The Land of Summer

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘Next, I have to go to the bookshop, so you might as well wait in the carriage, Aggie,’ she said. ‘I shan’t be very long.’

  ‘I don’t mind coming to the shop if you don’t mind,’ Agnes replied. ‘I never been to no bookshop.’

  ‘Can you read, Aggie?’

  ‘No, ma’am. But that’s not really the point, madam.’

  ‘We must teach you to read, Agnes,’ Emmaline told her with a gentle smile. ‘That is something I can spend my time fruitfully doing this winter. Teaching you how to read.’

  ‘Would you, madam?’ Agnes looked at Emmaline as she thought of the excitement of what her mistress was proposing. ‘I wouldn’t half like that, madam.’

  ‘It will be hard work, Aggie,’ Emmaline warned her, turning to head for the street that besides Mr Hunt’s shop also led to Julius’s works. ‘But it will be so very worthwhile. And of course you may accompany me to the bookshop – just so as long as you don’t get under my feet.’

  As they were passing a private house four doors down from the dressmaker’s, through an open window they heard the unmistakable sounds of raised voices, of an argument between a man and a woman, their words criss-crossing each other while the woman could be heard to be crying. Unable to resist, both Agnes and Emmaline turned to look and saw a man in a dark red frock coat standing with his back to the window and both his hands to his head of curled flaxen hair, holding it as though in pain, faced by a blonde young woman whose pretty face was running with tears as she continued her protest against him.

  ‘Come along now, Aggie,’ Emmaline said to her maid, taking her by the arm. ‘This is no business of ours.’

  ‘He’s not having much of a time of it, is he, though, madam?’ Agnes wondered, wide-eyed. ‘She’s letting him have it good and proper.’

  ‘It’s no business of ours, Aggie,’ Emmaline repeated. ‘So come along. You may sit in the window seat of Mr Hunt’s shop, but do not, I beg you, touch any of the volumes, however tempted you may feel.’

  The bookshop was busy, giving Emmaline the impression that it was one of the more successful enterprises in the town. Mr Hunt saw Emmaline as soon as she entered the shop, and came across to welcome her at once, wondering what he might be able to help her with on this particular visit.

  Emmaline dropped her eyes momentarily, remembering the initial reason for her last call before telling the charmingly unflappable and very discreet Mr Hunt, bookseller to the gentry, that what she really wished to do was have a quick word with his young assistant, Mr Ashcombe.

  ‘As long as it is no trouble, Mr Hunt,’ she added. ‘For I can see how very busy you are.’

  ‘We are never too busy for any of our customers, I assure you,’ Mr Hunt replied. ‘That is why we never close our shop till the last customer has finished his or her business. But I am afraid you might have to wait a moment or so for young Mr Ashcombe. He had to pop back home for something he had forgotten, but since he lives nearby I imagine you will not be delayed very long. In fact, here is the very gentleman in question, even as we speak.’

  Mr Hunt indicated with a hand in the direction of the shop door, and as she turned Emmaline saw the now familiar sight of a flaxen-haired young man in a dark red frock coat hurrying through the customers to his desk at the rear of the shop.

  ‘Why, Mrs Aubrey!’ he cried with genuine pleasure, extending his hand. His cheeks were flushed with the effort of hurrying back to the shop. ‘I am so very glad to see you – delighted, in fact. Have you come to talk about poetry again? How pleasant if you have!’

  Overhearing this as he passed by to go upstairs to the printing room, Mr Hunt nodded at him.

  ‘I can allow you the time, young man, if that is what you are worried about.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Bray replied. ‘And what might it concern this time, I wonder, Mrs Aubrey? A quest for a significant new poet, perhaps?’

  Emmaline smiled politely at him before telling Agnes to go and sit in the window at the front of the shop until she had finished her business. Then she turned back to Bray Ashcombe and wondered if there was somewhere they could have a private word.

  ‘I will not take up much of your time, Mr Ashcombe,’ she assured him as he walked her to a book-lined but deserted annexe in a corner of the shop. ‘In fact I will be very brief, because I am sure you have much to do.’

  ‘Mrs Aubrey, were you and I to spend all today and tomorrow in conversation, I should not notice one minute of the time, I do assure you, and that is the truth.’

  ‘You are most charming, sir.’ Emmaline smiled at the compliment, unable to rid her mind of the picture of Bray standing holding his head while being publicly berated by a hysterical young woman. ‘Sadly I do not have that sort of time at my disposal.’

  ‘But let us say that you did?’ Bray wondered with a boyish smile.

  ‘I am sure I too would enjoy a long and expansive conversation with you,’ Emmaline replied. ‘About poetry, its rhythms, its rhymes and its inner meanings, but as I said, alas, I do not have that luxury. What I was wondering was whether you would be kind enough to read a couple of poems for me.’

  ‘You wish me to read a couple of poems to you? How very flattering, Mrs Aubrey. I have had many requests from our customers, but never that one, I do assure you.’

  ‘No, no, Mr Ashcombe.’ Emmaline smiled. ‘I would like you to read them privately, when you have a moment, and let me know what you think of their merit.’

  ‘Are we to know the identity of the poet? Or are they by the always and ever famous Anon? Who it seems has penned more lines than William Shakespeare himself.’

  ‘They are by a friend of mine, Mr Ashcombe. We have long been friends, since we were tiny children, but we both have always enjoyed reading poetry. But now, due to an unhappy turn that her life has taken, it seems she has started writing it, and for reasons which I find very flattering has sent me her first efforts, which I think are – well, in my opinion, I think they are most interesting. But then I am no real judge of verse, Mr Ashcombe, as you have no doubt gathered.’

  ‘I think you may have forgotten what I said to you on our first acquaintance, as why should you not?’ Bray replied, politely holding up one hand. ‘The only person who knows whether or not a poem is good, whether it strikes the right chord or emotion, is the reader. I may think some poetry a nonsense, yet someone else might have strong feelings for it immediately, might hear the music to which I am, alas, quite deaf, might see the truth lying behind the words. By all means, I shall read these verses as you request, but always remember that I will never be the ultimate judge. However, I am perfectly willing to give you my opinion, always providing that you bear in mind that my artistic ideal is someone else’s dross, and vice versa, of course.’

  ‘I already value your opinion, so if you do think they have any merit I should be very interested to hear your conclusions.’

  ‘Suppose I conclude they are worthless?’ Bray wondered. ‘Will you tell your – your friend? Or will you simply be kind and say that you found them interesting and she should certainly continue with her efforts?’

  ‘I like to think I shall be as honest with her as you will be, Mr Ashcombe. I see no merit in pretence, do you?’

  ‘None whatsoever, I do so agree.’

  For a second they held each other’s gaze before Emmaline handed over the large envelope she had been carrying, having carefully copied her poems out from her notebook on to single sheets of paper.

  ‘Doubtless your friend will want to hear my reaction to her work quite soon?’

  ‘No, no, absolutely not, no. I have not told her I am showing them to anyone else. She would be mortified. She is very shy, very retiring. I would not dream of telling her. It might make the muse go away if you saw no merit in them!’

  ‘Depend upon it, I shall read them as soon as I have finished my supper tonight, if not sooner.’

  ‘I am quite sure that after a long hard day’s work, the last thing you will wish to do when you get h
ome to your wife is sit and work after you have dined.’

  ‘I have no wife, Mrs Ashcombe,’ Bray replied, laughing. ‘Why – do I look married? Never tell me I look married. Married men always look flustered, driven by demons, carriage horses pulling their families behind them, while I, being single, gallop round the fields, pitying them!’

  ‘Forgive me.’ Emmaline tried to cover her tracks. ‘I think I must have misunderstood Mr Hunt – or simply made the wrong assumption. He said you had been called home suddenly and for some reason I assumed that it must be to your family – please forgive me.’

  ‘There is absolutely nothing to apologise for, I do assure you,’ Bray said. ‘And even though my day will probably be a long one, to judge from the number of customers we seem to have attracted, nothing will give me more pleasure than to sit down and read your verses this evening.’

  ‘My friend’s verses.’

  ‘Yes, of course – your friend. Please forgive me.’

  ‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Emmaline assured him. ‘She will be most grateful for your kindness. If you wish to communicate with her perhaps you would address your letter to me at Park House, Park Walk, Bamford, if you would be so good?’

  Emmaline then took her leave, collecting Agnes from her perch in the window without looking back, yet somehow knowing that all the time Bray was watching her. Despite the crowded shop, despite the fact that she had been so careful to talk to him in objective terms, nevertheless she felt his eyes on her as she passed the window of the shop, and continued on down the street. For herself, it wasn’t until they were halfway to the carriage that her heart started to beat faster, and she had to stop momentarily to recover her breath. What had she done? She had given her precious verses to a virtual stranger, a young man whom she hardly knew, and who hardly knew her. It was, she realised, an act of great intimacy. Never mind that she had pretended that they were by her ‘friend’: she had given Bray Ashcombe a part of her soul to read.

  ‘It must be wonderful to work in a bookshop, all those books that you can read once the shop closes, all those words that someone has written so you can read them,’ Agnes sighed as they made their way back to the carriage. ‘I shall most certainly work extra hard at learning to read now I have been in Mr Hunt’s shop.’

  Emmaline laughed, and taking Agnes by the arm was about to cross the road when she heard someone running down the street behind them. It was a boy carrying a small brown-paper-wrapped parcel done up with string, which he handed to Emmaline when he caught up.

  ‘Sorry, mum,’ the boy said breathlessly. ‘Mr Hunt said you forgot this, mum, and that I was to give it to you with his compliments, mum.’

  ‘Really? Well, thank you very much.’ Emmaline looked at the eager expression on the young person’s face, and knowing at once what was wanted she reached into her handbag for a threepenny bit, wondering what the wrapped-up book might be. Then she hesitated. ‘You are quite sure he meant me?’

  ‘Yes, mum,’ the boy replied. ‘Mr Hunt pointed you out from the shop as you crossed in front of the window, mum.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Emmaline handed the boy the threepenny bit.

  ‘Crikey, mum,’ the boy whispered. ‘You don’t have to do that.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Emmaline agreed, closing her bag. ‘But I’d like to.’

  ‘That is far too much for the likes of you, young man,’ Agnes told him, cuffing him lightly on the side of his head.

  He grinned at her. ‘I know, but just wait till you see how quick I spend it, miss!’

  He ran off, thrilled with his tip, watched for a moment by the two young women. It was a cheerful sight, his tousled head bobbing in and out between the people on the pavement, his coat flapping.

  ‘He’ll buy something at the baker with that,’ Agnes said, nodding at nothing in particular, ‘and then he’ll sit down on the side of the pavement and scoff it, that’s what he will do. Least ways, that’s what I would do, in his place.’

  Emmaline smiled at the image. It suggested something to her, although she could not quite think what.

  When she got home and unwrapped her parcel in private, Emmaline found her gift from Mr Hunt was a leather-bound volume of Haynes General Biology – a basic textbook, fully illustrated. At first, because for no good reason she felt as though she might have been the subject of shop gossip, she wasn’t sure whether to be affronted or grateful, feeling more of the former at first but then gradually much more of the latter as she realised both the kindness and the tact behind the gift. It was as if Mr Hunt had read her thoughts and known that Emmaline could not return to his shop with the same object she had in mind as she had on her original visit, and while initially she thought that any study of matters biological might be coming a little late in the day to have any bearing on her marriage, nevertheless when she retired to bed that evening she decided at least to try to dip into the book.

  In spite of the scholarly prose style she managed to read through the first few chapters before finally falling asleep, although the scientific language was such that despite her best efforts at understanding it she found it utterly confounded her at times. Besides, so much of what it described really did seem dreadfully exaggerated.

  The following day there was some startling news.

  First an invitation arrived by post addressed in a formal hand to Mr and Mrs Julius Aubrey.

  Emmaline stared at the envelope, but since it was clearly an invitation and addressed to both of them, she felt no qualms about opening it. The large engraved card announced that in approximately six weeks’ time the Earl and Countess of Parham requested the pleasure of their company at a private banquet to be held for Her Majesty Queen Victoria at Hartley.

  Emmaline stared at it, unable to think why she and Julius should have been included on the list of guests, since Julius had been nothing but disparaging about the huge house whose state rooms he had been commissioned to redecorate. Not only that, but he seemed to delight in mocking Lord and Lady Parham, not to mention their eccentric household.

  ‘For some reason I cannot understand, Lord and Lady Parham are convinced that I am not in trade, although why I do not know, since they are employing me. But there, English aristocrats have a way of going on that no one else is allowed to question, and if they are happy to have me in their house, and happy to seat me at their table, then who am I to reject them?’

  ‘I think they see you as an artist first and foremost. Certainly Lady Parham mentioned several times that Lord Egremont had had Turner to stay, and referred to many other painters in the same vein, so I think that is how they see you, Julius,’ Emmaline had offered, but it had been, as always, to a fast disappearing back.

  She kept on staring at the invitation. There was no doubt in her mind that the moment he saw where they were being summoned, and whom they were being summoned to meet, Julius would have some more interesting views on Hartley, its décor, the Parhams and perhaps even the Queen herself, whose popularity, Emmaline had been told by Wilkinson, had now returned after a long time in abeyance.

  Emmaline’s next piece of news, however, excited her even more. While she was having her breakfast in the dining room, Wilkinson brought her in a letter on his silver salver.

  ‘Thank you, Wilkinson, you may put it there, if you would.’

  Wilkinson placed the letter by her plate, and retired. Emmaline went on eating.

  She kept staring at the envelope as she sat sipping her tea, before picking it up and taking it with her into the informal sitting room where she liked to sit now that the autumnal weather had turned cold and blustery, bringing sharp squally showers in on buffeting westerlies.

  Settling down by the fireside, she looked once again at the name on the card which accompanied the small envelope: Mr Bray Ashcombe, care of Hunt’s Book Shop. Finally, summoning up her courage, Emmaline opened the letter, smoothing it carefully flat on the book that was on her knee before allowing herself to read it. Not that she could read it, for at first the words did
not seem to make sense.

  Forgive my seeming rush to judgement, the note read, but having read the verses you left with me as soon as I could do so last evening, I could no longer contain my enthusiasm and so felt I really must convey my feelings about these poems immediately. I hope, first and foremost, that you will be pleased with what I feel and I also hope that you will allow me to tell you in person. If you will allow me such an honour, would you perhaps visit the shop again soon so that we may talk at greater length about them? Perhaps, if it will please you to agree, we could meet when I have a little more time at my disposal, possibly during my lunch hour when we could talk at much greater length than is possible during working hours in the shop. For now, all I can say to you is that these verses are in my opinion truly remarkable. They are original in thought and substance and in vision, the feelings are most beautifully expressed and the sentiments very moving. I found myself carried along by them, as if I was riding a great emotional wave, loving both the imagery and the very boldness of the strokes that the poet has used to convey her sentiments (for obviously the writer is a woman, from the expression of the sentiments and the subject matter of the two poems). But enough – this is just to let you know that, for whatever my opinion is worth, I not only admire these verses, I was astonished by them and I must confess at times more than a little jealous! I very much look forward to hearing your own reaction to these few scribbled thoughts about your friend’s work.

  I am, yours truly,

  Bray Ashcombe

  Emmaline put the note down, and then picked it up again, quite unable to believe that what she had just read was true. She read it again, and then again. Still unable to believe what Bray Ashcombe had written about her poems, her feelings were so turbulent that she stood up and paced the room, his letter in her hand, her heart beating at such a rate it made her feel breathless. It was as if she had received a love letter out of the blue from someone she would have to describe as a soul mate, somebody who had seen into her thoughts and her heart and had responded with a passion of his own. She had at last, it seemed, met another being who saw and recognised the person inside her, who had taken note of her spirit and appreciated it.