was a very notable gentleman, it would seem, for apparently his funeral brought the town to a standstill, and was attended not just by the mayor of Bamford, but also by members of the aristocracy, and so on.’ Mrs Graham stared at Emmaline. ‘Do you find that surprising, madam?’

  ‘No, no, of course not. My husband after all is treated as an artist by just such, so of course it would be quite natural for his father to have the same standing.’

  Emmaline turned away, careful to keep her face composed while she wondered at the extent to which she was being misled, perhaps even by her housekeeper. Whom could she now believe? For some reason Julius had allowed her to presume not only that the missing portrait from the wall in the drawing room had been that of his late father, but that his father had only recently passed away, thus giving his young wife good reason to excuse her new husband’s erratic behaviour on the grounds of a recent grief. Now it seemed that it must be far from being so, unless of course his love for his father had been quite
extraordinary?

  At all events, Emmaline was now aware that she was trying to organise a secret birthday celebration for a man who not only seemed determined on deceiving her – or encouraging her to deceive herself – but might very well, if he came to know about it, immediately forbid it.

  Caught up in this new, warm-hearted conspiracy, she was obliged to leave aside her curiosity as to why Julius should have misled her about his father’s death in order to concentrate on the arrangements for the first dinner she was to hold for him at Park House. It was a daunting prospect, but also, necessarily, exciting.

  First of all there was the question of how many guests to invite, and then the menu to be settled, as well as the undoubted need for some kind of entertainment, musical or otherwise, after dinner.

  Mrs Graham was, as always, most helpful over the choice of dinner dishes, but when it came to the baking of a birthday cake she was obliged to ask Emmaline just how many candles she should instruct Cook to put on it.

  There was a short silence which turned into a long silence as Emmaline, and, she feared, Mrs Graham, realised that she had no idea how old her husband might be.

  ‘Perhaps we should forgo the cake, Mrs Graham, in case my husband should find it an embarrassment. He might not wish anyone to know how old he was, might he?’ she asked, trying to keep the hope out of her voice.

  Mrs Graham considered this judiciously. It was true. Mr Aubrey, along with many other gentlemen, might indeed become irritated, a condition not unknown to gentlemen, if his age became public knowledge. She looked at her young mistress appreciatively. She was bright, but more than that she was good. Only a good person would have hesitated at such a moment in the planning, thinking of the subject of the celebration rather than her own personal feelings.

  ‘Now, my main difficulty as hostess, Mrs Graham, as you must be well aware, is that I have had no visitors, no returning of cards, nothing that could bring about a situation where Mrs Julius Aubrey can make the acquaintance of Mr Julius Aubrey’s friends. Of course people have called, as you well know, but there has been a … reluctance in that direction which I do not now know how to overcome.’