He put his hand upon her shoulder and touched her. It was an intimacy acutely gentle but she did not turn to face him.
“I saw you leave the ballroom. Are you indisposed?”
She could not reply but shook her head. The coughing was easing but her eyes streamed. It was galling to be quivering like a sick animal before him. The truth was that she was quite outside and above everything: the splendor of the rooms, the conviviality of the party, the sweetness of his sister, who still stood close by, attempting to comfort her—all the colors, sounds and lights seemed to rush at her and retreat just as the pounding in her ears reminded her of the ocean.
“Let us have a breath of fresh air. I shall fetch your cloak.”
While he did so she stood and looked around her, still struggling, desperate for calm. The peacock-blue of the walls made the room more cavernous than the ballroom with all its pale gaiety, and the vast portraits looming above her made her feel very small. He and his sister wrapped her up carefully and then Meg excused herself while her brother led Emily through the doors at the back of the hall and down the steps into the garden. It was extremely cold. She was still gasping.
“Hold on to my arm, and breathe,” he said.
“It is nothing, I assure you.”
“Do not try to speak. I will be quite all right with silence.” There were tapers in the snow along the garden paths and lanterns strung among the trees. They walked slowly, like dreamers. “The truth is, I think I merely wanted an excuse to show you this.”
She stopped and smiled at him. “It is beautiful. But I could see it equally well from the house.”
He laughed a little. “I do not think I have ever heard you so prosaic.”
She pressed her hands to her eyes. How must she look to him? So flushed and strange.
“It can be stuffy in these ballrooms,” he said. “And they are not your natural element, I fancy.”
“No.”
He turned toward her now and she looked clearly at him, knowing that if there were to be a moment for his declaration, this should be it, all the light in his eyes and softness in his face making her feel excited and afraid. But he said nothing, only lifting his hand to lightly touch her throat and jaw, as if to make sure they were real.
On a sudden there was an explosion of fireworks in the sky, a rat-a-tat that at first seemed like gunfire and the smoke of canon. It was a terrifying noise, but her sensation swung from fear to delight as sparks shot through the firmament, puncturing the dark night with explosions of light. Their joyfulness seemed to Emily immensely brave and when they faded, leaving only smoke on the night breeze, her heart longed for more. The sound of voices came to her, murmured pleasure, exclamations, footsteps, as the assembled company came out of the house to observe it also, to laugh and clap and ooh and aah as the New Year’s bells were ringing. The joy and clarity of the bells—the hope in them—made her want to cry. Captain Lindsay touched her hand but turned away from her to his guests. They had approached too quickly. The moment had passed.
Emily caught sight of William making his way through the crowd to her side. She did not want to speak to him; she did not want him near her, overwhelmed by the violence of the feeling. But she had nowhere to retreat to, and besides she was not in the habit of running away. He advanced with his usual slow step, leaning on his cane. She did not look away, but watched him watching her, the time stretching out, forcing her to shiver, as if at the encroachment of an unnameable horror.
He took her hand and, pressing it to his lips, he said, “Forgive me, Cousin, if I am at fault and have hurt you recently. Forgive me. And happy New Year.” The gesture and look was humble, but he was not.
She could say nothing in reply; only smile a strained smile. Captain Lindsay was still at her side, but his attention was occupied in speaking to someone else, and with the increasing seconds she felt less and less under his protection. Her cousin began to press her to come away from the party: midnight had struck, his parents were tired and the carriage had been called.
Captain Lindsay accompanied them to the door of the carriage and closed it himself. He lowered his head and said to her in a quiet tone, “I shall come and call on you directly,” but she had felt unable to look into his face. Her heart had trembled with inexplicable fear. She had not felt radiant to him, not as she had done, not any longer.
CAPTAIN J. C. H. LINDSAY
ASHBURTON PLACE, BOSTON
CORNFORD HOUSE
BOSTON
January 1st, 1862
Dear Sir,
I write to you on a very delicate and personal matter, and I hope that in so doing you will forgive me my presumption and see only my intentions, which I assure you are of the highest.
It cannot have escaped your notice that my beloved cousin and your esteemed friend was indisposed on the occasion of last night’s New Year’s Eve ball at your house. Indeed, you were kind enough to go to her aid with great speed. What I believe you do not know, unless another hand than mine has made you aware of it, is that my cousin is very likely suffering from the early stages of the consumption.
It is a painful and unavoidable truth that this terrible disease was responsible for extinguishing her dear mother, and that the rest of her family also suffered from it, although I understand that fever was also present in that unhappy household toward the end and contributed to the tragic demise of her father.
Much as I treasure my cousin, and I do treasure her, I have come to the unavoidable if agonizing conclusion that any gentleman who may be contemplating the irreversible step of marriage to her must be, and should be, aware of this fact in advance. My dear cousin, for all her undoubted charm, is in my opinion—and that of the world were it more widely known—unmarriageable.
I believe that my father—who has yet to see any evidence of the disease in the young lady—is of the opinion that she has remained miraculously untouched by this tragic stain, and therefore has allowed her to Boston for the season, believing, for private reasons, that marriage is the appropriate course for her. Much as I respect and defer to his judgment, however, I think it was plain to those who have eyes to see it that she was more than temporarily indisposed last evening.
I write this to you because I believe concealment to be a dishonorable and impractical course. While it may cause you pain to acquire this knowledge, it nonetheless allows you to retain your freedom and your honor, as I understand no promise has been made between you that any gentleman could consider binding.
I beg you, my dear Sir, not to reply to this letter or to refer to it again. Emily’s path must needs be a lonely one, but rest assured that I—her devoted cousin—will remain at her side to offer her my protection until her last breath.
Once again I ask you to forgive me for being the bearer of this intelligence, and entreat you to have the delicacy not to speak of it to another living soul—including, of course, the dear young lady herself.
Sir, I remain your true, etc., etc.,
William Cornford
MISS AUGUSTA DEAN
HOTEL D’ANGLETERRE, ROME
BOSTON
January 3rd, 1862
My dear Augusta,
I understood from Captain Lindsay that he is to quit Boston within the next day or, at most, two—and yet he has not called as he promised when we parted on New Year’s Eve. Now that I am decided, does he waver?
Forgive me.
Your devoted Emily
EIGHT
Miss Emily.”
“Captain Lindsay.”
The moment had come. He had been shown into the music room. She had stood up. He looked very tired and very solemn and she felt afraid. She had never seen him so pale.
“I trust I find you—well.”
“Of course. And I you?”
“Indeed.”
“Will you not sit down, Captain Lindsay?”
“Thank you, but I prefer to stand.”
This was not as she had imagined it, or as any conversation between the
m had yet been.
“You have come to bid me good-bye?” It was a nervous question, the words bubbling up without thought.
“I would like to. I find I can’t.” He did not smile.
“Forgive me if I am stupid but I cannot understand you.” She did not like the way they were standing still and looking at one another in so frozen a way.
“I have something to say.”
She tried to smile. “I must say it does not look as if it is to be very agreeable—”
“It is not.”
“Forgive me, Sir—is there bad news, a sickness in your family?”
“Yes. You have said it right.” He made an almost imperceptible movement toward her. “There is a sickness in my family. I find the girl I love is ill—forgive me, I am not at liberty to say how I know this, but she is ill—and all sense and reason tells me I should not ask her to be my bride. And yet I find that I must.”
“I do not understand.”
“Your mother died of the consumption, did she not?”
Emily’s hand came up to her mouth and she bit down on the flesh while a wave of sea-cold engulfed her.
“My precious girl—I am so sorry.” He took her hand and pulled it free, grasping it in both of his. “I cannot bear to cause you pain.”
“I should have told you.”
“No. But if you are unwell …” He was standing very close now.
“Indeed I am not. There has never been so much as one speck of blood—” and saying this her throat closed and she began to cough again.
Keeping hold of her hand he pressed her to sit down. “Is there water in the room? Is there?”
She shook her head and he immediately rang for it while she struggled to breathe. “I am quite recovered.” There was a silence. “But, Sir, I feel ashamed.”
“It is your uncle who should be ashamed.”
“I am always hoping that I will remain free of it—it is my constant prayer.” She was speaking rapidly, wildly, to his heart, reckless and relieved to be free of the secrecy, the burden of it.
“Listen to me, Emily. I meant to tell you in this interview that I could not ask for your hand and why—because it would have been dishonorable merely to have shrunk away without a word of explanation. I owe you—”
“You owe me nothing.”
“But as the knowledge settled with me, I came to understand its unimportance. Do you not see? You have my heart. Will you marry me?”
He sat beside her, holding both her hands in the safety of his grasp. She touched her forehead to his as if in submission and then drew back a little, looking at him, and thinking of the fear she had caused him, ringing for the water, the struggle with his heart he had already endured. She closed her eyes as if to blot him out and distinctly saw the row of new-made graves in the cemetery at Buffalo.
Looking at him, she said, “I cannot say yes now, with sickness between us.”
He did not move, but stayed close to her. “It is I who could make you a widow.” He smiled with great tenderness and solemnity, pressing his cheek to hers, and she felt all the satisfied longing that belongs to a comforted child. For a long minute there was no talking as she closed her eyes again. She saw herself in her wedding dress, delicate fine-spun lace. She saw the graves again.
“No, I cannot,” she whispered. “I know now I cannot.”
The servant came into the room and he stood up in some confusion while the water was placed carefully on the table beside her. Then he held out the glass for her to drink but she refused it, shaking her head.
“Emily?”
“I cannot. I am sorry. I cannot marry you. I cannot marry.” She buried her head in her hands.
He took her wrists and shook them with some wildness. “Do not hide from me. Show me your face.”
She dropped her hands and looked at him, his eyes so full of the promises in his heart. “You have discharged all your duty, Sir—you have made me the offer in full possession of my shameful history. Your honor is unblemished. It is mine that concerns me now.” There was a pause as he seemed to grope to understand. “Leave me, please.”
“Emily—I am your friend. You do not need to—”
“You must give way to me in this.” It was an odd whisper.
“My dear girl—”
“Go.” With her lifted head and blazing eyes she gave him the command like a queen.
When he had gone and she had heard his footsteps in the hall and the firm closing of the outside door, she went blindly to her sewing box and took out her cutting scissors. Then she went directly to her room and, without looking in the glass, cut off all her hair.
Waking in the night as if from a nightmare—but one she could not remember—there was a second’s ignorance before the knowledge came to her: she had sent him away and he was gone. She put her hand up to her bare neck. She had been wrong. He would love her, he had promised, despite her shame.
Trembling, and as if to distract herself from the realization, she climbed out of bed and went to the window, which, unveiled, revealed a terrifying glimpse of the moon. It was bigger and brighter, whiter than she had ever seen it, appeared nearer, illuminating the square outside and thickening it with shadow.
I have been wrong, she thought. He promised to love me, for myself, for ever, and I have said no. He would love me as his own family, as I loved my mother, as—And at the thought of her mother—the nursing, the coughing, the despair, the wild unfounded hope, the pain she and her father and Charlie had undergone—she felt in a flood of moonlight that she could not wish such a travail upon any living soul, particularly one she held so dear.
Her instinct—her memory, her pride, her rash blazing anger—had defended him as well as herself. This she must remember if ever she felt weakened again.
MISS EMILY HUDSON
CORNFORD HOUSE
BOSTON
BOSTON
January 3rd, 1862
My dear Emily,
Please forgive this somewhat ill-advised scrawl and give my words consideration nonetheless. Our interview of this morning repeats itself in my recollection and I long for a different answer.
On reflection—might you have another to give me?
Believe I am dedicated to you and you only.
Yours truly,
J. C. H. Lindsay
P.S. Kindly reply to this care of my regiment. I shall depart tomorrow.
CAPTAIN J. C. H. LINDSAY
———SQUADRON,
———REGIMENT
CORNFORD HOUSE
BOSTON
January 4th, 1862
Dear Captain Lindsay,
I must admit to feeling not a little pain at the contemplation of your handwriting—but that is merely for myself.
For your part I am most truly sorry to have caused you grief.
Circumstances decree that I must decline your kind offer.
You may yet have the opportunity to love another girl, and I do not think you should deprive yourself of it.
Yours truly,
Emily Hudson
MISS EMILY HUDSON
CORNFORD HOUSE
BOSTON
———SQUADRON,
———REGIMENT
January 6th, 1862
Dear Miss Emily,
I quite fail to understand why both you and I should be made to suffer because of “circumstances,” as you so describe them. If—as I flatter myself you do—you own to a wish to accept my proposal, I earnestly beg that you consider carefully once more before breaking both our hearts.
Yours truly,
J. C. H. Lindsay
MISS EMILY HUDSON
BOSTON
———SQUADRON
January 20th, 1862
Dear Miss Emily,
Why this silence?
I entreat you to write just one word to me, and that word to be “Yes.”
If it cannot be that, do not leave me with nothing.
Yours,
J. C. H. Lindsay
CAPTAIN LINDSAY
———SQUADRON
BOSTON
January 25th, 1862
Dear Captain Lindsay,
I entreat you to write no further letters to me. My uncle declares it improper, as we are not promised to one another, or likely to be.
Despite our interview and our recent correspondence, you appear unable to respect the decision I have made. Perhaps it would be easier if I were to tell you that I am fully resolved never to marry.
I cannot express to you how deeply I regret what has taken place between us. I have always regarded you as a true friend, and I hope that you will allow me to continue to regard you as such. Know that I will always be your true friend if you allow it. I am so sorry and so ashamed of the pain I have caused.
Please also allow me the dignity of ending our correspondence. I beg you to understand my reasons for this; also that you remain in my thoughts.
Emily Hudson Page 10
