Emily Hudson

by Melissa Jones

  “My cousin’s interest in art is that of a professional,” said William. “She is not a frivolous young lady. Neither are her wishes dependent on financial considerations. And all bills will, of course, be sent to me, care of my club.”

  Emily blushed that he should be so obvious about these arrangements, when he usually advocated such delicacy. Could he not have put it more nicely?

  Miss Norton replied, “If you give the details to my secretary, they shall be recorded.” He nodded. “And you, my dear, are most welcome to our school.”

  The lady recommended an establishment in the Burlington Arcade where they could purchase suitable materials, as only the most basic were provided by the school. Emily and William strolled in the dappled sunlight along the streets of South Kensington before catching a cab for the short journey, and Emily felt a great surge of happiness and desire for the future.

  “I do so hate feeling exhausted,” William said.

  Emily was elated, not only that her studies were settled upon at last but because of her cousin’s expansive mood.

  Arm in arm at the Arcade they stopped outside one of the jewelry shop windows. The display was crowded, brilliant with heavily set gems, old and new, of such grandeur and magnificence that Emily could not imagine ever wearing them.

  “Do they not hurt your eyes, William?” she laughed.

  “I think the sapphires would be your stone,” he said, ignoring the question, and indicating a necklace and earrings glowing and glittering with dark marine-blue and encrusted with diamonds. “I should love to see you—But I could never buy you jewelry: that is for a father, brother or lover only.”

  “None of which I have or am likely to have,” said Emily, lightly. Pausing to observe, she continued, “I must admit to a weakness for jewelry—or is it only for the beauty of the display? And I love imagining all the stories of all the women who have worn these pieces, and shall wear them, alive or dead.”

  “They tell of a history of wealth, the safety and security of riches.”

  She could see William was comforted by that, their part in the edifice of money. “But is it not more their beauty that is to be treasured and celebrated?”

  “Beauty caught—that is how I would prefer to see it. Beauty caught and, more than that, for ever enshrined.”

  They walked on.

  In the artists’ shop William bought thick paper and fine brushes, oozing colors and clear solutions, with an extravagance she had never seen in him before, so far exceeding Emily’s expectations that he had to order the items to be wrapped and sent to her address.

  “William, stop! I will not be able to carry it all to school!” She had never been so spoiled and indulged and was surprised by how uncomfortable it made her feel.

  “It is of no consequence. I desire you to have the best, and never want for anything. You must have every means at your disposal necessary for your work. If there is no room for it at the school you shall keep a small studio in your rooms, and then you shall have no cause to feel alone.”

  MISS BRIDGET NORTON

  SOUTH KENSINGTON ART SCHOOL

  SW

  CARLTON CLUB, SW

  May———, 1862

  Dear Miss Norton,

  I write to confirm the arrangement made today between us, namely that you shall undertake the instruction of my young cousin, Miss Hudson, in any class she might care to attend at your establishment.

  My other purpose is to state, as delicately as possible, for I have no intention of causing alarm, that her health has not always been strong, and so I would urge you not to tax her nor to expect too high a standard of work from her. Your emphasis should be on the enjoyment of her work: criticism would come as a severe blow to her. She requires a diverting occupation, nothing more; I shall take it amiss if I see any sign of strain or exhaustion in her face.

  This letter is written without my cousin’s knowledge, for reasons I am sure you will understand. I am her protector and, as such, must also defend her pride.

  With all good wishes

  Yours etc.,

  William Cornford

  MISS AUGUSTA DEAN

  HOTEL D’ANGLETERRE, ROME

  MAYFAIR, LONDON

  May 30th, 1862

  Darling Augusta,

  Your Rome sounds splendidly easy and full of pleasure—beautiful at this time of year! But still no news of a proposal. You are very patient, dear girl, far more patient than I should be!

  Here, in the Anglo-Saxon world, I work hard and apply myself.

  I have started in earnest at my new school: it is hard work, very hard work and solitary. Although I am continually among people, I feel set apart, dressed in my somber Boston colors, speaking in my alien voice. Most young ladies attend classes as a form of finishing school, and they giggle and chat and gossip about parties and balls and entertainment and where to get the correct lace, and their hair is invariably elaborately dressed. I wonder if you and I behaved in that silly way when we were at school! Surely we had more passion, more life in us, less frivolity. It is baffling. I do not know.

  But the work is a joy. Applying myself, learning, stumbling, and very occasionally approaching what I am attempting is infinitely satisfying. I think of my father and his beautiful work, so sadly lost when our house was sold, and hope he would be proud.

  I find I adore Miss Norton. There can be no other word for it. She teaches many of the classes herself; she is emotional and disciplined and intelligent and utterly frightening with her loud voice and her unsmiling, concentrated air. And she is beautiful as well as stern. I long for her either to criticize or praise something I have done, but to date she has only looked on in silence. The girls say they think she was once married, but no one knows for certain. It is impossible to discern her age.

  I work at the school every morning. In the afternoons I frequently stay to finish a piece in the studio on the top floor, a comforting room and sunny. Sometimes I continue my street wanderings, or occasionally copy a masterpiece from the Wallace Collection. I avoid the National Gallery: it is so noisy always, and full.

  Occasionally in the evenings I dine with William, away from his club, which he never ceases to remind me is an inconvenience for him, for they will not allow ladies—as if it were my fault! He is frequently waspish and tired and, although eager to hear entertaining stories of my adventures about town, shows little curiosity or sympathy. I have come to recognize it in him when he is absorbed with his work, and he is under particular strain because he has started his first novel and feels he has much to prove. His stories have been so well- received here that he feels a public weight of expectation that has never troubled him before.

  And so we rub along, and it is altogether rather strange.

  Please write to me with some very mundane news of your life in Rome (if that is all there is), because I own that sometimes the peculiarities of this country—and indeed my cousin—threaten to overwhelm me.

  Looking forward to your news and gossip.

  With all love,

  Emily

  TWELVE

  Lord Firle was waiting for her on the steps of her lodgings. He was standing, head down, stroking his whiskers as if uncertain how to proceed. She felt a shudder of recognition somehow guilty, as if in thinking of him so often she had willed him to appear. It was definitely he. Quickly she debated with herself whether to turn and run away. If she were to hesitate a moment he might go and she could breathe more easily. Instead, he looked up and directly at her across the road.

  She broke into a sudden wide smile, unexpected for them both, and almost ran across the street to meet him.

  “This is most improper,” he said, as if it did not matter in the least.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you take tea with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Or do you have another engagement?” He was teasing and she laughed, both terrified and elated at her own daring.

  “No, I most certainly do not,” she exclaimed.
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  “Let me take your things.” He relieved her of her portfolio and small reticule. It made her feel curiously bereft. “We shall go to Brown’s. I think it might rain.”

  She looked into his face so closed and sure, but he did not glance back, concentrating on avoiding pitfalls and the mud splatter from carriage wheels. They hurried along, past the blur of other people and their lives. She was with someone at last and had somewhere to go. She felt some tired part of her fall away.

  The hotel was a warren of low-ceilinged rooms, plush and warm with fires that reflected off the silver. His was one of those presences that a waiter could never ignore, and they were instantly attended to.

  He sat quite appallingly close to her, their knees almost touching, and he rubbed his hands. “Tea cakes, I think.” He looked at her. “And sandwiches. You do not look as if you have eaten a thing since I last set eyes on you and that was at least—”

  “A month ago,” she replied.

  “Indeed.”

  She removed her gloves, cloak and bonnet: she must not think of how she must look, all rain-stained and bedraggled. The tea was hot, scented, delicious, the china exquisite and she was hungry, if a little throat-closingly sick at the same time.

  “That’s better,” he said, when she started to eat.

  “I am not a starved London sparrow, you know.”

  He laughed. “You seek to quarrel with me, as well as your cousin?”

  “Of course not.”

  “How is dear William, by the way? I hear he works hard.”

  “He does. And his stories are appearing everywhere. He says there is nothing so stimulating as travel for a writer.”

  “I wonder he doesn’t tire of it.“

  “Might you, if you were in his place?”

  “Certainly. But that is my misfortune. I tire remarkably easily.”

  She looked up at his smile and intense gaze and decided he was teasing; he was the most energetic gentleman she had ever encountered.

  “Being descended from a long line of idlers, I find time weighs on me, and no especial responsibility or imperative has ever held any weight with me. But you interest me. You—like myself—are entirely alone.”

  This was not what she should be doing. He was talking to her in the worst way, quite intimately. She must show him that it would not do, but she was at a loss as to how to reply, how to attempt to take the subject away from the personal. She said at last, “Do you have business that keeps you in town?”

  “Nothing in especial. I will stay for the season, if it is not too dull. After that I shall go into Northamptonshire to my estates. Perhaps travel a little. I do not know.” He leaned closer toward her. “I would like to take you to the play.”

  Emily felt that everybody must be looking at them. Such a tête-à-tête in so public and respectable a place could not pass unnoticed.

  “I think I should like that,” she said, without thinking. “But not—alone.”

  “Of course not. Whatever gave you that idea? That would not do at all. I shall call on my dear Caroline. She sends her regards, by the way. She and her brother would make up the party. Eat a little seed-cake, my dear. Then tell me about this art school of yours.”

  “It is beautiful. Very demanding.”

  “Schools are not beautiful, Miss Hudson. Go on.”

  “I work hard and I am learning.”

  “May I see?” He began to untie the ribbon on her portfolio.

  “No.”

  “You are very decided.”

  “Nothing is ready. Nothing is—right.”

  “Very well.” He yawned. “I think you are becoming altogether too serious. What do they call it? Bluestocking. I want a return of the pretty young thing in the rose garden with the dew still on her I remember so vividly.”

  “Was that more amusing?”

  “Infinitely.”

  He wore a heavy gold signet ring on his arched and elegant finger. She studied it, feeling she should be annoyed, angered that he should refer to her in that way. But instead it made her want to laugh.

  “It is not that you are amusing,” he said. “That is not your quality. It is all the passion you have in that slight young frame, in your mind and heart, and—who knows—you could even have talent. In addition you have the courage of your convictions. There is very little of that in the world.”

  He looked at her, her naked throat and wrists and hands that were smudged, and she looked back. “You are lovely. A little American bird.”

  On a sudden it was very serious, their look, and overwhelming to her blood. Then he smiled. “Will you have a glass of champagne?”

  “No. I most certainly will not.” But she laughed.

  “No matter. Another time.”

  He hailed a cab and bundled her into it.

  “I do not want you walking in the dark,” he said, pressing coins into the driver’s hand. “Oh, I nearly forgot,” and he passed her the portfolio through the window, “I will make sure Caroline sends to you about the theater.”

  And before the cab could drive away he was gone.

  MISS AUGUSTA DEAN

  HOTEL D’ANGLETERRE, ROME

  MAYFAIR, SW

  June 2nd, 1862

  My dear Friend,

  You may remember I mentioned a gentleman to you whom I became acquainted with at Richmond. It is of no consequence if you do not recall. It is only that I—I have been entertained by him in private and altogether intimate circumstances that I fear I should not have allowed. Indeed I know I should not. My darling girl—do not distress yourself—it was merely the taking of tea—and yet we were quite alone.

  You—more than anyone—have always known how little I care about the opinion of the world. Equally you know that all my misdemeanors have been of a most minor kind. It seems my uncle has entrusted me with more of his conscience than I care to admit.

  My mother would always advise me to judge according to my own standards, but that is what I am struggling with—understanding them, coming to appreciate what they are.

  Since I have come to this country I have felt remarkably confused. The steady things are the school—the work, which I am thankful for—but the luxury of solitude can transmute into—not exactly a curse—but a burden—a burden of varying weights.

  I write myself into a corner.

  This gentleman interests me. He is intelligent and his view of the world is unusual, might I say. He also holds an attraction for me that I cannot describe, but feel you might understand if you were to see him. I fear he flatters me. I have always prided myself on being unique. People of unique sensibility are naturally inclined to one another—are they not? But we all know what comes after pride.

  Forgive me, my dear friend.

  I will write in more favorable mood anon.

  Fondest love,

  Emily

  [Letter unsent]

  Miss Trelawney waited in the carriage while her brother climbed the front steps. Emily had seen them draw up from her window and felt unaccountably moved that they had come expressly for her. She ran down on hearing the bell, without waiting for the servant to come up. Important things must be accomplished at speed, she felt. Passing the open door of the parlor she glimpsed Mrs. Denham sewing in the lamplight, but was unsure whether it would be better manners to acknowledge her or pretend she had not seen her. Full of vigor and excitement, she did not much care and hurried past the door with a barely perceptible nod.

  Mr. Trelawney’s greeting was agreeable, formal, full of his peculiar charm of reserve and cordiality combined, and Emily felt a gaiety sweep her even before she had pressed Miss Trelawney’s hand. Her friend was looking altogether handsome in some richness of dress, the brightness of the new fashionable colors contrasting with Emily’s dull green stuff.

  The crowd was thick on the steps, in the bar, every possible part of the theater—“All preening and plumage,” Mary would call it, she thought. But the splendor and the brightness of the people against the theater’s red
plush and pale blue and gold was a delight to her eyes.

  “You have gone very quiet, Miss Emily,” said Mr. Trelawney as they took their seats in the box: ladies in front, gentlemen perched behind.

  “Poor creatures,” murmured Miss Trelawney, indicating them, as she guided Emily to sit down.

  “I am a little overwhelmed, that is all.”

  “Firle will be along shortly,” said Mr. Trelawney as the lights were dimmed. “He is invariably late, you know.”

  Emily felt a pounding in her ears, a foolish panic. She had already decided not to say a word to anyone about their last encounter, sensing that he would know exactly what to do and say, but now that the moment approached her, the feeling of wrongdoing and excitement entwined overwhelmed her breathing. She must not think of then: the charm of the rose garden, the dark glow of their last interview, or of the encounter to come. She must think only of this moment, the box, keep it in her memory with her letters and her box of paints.

  The curtain went up and her first thought was of the quantity of face paint in the flickering gas light—beautiful yet grotesque, the words booming out over the noise in the pit and the chatter of the boxes. She suddenly thought it extraordinary that she should be doing something of such enormity without William.

  “Why do they not hush?” she whispered.

  “We are not in church, my dear,” said Miss Trelawney, and Emily felt the absurdity in the idea that she should be thought staid by anybody, especially at this moment. She was becoming acutely conscious of how she held herself, her quick breathing and the beating of her heart—and yet equally she felt invisible in the darkness compared to the jewel-like silk Miss Trelawney wore, giving off its soft luster, the cool gleam of riches all about her, the top hats—all black play of light like the furry heads of animals—the gas lights flickering, the noise of the boards, the heat and the collective smell of perfume and of sweat and the softness of the powder upon the ladies’ cheeks; and all the time she waited, suspended before the stage, above the stalls, free to study all the occupants of the other boxes, free to look only at the stage, but bound by the darkness behind her.