When Lord Firle opened the door to the box he let in a blaze of light and then fumbled in the dimness to close the door. “Confound this infernal thing!” he said, quite loudly.
“Good evening, my dear fellow,” said Mr. Trelawney, and the ladies, turning, politely inclined their heads.
Emily felt a wave of pleasure at the sight of his singularly fine face, and his air of naughtiness that on a sudden spoke to her of Charlie. But Charlie had never been elegant. Charlie had never had a fine suit of clothes.
Pushing that thought aside, where it could join the many others she did not want to think, she turned and glanced at Lord Firle again, desiring him to see the brilliance and gaiety in her eyes. And he smiled, once more in that disarmingly tender way he had, while his eyes remained amused, as if to promise all the things they would say to one another if an altogether different time and place existed. She took pleasure in believing they communicated with such ease in this imaginary sphere, holding herself very straight until the curtain fell on the first act, because she would not want him to see her as anything but entirely graceful. And there had been too much stooping over her work at the school.
During the interval the gentlemen fetched refreshments and Emily, in such close proximity to Caroline Trelawney, felt suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to say something to her of meaning, exchange a perception that would somehow unite them in intimacy, as if they were true friends.
But Miss Trelawney began with, “And how do you find the play, my dear?”
And so she replied in great deference to the conventional, “It is very amusing. I did not expect that.”
“That is because it is a comedy,” laughed her companion. “Do they not have comedies in Boston?”
“This is my first visit to the theater. My uncle did not approve of any lady of his acquaintance, let alone of his family, venturing out in search of pleasure.”
“And what is his opinion of their crossing oceans?”
“As you may imagine, not high.” On a sudden it felt very trivial and nonsensical to Emily, the struggle she had had. Laughter caught in her throat, the breath in her chest. Miss Trelawney smiled, but remained reserved. She did not appear to share the giddy aerial view of her travails that Emily had so swiftly attained. When the gentlemen returned to the box her giddiness only grew.
On the foggy steps outside the theater Mr. Trelawney shook Lord Firle’s hand. “Most enjoyable. Shall you say good night or come back to Grosvenor Square with us and take a little supper?”
“Very kind of you. But I shall see Miss Hudson home.”
“That is for us to do,” said Caroline quickly.
“Do not trouble yourselves. Allow me the pleasure,” said Lord Firle, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “It is of no consequence. And you would have to go out of your way.”
“My dear, I think you had better not,” whispered Miss Trelawney when Emily failed to reply, looking only at Lord Firle. She put a hand on Emily’s arm, quite firmly.
“Miss Emily?” said Firle. When she remained silent he laughed, then continued easily, but with an air of irritation, “If you must be so conventional, go with Thomas. I simply seek to make it easier for us all to find our beds as quickly as possible.”
“My dear fellow,” said Trelawney in warning, as if “bed” were somehow an appalling word, thought Emily. It was foolish and made her angry. Besides, she could not bear to say good night to Lord Firle.
“I will go with his Lordship,” she said, avoiding everyone’s eyes. “It is far simpler.” And rapidly she turned to bid the Trelawneys good night. Their manners remained perfectly pleasant and polite but she knew that they were displeased.
“Good night to you both,” said Firle briskly, and they walked away.
Emily began to laugh without gaiety. “I am not sure that I have acted wisely,” she said.
“One must ‘act’ in one’s own best interest,” he replied. At once she knew for a certainty that she had done wrong.
After some silence he said, “I shall take you to the perfect place for a late supper. It is just a moment’s walk from here.”
“I thought you were only to escort me home.”
“So you are truly not hungry?” He turned and smiled.
“Supper would be delightful,” she replied.
“You would do well to allow me to order for you,” said Lord Firle.
As he studied the menu Emily took great pleasure in observing his countenance, the quick life in his face. She examined it quite secretly, she felt: he was occupied and quite unaware.
They were seated in a private curtained booth to the back of the dining room. He asked the waiter how long the lamb had been hung and detailed questions about the sauce. He appeared in his element, ordering extravagantly, both precisely and vaguely, with great care. The other diners had all looked at them when they came in, and had remarked upon them quite openly, she felt. She had never before felt so prominent in a public place, and Emily was not sure how that made her feel. Yet at the same time, as ever with London, she was so marvellously secret, anonymous, away. She felt beautiful in his company.
They ate and drank lightly but well and were very frivolous and very gay, egged on by Firle’s extravagant mood. Emily caught it, the speed and precision of his thoughts, observations and discourse, responding to it with something of her own wildness and spirit. She felt free to exercise her curiosity.
“What do you like to do? What are your occupations?”
“I have already told you,” he replied. “I have none. In this country, gentlemen have pursuits—it’s far safer.”
She laughed. “Pursuits?” she repeated, feeling very daring.
“Hunting, fishing, shooting—the eternal round. We are very partial to our pleasures in Europe,” he said, with his usual lightness, but a greater concentration in his gaze.
“Lord Firle, I don’t think we should—”
“Of course we should not. You are quite right.” He turned away from her, raising his hand. “Waiter, my account.” He looked stern, displeased, and just for a fraction of a second reminded her of her uncle. Then he smiled. “I must take you home.”
They took a cab. It was cold and she held herself away from him, only allowing herself to observe him out of the corner of her eye. He did not try to speak to her—all the ease and hilarity of the evening seemed to have disappeared.
“I think I have behaved like a fool,” she said at last, quietly but quite distinctly.
“You did not consider that a minute ago,” he replied coolly.
When he handed her out into the cold night she felt his disappointment in her and an utter misery at their parting that was quite absurd. The horse stamped and snorted and the driver stared straight ahead.
“Have you ever been kissed?” he said at last, quite gentle.
She shook her head, feeling sudden tears. “No.”
“Would you like to be?”
She could not answer, only looking at his eyes that had lost their color in the darkness. He made a move as if to leave her and she reached out for his sleeve. When he kissed her it was all there was.
MISS EMILY HUDSON
———SQUARE
MAYFAIR, SW
GROSVENOR SQUARE, SW
5th June, 1862
My dear Miss Emily,
I am taking the liberty of writing to you at the earliest opportunity to inquire whether you would do me the honor of calling on me this morning.
I am not formally “At Home” until this afternoon, so we shall be quite undisturbed.
Yours truly,
Caroline Trelawney
The grandeur of Caroline’s house in Grosvenor Square far exceeded even her uncle’s establishment at Boston, but Emily did not think about that as she was ushered up the stairs. It was only the wild tired joy of the evening that filled her head and heart. She was exhausted with happiness and dry-eyed from a strange hunger and lack of sleep.
“So good of you to c
ome,” said Caroline, moving forward among the ochers and greens of the splendid room. Emily blushed. “Will you take some tea with me?”
“You are very kind.”
Miss Trelawney rang for it to be served and then led her into a small withdrawing room at the back of the house filled with bowls of flowers. “I have them sent up from Richmond,” she said, when Emily remarked upon them. “I miss my gardens so when I am in town.”
Emily looked for the rosebuds she had admired with Lord Firle, but of course they were not there; her exhausted gaze took in only a blur of almost moving color to suggest each petal. “They are lovely.”
Miss Trelawney motioned for Emily to sit down and she found herself perching uncomfortably opposite her, in a velvet upholstered chair: not close enough for intimacy, Emily felt, but with an awkward distance between them.
“My dear girl, I have spent the night reproaching myself terribly.”
So full of her impressions of the last few hours, Emily could only ask, “Whatever for?,” concentrating with difficulty on the meaning behind the words as if at the background of a painting she had come to copy.
“Making your acquaintance and then neglecting you so shamefully until last evening. As a foreigner your cousin is not the correct person—he cannot be relied upon to introduce you to society. He does not have the experience of the way things should be done. I knew it, and there has really been no excuse for it.”
“Please. Miss Trelawney, there is no need whatever—”
“Caroline.”
“Caroline. I did not expect—”
“You are friendless in this city and—”
Emily smiled a tight smile, trembling. “It is easy to behave foolishly, I know.”
Caroline narrowed her eyes. “What would your cousin say if he were to hear of your conduct last night?”
“He has far greater forbearance than I once credited him with. He can be capable of great kindness.”
Her companion continued as if she had not spoken. “Do you have any notion of what this means?”
It was unavoidable; she was to be warned, admonished, scolded and, unlike with her uncle, from a deep affection she did not deserve. Sensible of this, she could not prevent herself from responding sharply and feeling almost cruel toward her friend. The curious thing was that she could not feel ashamed. Her longing to see Lord Firle, and everything that concerned him, must be protected; she must close her mind to all other distractions.
“I do apologize, my dear.” Caroline’s voice was kind. “I do not mean to infer that you are not capable of thinking for yourself. May I speak plainly?”
“Please. Please do.”
Emily reminded herself that Caroline took only the liberty that Augusta might, in similar circumstances, and so she had no especial right to be offended, but she felt peculiarly numb.
“My dear—” When Caroline took a breath, struggling for words, Emily felt no mercy toward her. “I will try to explain. It seems to me that you are in a very delicate situation indeed, and I am fully conscious of my own responsibility for putting you there. I feel that you are quite able to see that there are two paths open to you.” She paused while Emily remained contemplating her, quietly. “One would be to allow me to take you under my wing: chaperone you, introduce you, behave to you as a sister and advise you in the ways of this world as a sister might. Or the other—”
“I could choose to go my own way and become a fallen woman to whom no decent person would ever speak, and who cannot marry. All this on the evidence of a shadow of one flirtation.” Emily did not know her own rapid speech and bitter voice. She could see that it shook her friend. “It may surprise you to know that I intend never to marry.”
Caroline leaned closer. “Do not speak so frivolously.” Before Emily could reply she hurried on. “I do not speak of marriage. I speak merely of being accepted in this world. In London, young ladies are never escorted home alone from the theater by gentlemen, unless they are close relations, regardless of whether these gentlemen are married or unmarried. They do not keep any sort of company with gentlemen at all unless in the presence of a respectable chaperone. As you know, Lord Firle is married. His reputation where ladies are concerned could hardly be worse. Do you have any notion of what this means?”
“I—”
But Caroline continued as if Emily had not spoken. “I do not know how I could have allowed you to make his acquaintance at Richmond—and to agree to his idea to go to the theater, that was inadvisable; I will always reproach myself for it. It is just that he seemed to want it so.” She rubbed her forehead, looking at her flowers, quite distracted. “I entertain him for my own amusement, and besides, he is immune to my charms.” She smiled.
Emily noticed how preoccupied Caroline looked, how weary, how concerned, as if afraid her new acquaintance were falling prey to some disease, and she felt the first stirrings of responsibility. And she did not want to think of ladies and Lord Firle. On a sudden the elation left her and only the exhaustion remained.
“I have never had such a delightful time as last evening in my life,” she simply said, beginning to lower her head.
Caroline pulled her chair closer and took Emily’s hand. “He is splendid company. But respectable people can be amusing, too, you know. My dear, you are very young.”
“I know it. I know.” This was not a fact she could ever deny, ignore, or conceal.
Caroline left a pause, as if to give her words more weight. “I am equally sensible that you are of an independent mind, and I admire you for that. But you must decide upon your choice before it is too late, what it is you truly desire for yourself—because if you are ruined, it will be for ever.”
Emily looked at the bowls of flowers so thoughtfully and unimaginatively placed around the room, at the pale countenance and brown hair of her friend, and could say nothing. Every object she observed conspired to defeat her.
“This evening I will be holding a small reception in these rooms. We gather to hear poetry read, and afterward there will be a light supper. Tonight we shall listen to the poems from a collection by Mr. Browning. Might you attend if I send my carriage?”
“Of course,” said Emily, feeling the light dim. “Of course.”
Bitter tears stung her eyes as she quitted the house—hot wells of tears. “But not of shame, not of shame,” she muttered to herself with no attempt to wipe them away. She wished she believed in God; then she would pray for deliverance. She felt as a child, but that did not defeat the feeling: of all the people in the world now breathing, Lord Firle was the one whose company she desired, craved, and he had been forbidden to her. She walked for some long time through the London streets: cool spring squares, the arching trees, shops full of beautiful things she could not afford to own. She would not go to the school today. It was impossible.
Crossing Park Lane she ventured into the wide expanse of the park, her eyes searching for a horizon as infinite and uncrowded as her hopes. On a sudden she longed for the ocean. Sitting down upon a bench she sat and cried, and thought of her mother, and the spirit of her family. She thought of the evenings by the stove and the music and the books and the laughter. And she cried all the more. When she had finished crying she dried her eyes and walked across the park to school.
MISS EMILY HUDSON
———SQUARE
MAYFAIR, SW
LOWNDES PLACE, SW
5th June, 1862
My dear Girl,
Last evening you gave me great happiness.
I can think of nothing but you. Send to me when you are at liberty to do so.
Arthur Firle
MISS AUGUSTA DEAN
HOTEL D’ANGLETERRE, ROME
MAYFAIR
June 5th, 1862
Sweetest Augusta,
This evening I attended a supper party given by my new acquaintances, the Trelawneys, at Grosvenor Square. That sounds very gay and it was not, but to call it a poetry reading makes it sound altogether too sober, which again
it was in no danger of being. It was altogether pleasant and agreeable. I find that wealth makes many things pleasant and agreeable. Such an observation must make me sound ungrateful—and I must admit my spirits are not buoyant. I dare say they will mend by and by.
Caroline sent her carriage for me so I was safely conveyed to her establishment. Everything was arranged with the utmost elegance, and the company refined and intelligent. One of Miss Trelawney’s closest acquaintances, a Miss Wentworth, is to be married shortly, and there was much chatter in happy anticipation of that event. This class marries itself and all these fine young ladies will vanish from London and become mistresses of large estates before I learn to remember their names. (William says unkindly that they will all turn into horses.) They were very cordial to me. I was a novelty. But I felt a dark little thing tonight—certainly not the girl William used to be convinced that absolutely everyone would be dazzled by.
We listened to readings from that great poet, Mr. Browning, given with a theatrical aplomb that was almost comic. I did not know the works in question; they were taken from a volume of his called Men and Women. I am sure my cousin is intimately acquainted with them, and I intend to procure my own copy today, but I scribbled down a line from one poem. It is a question: “What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?” Dear friend, I do not know the answer, but is it necessary that a kiss should diminish the soul? Does it not enlarge it? Must bodies and souls be enemies—should they be forced to war with one another so cruelly? You—in Italy—the breeding ground for all passion, it seems—have you become degenerate? I think not! Is feeling passionately for another human being so terrible a thing? I long to know. I ask in all innocence—what do you know of the sensual life? Forgive me this outburst. I am perturbed at present by a matter I will communicate to you by and by.
Emily Hudson Page 15
