Emily Hudson

by Melissa Jones

  “And be burned by the sun and have our skin roughened by the salty wind.”

  “But look—you have on your hat and you are buried beneath umbrellas.” He said nothing, averting his eyes. “Are you comfortable?”

  “Reasonably.”

  “Then I shall draw you. Turn your back to it and you shall dominate the view, and the elements will merely frame you. I hope that will satisfy you and stop you from being so cantankerous.”

  He smiled. “When will you ever stop teasing me?”

  “Do you give permission to be drawn?”

  “Freely, though I have no idea why.”

  She looked at him firmly. “Perhaps because it is a fair exchange.” She seized her sketchbook, settled it on her lap and began to work. “You are an excellent subject—you know how to remain still.”

  “You are very kind.”

  His reclining form in the shade of the umbrellas and the glare of the beach took rapid shape beneath her hand, and the quiet between them was deeply satisfying to her young soul. “Don’t look at me work—for then I cannot concentrate.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Look over my shoulder. Think about your latest story while I strive to capture the loftiness of your expression.”

  “All I see is dry grass and a hot sky. We shall have to seek shelter by and by.”

  She continued to work and then, pausing, looked about her. “Do you know what I would like to do before we leave here? I should like to go out in a boat.”

  “And you expect me to take you?”

  “I do not think I could trust you to captain the vessel quite alone. Perhaps a fisherman would take pity on us.”

  “Probably. If we paid him sufficiently.”

  She could not stop looking at the bright ocean and the reach of the sky. “I am so happy. And I want to remember it—remember it by being on the water, and the sky and the glory of this place.”

  “You are happy because you are coming home with us next month.”

  “What other reason could there be?”

  He sighed, fidgeting slightly, looking away. “You are so unspoiled now. They will all admire you in Boston and what will happen to your quality of innocence then?”

  “I wish you would not describe me and pinpoint me so continually. Besides, in my belief, a person is always essentially themselves. That cannot be changed or altered.”

  He gave her his amused smile. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  She finished the sketch and turned it to look at him. “I’m rather pleased with that,” she said.

  MISS AUGUSTA DEAN

  C/O HOTEL DU LAC, COMO

  NEWPORT BEACH

  August 20th, 1861

  Dearest Augusta,

  How exceptional the lakes sound! I can only begin to picture them in my mind. I am so gratified to hear that you and your father are enjoying them in such harmony and are so companionable together. If your mother had lived I am sure she would be enormously proud of you both (although, as I have said before, you were fortunate that you never knew her and cannot feel the lack).

  I must own that a slight loneliness is preying on my spirits, so you must forgive me for that sudden burst of morbid thought. It is all because my few belongings are packed once again and despite their scarcity my bedchamber looks much the poorer without them. It is extraordinary how one becomes accustomed to the look of a room one has inhabited and is forced to see it with new eyes after it has been stripped. It is not so very much different—it is only that the heart and soul of it—and my time here—has gone. I feel sad and cannot help but mourn it.

  I do not know when I shall ever see this house again after tomorrow.

  I will write to you directly from Boston.

  Continue to enjoy your adventures and do not forget to direct your next letter to the Boston address.

  Affectionately,

  Emily

  SIX

  The town house at Boston was larger, grander, more imposing than Emily remembered from her brief sojourn there two years before, a grief-stricken child. From the flight of steps up to the black front door and the hard bright brick, to the elaborate classical moldings over the windows, the feeling of magnificence, color and wealth overcame her. She could not love such a place as she had come to love the weather-beaten boards of the seaside house. She doubted one could even inhabit it. Merely crossing the threshold alarmed her, and the feeling was new. The hall was dark red and somber despite marble and mirrors. How could her uncle, a man of such mental austerity and fastidiousness, live in such a place? But after all, it was where he had been born.

  Her aunt, who had ordered the house to be opened up in advance of their coming, began quickly to inspect all the rooms. Mary went to her modest chamber on the top floor, leaving Emily with her uncle, William and the luggage, looking about her and unsure of what to do. Her uncle called for the housekeeper, a gaunt and efficient-looking woman, who introduced herself as Mrs. Beadle and took Emily up the stairs. She turned to look at William as she followed her, but he did not glance in her direction, remaining below in conversation with his father.

  Emily’s room was similarly dark and austere but with every comfort, looking out on to the square rather than the garden. Immediately, she went to the window to take in the life. Trees were already turning blazing red at the edge of each leaf, she saw a brilliant blue afternoon sky: people, perambulators, dogs, messenger boys, carriages, sound, energy, noise—no more mysterious ocean to study, bringing weather from far away.

  A knock at the door announced her aunt. “We have returned well in advance of the season in order that we may have dresses made up for you. You cannot be seen in that blue cotton, and the lavender dress is severely faded from the beach. Neither is suitable in any event. Country clothes.” It was extraordinary how she could speak and still have so little expression on her face, not in her eyes, nor in the corner of her white mouth. “Do not expect richness of dress—I disapprove of it in young girls—nor embellishment—”

  “Believe me, Aunt, I would not look for it,” she said, but the lady went on speaking and Emily remembered that her opinion was not important and she should not give it. Had she not been told?

  “My dressmaker will come directly. Expect her tomorrow. And we shall have to teach you better how to arrange your hair. I will leave you now.”

  “Ma’am, excuse me, how should I occupy myself for today? If I could go out walking—”

  “You must understand that that is out of the question in town. William may accompany you later if his time permits. If you care to play I will show you the piano in the music room.”

  Her heart leapt. The music room. She had not expected to be allowed to draw immediately—but to play! If she could fill these strange rooms with music it would be almost as good as opening the shutters and blinds. This only appeared to have been done at certain windows.

  “Where is my cousin?” she asked as they descended the stairs.

  “Why, he has gone out, of course. He has considerable acquaintance in town.”

  “Of course,” replied Emily. “Of course.”

  It was the colors of those first fall days she would remember most and which she longed to paint, but having only charcoal and pencil and rough paper at her disposal the sketches were fleeting chiaroscuro—sometimes soft, sometimes fine-lined—but never rich and glowing like the paintings in her mind. In her imagination canvases accumulated of the house and its dark interior, the furniture that shone in sun or lamplight, the rich velvets, all reds and purples, the trees in the street. Apart from the sky her world held no more blue and no more gray. The colors of her dresses surprised her. She had been used to feeling like a sea-shadow in her faded cotton. Her neck was encircled constantly by white starched collars, and she was obliged to wear ribbons and tortoiseshell combs in her hair to keep it in place. She had young ladies’ shoes and stockings and bewilderingly painful undergarments, and became accustomed to closely examining herself in a looking glass with
three sides.

  She could not but think of the vast cold woods and tracts of land her grandfather had toiled through, and bought and sold to make this fortune that led to her muffled interior world. She could not help but think of her mother as a child in this house, and then as her mother in Buffalo, and she groped to understand it all, waiting before the fire in the morning room, reading the books in her uncle’s library unobserved and dreaming, resting her chin upon her hand.

  Society was a blur of color and movement at times so confusing she could not swallow or direct her smile in the correct direction. When first she entered a stranger’s drawing room it was to a peculiar combination of trembling terror and the wild excitement she used to feel running along a shore. In this unknown country there was so much to look at but—she quickly discovered—very little to say. Nobody wanted to know what she thought and felt about anything, even while they were admiring her with their eyes. Any hopes she had entertained of finding another bosom friend such as Augusta were quickly dashed. The young ladies rarely addressed one another: it was to the gentlemen that all conversation was aimed. They were the prize. On the rare occasions when her cousin Mary was considered well enough to accompany them, Emily noticed how she contrived to make herself invisible; sitting with the matrons and the elderly aunts, and avoiding any appraising youthful gaze. Emily could understand why.

  What surprised her was that—as her cousin had predicted—gentlemen admired her. The words “fresh” and “unspoiled” were pronounced to her face as if she were a piece of fruit. It was remarkable, she thought, that they did not assess her with their hands as well as eyes. The alarming aspect of this was how much pleasure it gave her to be admired, however nonsensical and continually embarrassing it could be.

  “Well, Cousin,” said William, drawing her aside toward the close of their first dinner party. “You are now formally introduced to the best Boston society. Unthinking patriots are engaged elsewhere. Is it as I described it?”

  “Unfailingly.” She smiled at him.

  “Don’t be enigmatic. Remember your promise? To give me all your impressions—always?”

  “I do not recall a promise; a request, yes. And we must not whisper in a corner, William. You know as well as I.”

  “Tomorrow we will sit and gossip and drink tea together and you will tell me what you thought of them all.”

  “If you insist.”

  The truth was, she was relieved that he should ask her for an interview. She had barely seen her cousin since coming to town. He had embarked upon a new piece of fiction that kept him much occupied and which he was wary of discussing, as well as promising his work to several periodicals. He hurried from his study to luncheons, to meetings, to his club, and Emily adopted the music room as her parlor, with its long view of the garden alive with Virginia creeper spilling over the walls to the damp and dying grass. Mary kept to her room and did not essay her companionship. Emily waited all that day and he did not come.

  When she passed him on the staircase after dinner that evening he merely smiled as if he had no memory of his own request.

  MISS AUGUSTA DEAN

  C/O HOTEL DU LAC, COMO

  CORNFORD HOUSE

  ———SQUARE,

  BOSTON

  September 14th, 1861

  My dear Girl,

  First let me apologize for the gloom of my last letter. The tenderness and calm of your reply was gratefully received and I heartily regret intruding on the pleasure of the lakes with my woes.

  For my part I hardly know how to begin to confide my myriad impressions of life in Boston, except to say that we are very busy without being occupied. Perhaps that is what social life is; I do not know. I never thought I would miss the continual solitude and uncertainty that accompanied me at Newport, but I must admit—and feel I can freely to you—that I do.

  Boston is a fine place: its inhabitants are sensible of this fact and very proud of being at the cradle of the New World. And there is no sense of doubt about embarking on this war, although its cost is continually debated. Fear, both of the act and its consequences, is not entertained. Neither is there a lack of gaiety at the evening parties I have attended, although my aunt is quick to remind me that they are not frivolous. Conversation frequently touches on matters I have very little knowledge of: history, literature, ideas of which I do not grasp the fundamentals, let alone feel equal to debate. I notice the other young ladies appear very forthright when expressing their views, although these views do not differ one to another in any way that I can discern. As for me—you would not know me, I am so still and quiet. There has been no dancing.

  And what news of your travels? To head south now that the weather is to turn cold seems a most appropriate course. Christmas in Rome—the very words hold unimaginable delight to your devoted friend. Do not allow it to pass by without experiencing every impression you can grasp. Do not waste your time in writing it if you are not inclined, but a postcard of something beautiful would lift my heart.

  Not that there is no beauty here.

  I long to work on it, be out in it. I have discovered that there is a drawing class, life class and watercolor class held here at several places in the city, but I have not even dared ask if I might attend.

  Observe how this family has succeeded in instilling fear in me where the school entirely failed?! It is only that I do not want to break the fragile bonds that keep me here. Exile would be far worse.

  With fondest love,

  Emily

  “Niece, you are aware we will be holding a Thanksgiving party in this house?”

  They were in the breakfast room that overlooked the blazing reds of the garden, and was used for no other purpose.

  “Yes, Uncle. My aunt has told me.”

  “It is to be the largest party we have ever given.”

  Mary spoke, deliberate and slow. “There will be flowers.”

  Her father continued as if she had not. “There will be a great deal of preparation.”

  “The floors will be waxed and polished, and the silver. There will be musicians,” said her aunt.

  Emily looked at William, who allowed a faint amusement to come into his eyes.

  Her uncle remained concentrated on her face. “You are sensible that this is a great honor, young lady?”

  “You shall have a dress for the occasion,” said her aunt.

  She did not know how to reply. Did they think her so frivolous that the idea of a new dress would make her squeak? Instead, she felt uncharacteristically ashamed.

  Her uncle went on. “Fifty will dine with us.” He stood up, folding his napkin carefully. “I have spoken with Captain Lindsay’s father.” His voice reminded her of paper, it was so dry. “He has been granted leave for Thanksgiving so he will be among us.”

  Emily was unaccustomed to blushing but she felt the stain climb her throat and flood her face. She could not speak or look into anyone’s face but felt the look, almost of disgust, her cousin Mary immediately gave her.

  “So. Your admirer will return,” said William lightly, and she felt how odious he could be in that second.

  “I will be glad to see such a friend.”

  In her room Emily looked at the clothes in her wardrobe: the shiny stuffs, the damasks and occasional silks, they hung there like so many uninhabited bodies. These different costumes she tried on were beautiful, burdensome, distant. Now there was to be another: alluring in intention she had no doubt; modest yet alluring; decorous yet alluring, and she clenched her little fists in a kind of anguish. She longed to see Captain Lindsay again, the warmth and confidence in his eyes, to hear him speak and feel he listened to what she had to say. She longed to know about the battlefield—how it was with him, whether he was afraid. She knew he was strong, but she feared he had changed. Above all she feared so public a meeting, the theatricality of the event. Would it not be better on the beach they had walked together, beneath the clearness of the sky?

  Nervousness and irritability took her appe
tite, and she could not help but spend the day of the party restlessly pacing the house until her aunt ordered her to take up her sewing in the music room and confine herself there until tea. Her cousin took himself away for most of the day but knocked on her bedchamber door in the afternoon when she was pretending to rest. The blinds were drawn. She came to open it and with the light came the clattering and the footsteps from below, and the sound of voices.

  “Are you indisposed, Cousin?” His smile invited a confidence, as ever.

  “Not in the least. But foolishly I think I may be suffering a little from nerves.”

  “They are only people. It is only a party.”

  “William, you know precisely what it is.”

  He was holding a rosewood box. “I have something for you. Do not be concerned; it is with my father’s permission. Would you like to open it, or shall I?”

  She felt a nervous clutching at her throat, an anticipation. “I am afraid.”

  “It is not Pandora’s box, you know. Merely a jewelry case. And you are never afraid.”

  She felt awkward, standing on the landing, the light from the long window staining his pale cheek and shadowed face.

  “You look tired, William.”

  “I wear the night out with working.”

  She felt a sudden tenderness. “A far from sensible habit.”

  “Open the box.”

  She touched the lovely surface and lifted the lid. Inside, on a bed of black velvet, lay an exquisite garnet necklace of simple and old-fashioned design: very delicate, the necklace of a young girl.