Emily Hudson

by Melissa Jones

  “It was your mother’s.”

  “She never spoke of it. But of course, she left all her belongings behind.”

  “We would like you to wear it this evening, to receive the company.”

  Her dress was russet, in some lights inclining to olive green. It would be a perfect complement, both in color and ornament. Her head drooped, looking at the gold and garnet and the exceptional promise its richness held.

  “You are certain my uncle would like me to wear it?”

  “He asked me to bring it to you.”

  She couldn’t quite touch it, but closed the lid. “Then I will,” she said, and he gave it into her hands.

  Emily was unable to look at the necklace again until the moment after she had been dressed and her hair almost elaborately arranged. The maid, Betsey, gently helped her to fasten it, smiling.

  “You are beautiful, Miss. Look.”

  There was a kind of splendor in her reflection. The necklace embraced her, its delicate teardrop pendant sitting flat beneath her collarbones like an amulet. Mother, she said silently to her reflection. Mother.

  Betsey hurried away to attend to Mary and she was left alone in the lamplight.

  There was a knock on the door and it was William. He was beautifully dressed in evening clothes. He looked comical. “I wondered if you would like me to accompany you downstairs?” he said. She felt that the actors on stage at the play must behave like this. He took a step back to look at her and smiled.

  “Don’t you dare pronounce on me,” she said.

  “I would not presume,” he replied, making way for her. She closed the door.

  After that it was all waiting for Captain Lindsay to come to her. At first she stood in the marble hall among the strangers: some whom she knew, some she had never encountered before. The candlelight was very beautiful and the shadows made it no less so. Soft light brought mystery to the most prosaic face, glamour to the blandness of any grouping. At the beginning it was difficult to breathe, standing beneath the chandelier.

  “Smile, my dear,” whispered her uncle. “Smile.”

  He did not come while they received the guests cold from their carriages and wrapped against the night, and after that she began to forget she had been waiting for him, because her uncle remained at her elbow, guiding her through the rooms amongst the throng of distinguished young and distinguished old.

  She found herself beside William’s godfather. He had white hair. “I have never known your uncle give such a reception,” he said. “This house has not held such a party since your dear mother lived here. What an entrancing young lady she was.”

  “I am sure.”

  “She had a great deal more than beauty. They do not speak of her?”

  “No.”

  “Then neither should we.”

  Had her mother’s presence been so fleeting that it had left no imprint on the richness of these rooms? But Emily knew fiercely as she thought this that she was present, and not only to herself, in every form save the substantial.

  Captain Lindsay came into the room as the guests were beginning to go in to dinner, the noise of the party disguising his arrival until Emily glimpsed him moving toward her with a smile that was not quite his accustomed easy expression.

  “My dear girl, it has been too long. I am delighted to see you.”

  He grasped her hands and she looked up into his face. “I too am delighted.”

  He looked sunburned, or rather weathered, as if he had been to sea, and larger than she remembered, and his eyes were a darker blue.

  “And how is Boston treating you, my dear?” He still held her hands. She knew he should not.

  She could think of nothing. “It is a fine place. It is …” She searched for a word.

  “Aah. I see. Worse than I feared.” He smiled. “Tell me, have you been out walking?” The firmness of his hands transmitted something of his energy to her. She did not want to let go.

  “No.”

  “To the play?”

  “No. My uncle does not approve of the play.”

  “Then your cousin must take you.”

  “I do not think he cares to. He has many occupations, you understand, beyond my amusement.” She tried to sound light-hearted.

  “You do not complain.”

  “Why should I complain? This is a splendid party.” She felt conspicuous; William was looking at them—they were at the very center of the room.

  Captain Lindsay seemed unaware of this. “Do you pursue your drawing?”

  “Sometimes. My resources are limited: I have no colors. I play. Why so many questions?”

  “I seek to imagine your life here, all at once, and it cannot be done. I—Forgive me for interrogating you.” His voice gentled. “I only mean to see how you do.”

  “And how do you do? I take it your time is not spent at the play?” She laughed and it did not sound to her as her laugh should. “Forgive me. It is my turn to apologize. I am awkward when I try to apply myself with any decorum to the danger in which you put yourself.” The room was emptying around them as the company went in to dinner. She knew—standing so still—that they were the object of glances but she could not look away from him.

  “What a formal speech,” he said.

  “I wish you would not go to war.” She spoke in more like her accustomed tone and in a lower voice, and at last he let go of her hands and they turned to follow the others. She felt a little tremor as the bond was broken.

  Velvet curtains hung at the room’s long windows. “Which is your favorite window seat?” he asked.

  “The one to the left.”

  “Of course,” he said, “of course it would be.”

  In his smile he was still holding her hands. She knew he should not have held them for so long and she knew she did not care.

  At dinner he sat down the table and across from her at a diagonal. She tried not to look at him. He was speaking with great vigor on the subject of the arming of the South and he looked so definite and solid and alive it was as though he could never be killed. His evening dress, his cufflinks, the shape of his hands, it was as if their very existence denied that they could ever be extinguished. Perhaps there was no need to be afraid. Perhaps he could not be killed. And yet she knew her reasoning was entirely flawed. Had not Charlie looked that way, and her mother, and her sisters, and her dear papa? It seemed so peculiar to be sitting at this long shiny table heavy with silver and crystal and candles and be eating so opulent a supper and be thinking such thoughts.

  An unending interval divided dinner and their next words. It was not as if he were the only gentleman to whom she was expected to speak. But after the pouring of the coffee he came to her where she sat on a little sofa in conversation with William, who moved away, murmuring something in an irritatingly insinuating tone.

  “I regret that my sister could not be present this evening,” he said. “She is on her wedding trip, and I would so like for you to have met her.”

  “You are very kind.” She had never sat so close beside him before. It felt absolutely natural. She had the extravagance of minutes in which to examine his face so she could try to remember it before the next time.

  “And you are very changed now you find yourself in these surroundings,” he said. “Do you know that? So quiet, you see.”

  Was he disappointed in her? She hoped not. “Is it so apparent?” She looked into his face and was relieved he should know her.

  He smiled. “I hope I do not presume.”

  “Not at all. But I have been warned not to disgrace my family with my opinions.” She said it lightly.

  “Is that indeed true?” He lowered his voice. “Your family’s behavior toward you has always … surprised me, but—”

  She smiled as if it did not matter. “Yes. It is true.”

  “But Emily, you could only ever adorn it. Forgive me, but you are very beautiful tonight.”

  She wanted to laugh but the laughter died. He began to speak more quickly as if
anticipating an interruption and in an urgent tone. “There has been no opportunity to converse—in private—about anything important, but please know you are constantly in my thoughts.” They were silent but continued to look at one another. And then he smiled. “I promise to survive until Christmas so that I shall be able to continue to court you.”

  “You are far too frivolous, Sir.”

  “But not mistaken, I hope, in my expectations.”

  “No. Never mistaken.” She could not look at him. Glancing up she saw her aunt beginning to approach from across the room.

  He continued to speak rapidly, almost in a whisper. “Will you not take my hand again and smile and say there will be time, at Christmas, time then? Just one word?”

  She looked up quickly and his eyes held all the fervent energy she felt she now lacked—that her stay in this house had sapped—but all the interest and feeling she shared. “Yes,” she said, revived, clasping his hand briefly. “There will be time.”

  Her aunt was before them and he got to his feet. “We are not in the habit of keeping late hours, Niece. Have you not noticed that the party is beginning to disperse?”

  Emily nodded, murmuring something about bidding farewell to the guests.

  “You are an angel,” he whispered, as he said good-bye.

  “Death can be such an aphrodisiac, don’t you find?” said William, as they parted with their candles outside her bedroom door.

  All the next morning Emily felt choked and heavy and thirsty. The house had been overheated the night before, thick with candles and fires in every room. It was emptier than ever after so many footsteps, voices and so much laughter. She was at her sewing when her uncle’s servant came into the music room with a substantial package wrapped in brown paper. It was addressed to her. She waited until he was gone to open it. It was a large and beautiful wooden box with a shining clasp. A series of delightful cubbyholes and drawers contained paper, oil paints and brushes of the highest quality.

  The small card attached read: Paint me a portrait. Respectfully, Captain J. C. H. Lindsay.

  It was then that she cried and longed to have spoken her heart to him when he had first held her hands.

  MISS AUGUSTA DEAN

  HOTEL D’ANGLETERRE, ROME

  BOSTON

  November 30th

  My dearest Friend,

  How I long and long to see you again. If only you were beside me in this room, close to this piano, this mantelpiece, this fire and this friend who so fervently desires to confide in you. I fear I am becoming a stranger to myself.

  But forgive me, and allow me to explain, if you have the patience. The Thanksgiving party of which I wrote was pronounced a great success by this family—not in so many words, you understand, because that would indicate too deep an engagement with worldly things, but my uncle said it had been “Most satisfactory,” my aunt that she was “gratified,” and William that it had been “particularly interesting and diverting.” Mary did not express an opinion but I feel she had no cause to shrink from the company as she might have feared—it was indeed entirely convivial.

  As for your girl—it was like being at sea in a storm! So many people, it seemed unreal, and I could not remember their names. I was trembling because I so longed to see Captain Lindsay, and trembling because I so feared it. When he did come, he was very—I struggle for the words—solicitous about my welfare, without abandoning his customary energetic air. He brought the feeling of being outside with him, beyond these rooms and this self-regarding city. He carried with him that delightful air of conviction I have always so admired, and he remarked on a change in my spirits that I must admit I had not observed in myself, but has been encroaching by degrees. There could never be bare feet here.

  He said he would return. He said he intends to court me: such a very serious word. I must admit that I was immediately filled with delight, and that I also do admit to a profound affection for and interest in him.

  Yet my first thoughts regarding his attentions were that they were an answer to my uncle’s prayer: he could have me out of his house easily within a twelve-month. He would be satisfied and tell us all it is God’s will. But then what would my future existence be? I lay in the dark last night terrified of looking into the future—but it must be done—it preys on my mind even if I decide it must not. If I were to be married I would have the captain by my side, and he is a companion to whom I believe I could become devoted.

  But—you must be shrieking as you read this—if he were not all he is in the world, with his income and property and the sum of independence that that implies, would he still be the seemingly limitless possibility he is to me now? In short, do I truly, deeply, love him, devotedly as a wife should? Could I? Does this excitement, this delight at the thought of him and his presence, does it presage the strength of a lifelong bond? I am sensible I should not even be debating these things within myself, especially as he has not yet made an offer, but I believe him to be a man of honor whose affections are truly engaged and therefore there is scant reason to expect that he will not.

  I do so long to be free of this place.

  And then there is the other matter, to which I have shut my eyes throughout this long and contorted letter: what would be my fate if he were to make the ultimate sacrifice and not return from this war? Could I bear to be promised to him and fretting every minute that he could be wounded or killed—could I be his wife with the same terror clutching at my heart? Should we not wait until the war is over? Or would my uncle banish me well before such a time could ever come?

  If only you were here for me to unburden this to and hear your sensible counsel. You have always had a wiser head than mine.

  Here I am in the panic of my thoughts and feelings, scribbling so fast that I have forgotten that I had planned to write to you of all the things I have been reading about Rome in my uncle’s library—and dazzle you—and convince you that you have another (invisible) companion on your journey.

  I long for your return to Boston and apologize for my own selfishness in so doing.

  Your ever loving,

  Emily xxxxx

  MISS EMILY HUDSON

  BOSTON, MASS

  ———BATTALION

  December 5th, 1861

  My dear Miss Hudson,

  I trust that you have received my respectful present in good order and that you are beginning to make good use of it. When I remember you it is always with an impression of vivid colors and it gives me happiness to imagine them at your disposal.

  I feel I cannot write with any clarity about how it was for me to see you while the impression remains so strong, and yet it is like another world compared to this place.

  Be occupied, my dear girl. Try to persuade that languid cousin of yours to take you for a walk.

  Yours truly,

  Captain J. C. H. Lindsay

  CAPTAIN J. C. H. LINDSAY

  BOSTON

  December 6th, 1861

  Dear Sir,

  I must take this opportunity to thank you for your recent letter and—once more, as I sit beside them—for the oil paints. (My previous letter of thanks must have crossed with your own.) I have never owned anything so luxurious in my life. They are such a joy.

  I promise to go out walking.

  Yours truly,

  Emily Hudson

  MISS EMILY HUDSON

  ———HOUSE

  ———SQUARE

  ———BATTALION

  December 10th, 1861

  My dear Miss Emily,

  Two such brief letters! But then I admit I am a poor correspondent myself. I lack the knack of letter writing; or skill, or talent, what you will.

  Shortly you should receive an invitation to my family’s New Year’s Eve party in town. I cannot write adequately of my longing to see you at our Boston house. God willing, it will be soon.

  I will write no further until then.

  Yours ever,

  J. C. H. L.

  SEVEN

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nbsp; I hope you have a pair of galoshes, Cousin—it is cold out of doors.”

  “Of course I have. I went to school in the woods, you know.”

  William and Emily emerged from the house on to snow-covered steps and snow lay in abundance in every direction.

  “This is not merely a stroll along city streets,” he said, attempting to guide her by the arm as they descended. “It is an expedition to the harbor.”

  “Let me go—you will trip me up.”

  He was avoiding her eyes. “I planned it, for I know how you love the water.”

  “Cousin, I am glad of it.”

  The carriage made its muffled way through the snow.

  “Fresh snow,” he said, “fresh snow has a glory in it. Not slushy and brown and melting—I can’t abide it then, but now, when it is all clean and thick and deep. Full of promises. Unsullied.”

  She tried to smile at him but he was not looking at her, but contemplating the snow. “Yes. Now it is at its best.” They had made snow-men in the yard as children while their mother baked biscuits. “Is the snow this heavy where they are fighting?”

  At last he turned to her and gave her a quizzical look, as if she amused him with her ignorance and girlishness. “I believe so, my dear, yes. It is best not to think of it,” he said slowly. But now, of course, she could think of nothing else.