“And yet they were cursed, cursed with the consumption.”
His voice tugged her back to this time, this place. And now she looked at him, at his pale profile drained of blood. “It is not a curse, but an illness, it is an infection—bad air and—”
“I only describe it as my father described it to me.”
“My mother succumbed to the consumption. We nursed her as best we could. Then it came to the girls. But Charlie died first, of a fever. At the end there was only my father and me. We took care of one another.”
“You were sister and mother and wife.”
He provoked her with his quiet voice. “I was not. I loved them, and I was myself. He could barely live without her, and after the girls had gone I think he would not stay just for me.”
At last he looked at her but she had bowed her head. There were too many tears. “You are weeping.”
“How could I not weep for my darlings? How could I not weep? I wish I had not told you. I wish I had not.” And yet still she would not give herself up to passionate sobs, not before his eyes.
“And you were spared. You are fortunate.”
“So I am told.” She struggled to stop her tears with only the sound of the ocean in her ears.
“If you were known to suffer from consumption you could not marry.”
She lifted her head. “Do you think I am ignorant of that?”
“My father feels it keenly.”
“That I must marry before it comes to claim me? I may be free of it, or if I am not, no one knows how long it could remain waiting after first I had—it might be nobler for me not to marry at all.”
His voice was urgent for the first time. “But you must marry. You have no fortune. You must marry and well. And perhaps if Father approves your choice he will settle a reasonable sum on you.”
“I am weary of this conversation. I do not want to hear any more.” She got up, holding on to the railing with a damp hand.
“But surely, my dear Emily, you must be sensible from everything in your story that your choice is of the utmost importance. You must find a gentleman sufficiently placed to appreciate you without a significant fortune, someone who will protect you from the vicissitudes of the time, guide you through your struggles with your own passionate nature …” He stood very close to her now.
“You are very presumptuous, Sir.”
“Don’t be angry with me now, Emily. You are too tired—and you must acknowledge the sense of what I am saying. You are too intelligent—”
“If you tell me anything further about what I am and who I shall be, I fear we will quarrel, Cousin.” And now she was standing, and looking down into his thin face. “It is true that it is hot. It is true that I am tired, and thirsty, and full of the sorrows of the past. But if you were to ask me about my mother’s destiny, I could only tell you of her happiness, of her radiance, of the things she would have us feel, experience and know. It is senseless to you, and yet if you were to ask me what animated me, what lights my way, it would be her tender love. And I will not hear you scorn her actions and the path she took.”
“You speak well. But tell me, Emily, precious Emily—would you choose such a path?”
And when he said that, the weariness came over her again, her spirit assailed by his clarity, by the dissection he applied to her mind.
“In truth, William, I cannot and do not know.”
MISS AUGUSTA DEAN
HIGH TREES SCHOOL
ROCHESTER, NY
NEWPORT BEACH
June 10th, 1861
My dear Augusta,
Summer wears on and I fear I am not myself at present. But only for the present. Without telling you the details I must own that relations with my uncle have once more deteriorated and a distressing scene with my cousin has left me quite undone; and now he has gone to stay with some acquaintances in Boston I am left quite alone to brood on it. I lack vigor or my customary interest in my usual pursuits. Walking tires me and I am still troubled by this cough. I am advised to rest, but I will not keep to my room entirely—it is too solitary, although of course I must be solitary everywhere.
Forgive me. You must be in the midst of preparing for your journey—keep me apprised of your many plans.
Fondest love,
Emily
In truth, it was more than a slight cough, and Emily knew it. But even to Augusta she could not admit she was confined to her bed, or express the terror that clutched at her heart every time she coughed, and as the fits of coughing became more frequent she could no longer count them. Nor could she reassure herself sufficiently to lift her spirits, assailed by memories of her mother’s bloodless face, the shadows that had claimed her sisters, extinguishing the light in her father’s eyes. No loving hands tended her. She was entirely alone. To be brought low by any physical illness was to be intruded upon to an unacceptable degree. Her whole spirit fought it, while the animal in her suffered the invasion and could not resist.
On the third day the sound of William’s return filled Emily with agitation and not a little dread. Confined to her room as she had been for a vague and seemingly endless period of time, prostrate, as she hated to be, with blinds drawn on the day: it was not the way any creature would like to be found. He made very little noise as was his habit, but she heard her aunt admonishing him to speak more quietly. “She is quite ill with that cough, I think. She has not come downstairs yesterday or today.” Then their footsteps and murmuring voices died away.
It did not hurt to breathe. But it hurt so terribly when she coughed, and she could not help coughing. She was feverish, she knew, because everything was the wrong color and to think on any subject made her want to cry. She took some water from the untouched tray from luncheon beside the bed, and allowed herself the luxury of ceasing to try.
He came to see her in the evening. She heard him tapping on the door. She did not know if she had been asleep.
“Cousin?” his voice said. “Might I intrude, just for a few moments?” He brought a lamp, holding it up in the doorway. She raised herself on her pillows. “You are still fully dressed.” He looked like a child, surprised.
“I intend to get up. I have been up. I—” She smiled at him, curious at herself for being so pleased to see him when their last interview had caused her so much pain. “I am not really ill, you know. A little influenza, I fancy.”
“If you are not improved tomorrow, the doctor shall be called.” He seemed chastened.
“William, it is all right.”
He took a step closer to the bed. “I—I’d be—what I mean to say is—at our last meeting—I am sorry for the way I pressed you to speak on a subject which—if you had had the choice—”
“You have misunderstood. You are not to blame yourself. It was the memories that undid me.” She held out her hand and he came and took it.
“You are too generous to me.”
“Possibly. You are too mournful, William. Come to me tomorrow and we will be friends once more.” She did not quite know how she could sound so decisive in this gloom.
“It is only that you are so pure, so wild and so pure, that I wanted to find out—I long to know—”
“Please, William. Enough. You are my dear friend and cousin. We will not speak of it. I will be well again directly.”
It was another day before the fever passed and the cough began to heal by degrees; a week before she could walk without being tired. She told no one of the terror she had had that she might find a speck of blood upon a handkerchief, just that one speck on the virgin white, on the lace. Her dreams of blood on the snow.
In the real world the sky was bleached with heat, the sand and dunes too and the ocean lazier as the summer reached its peak. When it waned and gentled, she felt, she knew, a change would come to her vast cramped world.
MISS AUGUSTA DEAN
HIGH TREES SCHOOL
ROCHESTER, NY
NEWPORT BEACH
June 21st, 1861
My dear Friend,
Thank you very much for your sweet and loving letter. In truth there is little cause for concern. The fact of being alone in the world is that sometimes one has the occasion to feel it, but reading your words, with all their sweet concern and lively news, has benefited my spirits miraculously. And as for my cough—it has quite disappeared. Sea air and the dampness can often encourage the most unseasonable ailments.
Now that I am feeling stronger the sun and light appear less unrelenting, and I have returned to my old ramblings and hauntings of the shores. I have discovered one or two spots where I am always quite alone, and yesterday I unpinned my hair just to feel the breeze in it. It became such a tangle that it was a ridiculous business trying to put it back together again. I do miss you. Do you remember how we used to dry our hair before the dormitory fire together, and brush it for one another? You were always so skillful and nimble at helping me with mine. That it should be so thick and heavy is such a trial—why can it not be fine and biddable like yours? My mother did not have such hair—I must have inherited it from my father.
See how small my world has become? Hair and a walk on the beach, while you assemble trunks and look for just the right ribbon! My dearest, I am simply so completely happy for you. I will direct the first of my letters to you to the Hotel at Como and continue to do so until I hear that you have moved on.
Bon voyage, my darling, and bonne chance.
Affectionately,
Emily
P.S. Be sure to have comfortable walking shoes for the lakes—it would be a shame to miss a fine vista for the lack of them. xxx
MISS EMILY HUDSON
———SQUADRON,
———REGIMENT
BLUFF HOUSE, NEWPORT BEACH
July 3rd
Dear Miss Hudson,
Far be it for me to complain about my travails in the battlefield—but I will own to a disappointment in not having heard from you. I apologize for being abrupt; there is not very much time here.
Tell me how you do.
Yours truly,
James Charles Lindsay
CAPTAIN J. C. H. LINDSAY
NEWPORT
———SQUADRON,
———REGIMENT
July 5th
Dear Sir,
Your letter has indeed found me in good health and spirits, and all the better for ascertaining that you too are well. Forgive me for not replying to your previous letter, but it was at my uncle’s request. How formal and conventional I must sound! I must own that I am not in the habit of writing to captains serving at the front. If I think about it too consistently I begin to bite my nails—a habit I should not admit to a living soul.
We understand that loss of life has been heavy and the toll in bloodshed high. I flinch to picture you in such circumstances, and yet I also feel that your men are indeed fortunate to be led by a person of such clear-sighted confidence and resolve. But I would not have you dwell on your task, however, through any words of mine, nor question you too closely on your privations. Instead, I shall simply attempt to amuse you with other things.
My uncle is deep into a treatise on The Blasphemy of Thought.
My aunt has ordered the parlor to be swept and cleaned, and so we cannot sit in it and have invaded William’s library.
William, therefore, has discovered urgent business in town and has been away for two days. He must stay at his club for the house is shut up.
Cousin Mary has completed three samplers and is beginning a tablecloth.
As for your friend, I continue my literary education. My cousin is, I think, intent on whipping me into a ferment of Romanticism—from Keats we have progressed to Shelley, Lord Byron and Wordsworth. He has rejected my demands for the great American authors. First things first, he says. And I continue with Shakespeare, which I own is a world in itself so glorious and great and yet still half-submerged that I feel on occasion altogether weak about addressing myself to it. Weak, but enthralled at the same time.
I continue my drawing but long for instruction. No one in this family has the slightest interest in art. But I am unfair. William likes to pronounce things good or bad.
I play and I love my playing.
The country blooms and becomes more beautiful every day. I know spring is exciting and to be admired, but the glorious bounty of summer, its abundance—I cannot describe it—it is just so beautiful the way the flowers throw themselves away. And there is also my constant companion, the ocean.
So you can imagine how it is with me. Beautiful, but very quiet.
You are in all our thoughts. Please remember me to my dear cousins.
Yours truly,
Emily Hudson
“I see that you have received another letter from our Captain Lindsay, my dear.”
Emily and her uncle stood in his study again, his desk between them, amongst the many dark things. She began to imagine the objects being taken out of the room by removal men one by one, and the thought was pleasing. She waited for him to speak, shrinking from the next encroachment on her feelings, on her world, yet curious at the same time.
Her uncle’s expression was as severe as ever, but she heard in his voice an attempt to moderate the usual coldness of his tone. Emily did not like it, just as she could not bear for him to call her “my dear.”
“Yes, I have, Sir.” If he asked to see it, she would produce it, but she would not volunteer it.
“He appears to have formed some sort of attachment to you, Emily.”
“He has written me two letters, Uncle.”
“I have always held Captain Lindsay in very high esteem.” He said this with an air of self-satisfaction. She said nothing in reply. “You are unusually reserved, my dear.”
“He is a kind and sensible gentleman.”
He sat down and began to adjust his cuffs. “I hope it will come as a pleasant surprise to you, my dear, that I intend after all to bring you with us to Boston in the fall. The season will be subdued because of the war, obviously, but I wish you to participate in all the usual events. William will chaperone you. There will be a dress allowance. You shall share a maid with Mary. It will all be taken care of.”
She had not expected to feel glad. But she felt glad. Thanksgiving in the warmth of someone’s house instead of at school, a wider glimpse of the world, of people and of places—how could she not be glad?
“I hope I do not have to remind you that your behavior will be closely judged. Unaccustomed as she is to a great deal of society, your aunt is willing to accompany you to remind you of the appropriate niceties. Outbursts of any kind will not be tolerated. Opinions will be held in check. You will put your considerable strength of will into appearing and being pleasant, cheerful and amiable at all times. If you disobey these words the penalty will be an immediate and complete retirement from society. Do you comprehend what I am saying?”
“Yes.”
“You must marry, Emily. You may encourage the attentions of suitable young men. But if I hear that you have been in any way forward or flirtatious, or have encouraged addresses from any inappropriate persons—”
“What can you think of me, Sir?”
“Do you mock me, my dear?”
“I assure you I do not. I am more than sensible of your generosity.” And it was true, she was.
They sat on a picnic rug on the dunes: Emily had persuaded William to lunch outside and he had occupied himself with creating an elaborate system of interlocking umbrellas for shade. Summer being at its zenith he considered Emily wholly unreasonable, especially as she had at first sat apart from him in the full force of the sun. Now she joined him under their protection, sitting upright while he reclined upon an elbow with his back to the ocean.
“I don’t know why you insisted upon this—the view is exactly the same from the veranda,” said William.
“You are perfectly wrong again. It is altogether different.” She delighted in pretending to scold him, sensible that it gave him comfort and pleasure while bestowing on her
an illusion of her own power.
“Let us argue it.”
“Then you must turn and look.”
“Very well.” He waved his hand. “Grasses. Sand. Ocean. Sky. Cliffs.”
“Let us not argue it. Believe me, it is different in every respect, and I shall only win and annoy you.”
“How?”
“Would you truly like me to tell you?”
“When am I not perfectly attuned to the sound of your voice?”
“William, if you make me laugh I cannot concentrate on my argument.”
“You mean your point of view. Your mind is too unformed to fashion an argument.”
“Then why do you so delight in hearing me speak?” The laughter that had grown between them stopped. “There is no need for you to answer that,” she said, too swiftly. “Simply listen to what I have to say.”
“Very well.”
“The curve of the dunes and all these little hummocks here, they are close to our faces and bodies and we can observe each grain of sand if we wish, and all the creatures busy among them.”
He sighed. “Unfortunately that is true.”
“And we can touch and stroke and smell the grass and sand if we so wish—”
“Also true.”
“Then the light as it blazes on the beach nonetheless forms a pattern of brilliance and shadow, and the ocean as it moves has an energy we cannot discern from the safety of our little wooden house. Lastly, we can look up into the sky.”
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