Mary, dressed in black, her collar tight around her short neck, seemed more uncomfortable than Emily had ever seen her, her face emptying of color in the way most young women might blush. The captain spoke to Mary with a respectful seriousness that would have soothed her if it were possible for her to be soothed. His easy manners reminded Emily of Augusta’s, that and his fair hair and coloring and his obvious rude health. She liked his smile.
William’s brothers were a different matter. Brown-haired and slight, each echoed the other in pallor. They did not hold their bodies upright, as did their father, but stooped in the manner of their brother, and while William’s dress, that of the intellectual invalid, gave him a certain gravity, their uniforms appeared to overwhelm them. They looked at Captain Lindsay with admiration and shyness.
After the bowing and the shaking of hands, there was luncheon: her aunt’s finest, yet served somehow with an air of distaste for its own luxuriance. The jelly seemed frivolous, the sauces unlooked for, uncalled for, and the elaborate table decorations Emily had never before seen did not prevent the room from being austere. Her aunt inquired about life at the barracks, but not in the usual way of mothers, concerned for comfort and the quality of the food and linen—rather she wanted to know about the rigor and the discipline, the rules and routine of the day. Her uncle conducted himself as if his sons were not in uniform at all, but merely visiting from a distant and faintly eccentric college in whose teachings and ways he was not only ignorant but uninterested.
Emily saw Captain Lindsay observing this. The openness of his expression, his direct way of looking, listening and conversing, made it obvious to her that he was somewhat taken aback. In every household in the North the talk was of war and its ideals and objectives and the revulsion felt for the South. Williams elder and younger conversed about theology and the correct response to atheism, although Emily noticed that her cousin was careful not to contradict his father’s views freely, as he would had he been alone with her.
With coffee they had candied fruit. The ladies were not obliged to withdraw—after all, it was a family visit, and the young men would within a week be at the front. There was a momentary lull in the conversation, and William coughed. Despite being sharply aware that she should not speak unless spoken to, Emily could not resist exercising her curiosity.
“And how would you be employed now, Sir, were it not for this war?” she asked the captain.
“You ask a peculiar question—at this moment there is only the war.”
“I ask it nonetheless.”
“You are impertinent, my dear,” said her uncle.
“Not at all, Sir; your niece’s question is fair. I would be finishing my law degree, preparing for my life as a gentleman of property, undecided about a career.” He paused, turning to her uncle. “I can see your niece attempts to discover me in one question.”
“And have I?”
“Of course not. And even if it were true, how could I say yes?”
There was a smile around the table, yet she pursued the subject. “But Sir, you are not forced to fight—you were not conscripted—nor were my cousins. Is it necessary that anyone in this room should have to do so?”
William interrupted immediately. “I apologize for my cousin. She is never content until she has caused a great quarrel.” He seemed amused, but Emily felt she had embarrassed him deeply.
“It is the question of our time,” she insisted.
“Perhaps,” Captain Lindsay replied, looking only at her.
“I have witnessed the deaths of people that I love and I know that if I could have done anything to prevent it, I would.” Eyes were being averted from her face once more.
“There is no reasoning with the South,” he answered. “You must see that.”
“But there is with ourselves. Cousins, I have only lately made your acquaintance, and when I think I may never see you again after this day—”
“That is enough, Emily. Captain, please let me apologize for my niece’s manners.”
Emily looked at her cousins in their uniforms, at the plates they had eaten from and the glasses from which they had drunk, and felt sobered and becalmed.
“I am sorry, Uncle. I did not mean to cause any embarrassment or pain.”
“You are too free in your reference to others’ feelings, my dear.”
Emily felt a brief wild despair. He would oppose her. He would continue to oppose her. He was unyielding and would not tire as she did.
“Mr. Cornford, might I request that you allow me to take a short walk with your niece on the beach?” Captain Lindsay was already rising from the table. “Miss Emily, would you care to accompany me?”
She scraped her chair getting up, banged her knee on the arm of it, so great was the longing to get away.
He looked larger out of doors. “You are bent on causing a scandal? These are my men you terrify with the idea of death.” They hurried down the worn and slender path among the grasses, as if pursued. Warm salt air was blowing, and the sun was on her face. He stopped sharply to look at her.
“Death is not an idea to me.” Stupid, angry tears.
“Please, accept my apologies. Your cousins have told me about the tragic history of your family. You are an orphan?”
“Yes.”
“You are fortunate to have been spared.” She was silent, knowing she was expected to say: yes, fortunate indeed. “They say that our loved ones are never so truly ours as in death.”
“I have heard it.” They were still looking at one another, the light on their faces.
“We are very morbid on this beautiful day.”
“Yes. Unexpectedly. I am in the habit of being scolded for being too happy.” He made no move to walk on but continued to give her his attention. “May I ask you another question?” she said. “Are you not afraid?”
“Of what is to come? Extremely. I only know that if I do not lead them it will be somebody else. That this great nation—”
“A nation cannot be great that fights itself.” She was fierce.
“It is only to achieve our ideals that we fight.” He was measured and sure.
“Fighting is the enemy of ideals.”
He kept his temper. “Ah, now I see. You are a pacifist.”
“My brother used to fight with his friends when they were children. They did not pretend it was for the love of a better world.”
He laughed. “My dear young lady, I can see you will not be subdued.”
“No. I will not.” She liked him immensely. He shared her passion for the day.
“Let us be friends. It is my cavalry at war on your behalf, after all, and I must say I find you most ungrateful. You modern girls.”
She realized, too slowly, that he was teasing her. Charlie had used to tease her, but not with such a smile, a smile she could only construe as admiring. It was a little like the way her cousin smiled at her, but it was more open and generous—she could feel a wholeness in him.
“Of course we must be friends.”
And she gave him her hand.
At eight o’clock Emily and Mary sewed together in the parlor, each holding their work close to the lamplight.
“I must say, Cousin, you have a passion in your conversation that I fear will work to your detriment in this house.”
Emily was surprised to be spoken to; they had been silent for an hour. William had gone into the town, her aunt had retired early and her uncle was at his desk. There was only the sound of the ocean waves.
“I don’t consider your fears ill-founded.” She looked up but could see no expression save concentration on her cousin’s face. “And yet I cannot entertain them.” Bending, she continued with her work. There was quiet again for a while.
“Did you love them so very much?”
“Who, my dear?”
“Your brother and sisters, your parents.” Still Mary looked at her work.
Emily observed the face, half blind. “I did. They were all my heart and soul to me.”
/>
“I think that is what galls my father the most. It is obvious that you have been loved. He had no love to give us. None. He once told me that the best course for a parent to take in this sinful world would be to annihilate his children.”
“You cannot mean that? He did not say it.”
At last she looked up. “This is a nest of vipers, my dear girl. You are not safe among us.”
“Mary, you are tired. The strain of the day—”
“He loved your mother, I think. Very much. But she made that unsuitable marriage, had to be cast out.”
Emily could not bear to hear her mother discussed in so dry a voice. “My mother is my own memory—not yours.”
Mary, who had seemed all bitterness and envy, now confounded Emily with her concern and advice. Looking at the empty gray eyes, she felt a great sorrow and fear for this woman of shadows, but no concern for herself.
They sat on the veranda, she and William, in the morning sunlight, her book on her knee. He had pulled his chair close to hers, “So we can be tête-à-tête,” he had said.
“How do you get on with Mr. Keats and Mr. Shakespeare?”
“Very well. I like them very well.”
“Like them! I don’t think I have ever heard you express so bland an opinion.”
“Very well, if you are set upon more detail: I find them beautiful and I love their beauty. They write about the yearning and the longing of the young heart and the exquisite nature of the universe and you chose them for me for exactly that reason.”
“And now you are too clever.”
“Indeed?”
“And very lovely. You are very lovely today.” He called her lovely but did not look at her as he did so.
“Shall we walk?” she said. “It is not too warm for you?”
“You can hold your parasol over my head.”
“I detest parasols. Bring your hat.”
“Be patient while I fetch it.”
There was only a fluttering breeze. It was a glorious blue day. The sand looked almost white. They walked arm in arm studying the ocean, the shells beneath their feet. Unlike the captain he did not care to look into her face too often.
“You were impressed by Captain Lindsay?”
“I was. Even though I did not agree with him.”
“He is an old acquaintance of ours. Always forthright. He is the apotheosis of the brave gentleman soldier.”
“You describe him as if he were a type.”
“That is exactly what he is. He is heir to a considerable fortune and is therefore untroubled by doubts. He knows his place in the world.”
“You generalize far too much. You too have expectations—”
He adopted a superior expression. “None so large.”
“But why should it be that the fact he has no financial concerns mean he does not give due attention to—”
“To what?”
“As you call it, his place in the world.” She said this as deliberately and calmly as she could.
“I don’t know why you feel you must defend him. He is no relation of yours.”
Emily felt her irritation rise. “You are accusing him of being somehow narrow.”
“Not at all. It is only that he is who he is, exactly who he is and he wastes no time or trouble contemplating it.”
“He is a man of action.” She laughed, forgetting her annoyance. “This has made you horribly cross.”
“Nothing of the kind. I just don’t see how you could admire him so much when there is so little to admire.”
“Did I say I admired him?”
“You didn’t have to.”
“William, you are being ridiculous.” As these words rang out of her little body she felt that if only she could have grasped them and forced them back into her lungs she might restore the temperate climate between them, that sense of ease.
He stopped. “You have offended me.”
“I can’t say I am glad of it. But the fact that I should enjoy the company and thoughts of anyone other than yourself cannot—surely—be so very loathsome.” She tried to speak coaxingly, but she had never coaxed in her life.
“My dear, the truth is I am too fond of you.”
“Nonsense. You are too fond of yourself.”
“I fear you must continue your walk alone.”
“If I must.”
He turned and walked away, leaving her angry and the morning spoiled.
MISS AUGUSTA DEAN
HIGH TREES SCHOOL
ROCHESTER, NY
NEWPORT
April 14th
Dearest Girl,
This afternoon I received a message from Captain Lindsay asking if he might call and accompany me on a drive. It is the kind of pleasant surprise I had not looked for. It seems the regiment is delayed at———for another few days. I asked my uncle’s permission and was more than a little taken aback when he agreed, brushing me aside as if I were an insect, of course.
Laugh if you will but it was nothing short of exciting to be bowling along in an open carriage away from the oppressive atmosphere of that house and in the company of someone who sought to enjoy himself with such obvious relish.
“First, let us have no talk of war or death,” he said, as soon as I was settled. “Let us be carefree.” It was like an answer to a prayer to hear another human being say that. We clattered through the streets, and all the store fronts and people and houses looked so cheerful and bright. We turned off Main Street and explored the avenues where all the houses are new and, while modest, beautifully sited, and with generous space around them, big windows and flower-filled gardens. I felt a little envious of their inhabitants for having so much life around them: people walking, children, and babies in their perambulators, even cats and dogs. I miss the company of children. Then we took the road out of town along the shore: the country is wild and beautiful and as I had seen it only at night when I arrived, new to me. There is so very much horizon, so much of the ocean.
He told me about his family at Boston, his dear sister who is close to him in age and about to be married. He joked about what a poor student he had been at college, but I think he is too modest. We returned to the house for tea. I had such an appetite!
He asked me what would become of me when this delightful summer was over. I told him I imagined I would be sent to another school, but that there was a possibility I could visit Boston, perhaps at Christmas. I confided that I hoped to be able to continue with instruction in drawing, but did not mention the lack of my own funds or the goodwill of my uncle. Indeed I tried to appear light- hearted about the prospect of the future, and feared I might seem either brittle and frivolous or melancholy as a consequence. It always makes me feel that way—more than apprehensive—when I think of the fall: darkness in the rooms and uncertainty, but I did not want him to see.
He asked me how old I was, and I said I was nearly nineteen and he pronounced me a very young girl. I teased him for speaking of it, when he must be all of twenty-four.
Then he said a strange thing that moved me. He said there was a tradition of New Year parties in his house in Boston and he very much hoped I would be able to attend. He said he thought the house would suit me. He dropped his voice then, although there was no danger of our being overheard. The parlor is very private. He said, “I can see you against the portraits and chandeliers, as part of them, almost.” I felt peculiarly moved by his speech. But again, I did not want him to see that I was moved. I looked away. You know me, Augusta—I never look away.
I would not like him to be killed. I would like him to come back and I would like to see him again. Perhaps if I admitted I felt affection for him the fates would immediately conspire to annihilate him, so I will admit no such thing. I just pray earnestly that God keeps him safe, his horse is fast and his battles are mere skirmishes. For God knows he makes the world a brighter place by being in it.
I have forgotten to thank you for your letter. I cannot close without a promise to take your advice to
heart and once again try to be more cautious in all things. I know you understand, my dearest, how I feel, but I also know your counsel to be both practical and wise. It pains me to hear that you have been in low spirits—but remember, your period of uncertainty will be at an end by the close of the summer. Remain strong until then.
Affectionately,
Emily
With the departure of the regiment there were only brief messages from the brothers, but for Emily, a letter:
MISS EMILY HUDSON
BLUFF HOUSE, NEWPORT BEACH
———REGIMENT
April 16th, 1861
My dear Young Lady,
It seems melodramatic to be bidding you farewell on the eve of battle, so I will simply inform you that we are on the move at last. It is surely a nobler thing always to act than to wait, and the fewer thoughts I devote to the task ahead the better in my present frame of mind. I recall clearly your blue dress against the dark of the carriage, and the gaiety of our last meeting.
I hope that neither of us will be so very much older when next I grasp your hand.
Yours truly,
Captain James C. H. Lindsay,
———Regiment,———
“Such an expression at the breakfast table. Could it denote a proposal?” remarked William, sotto voce, but no less publicly for that.
“Do not be cruel, Cousin, it does not become you. And you know perfectly well it cannot.”
This exchange roused her uncle. “Who is the letter from, my dear?”
“It is from Captain Lindsay, Sir. He says they are going away soon.”
“Indeed. Do not reply for the present, Emily.”
“May I be excused from the table, Sir?”
Emily Hudson Page 4
