Emily Hudson

by Melissa Jones

  It does not make me think of Rhode Island at all here because for all the sky above it is so defiantly small—there is a church almost next door to us, we are on a bend in the lane, we have a front garden with a straight garden path, a warm enclosed garden behind and a little meadow to the right as you face the house through a gate. Much of the land about belongs to the property so William says there need be no fear of trespass—but he has also explained that when he has come to this country before no stranger has ever been suspicious or proprietary regarding his explorations. How could it create envy, such a place as this?

  As you can see I am enraptured. My window faces front on to an apple tree, vigorous and newly planted, and the warm salt air comes off the sea and even the clouds are gentle.

  We have come here in advance of the Trelawneys so as to open up the house. It has been let to us by a widower who, since his loss, has not the heart to continue to live near the seat of his happiness, and I think has gone to sojourn with his relations in the north of the country. I do not know how recent the bereavement is and I do not think William cares to discuss it for fear it might make me morbid. I hope there were no little ones to be left motherless, but the house speaks to me of youth, so I should not wonder.

  It feels a little how I imagine being a newlywed might feel. William treats me with kindness and great affection and is in very high spirits; higher, in fact, than I have ever seen, and we find ourselves in perfect accord, sitting with our books by the summer fire in the evening.

  There is a housekeeper who comes every day. I find her quite alarming and cannot understand all that she says, but William has made it clear that Mrs. Phelps—Caroline’s aunt, who will accompany them when they arrive next week—shall supervise household matters and so I must not trouble my head. I cannot imagine it would be any good if I were to try!

  The country is renowned for fresh fish and the sweetness of its lamb—I cannot wait for the apples to ripen!

  All my love,

  Emily

  P.S. On another more pressing matter, I think Mr. Harper is quite right to be concerned about the possibility of unrest reaching Rome with the trouble that has come into that country. We are living in strange times when countries cannot leave themselves alone and must eat themselves up in the name of nationhood. There are so many enemies of life for one reason or another who would deny it to others, and when it is gone there is no way of wresting it back. If you should quit Rome in advance of your wedding I would be more at ease. The preciousness of your own life is close to the hearts of too many people for you to endanger it.

  MISS MARY CORNFORD

  CORNFORD HOUSE

  BOSTON, MASS

  MARSH HOUSE

  OLD ROMNEY

  July———, 1862

  Dear Mary,

  It seems an age ago that we agreed to correspond—forgive me for having taken so long to begin writing.

  I understand from William that he has already told you that we have taken a house close to the sea—not as close as at Newport but you would appreciate its charm, I think. So there is no need for me to tell you more at present but that I am wildly happy, in a very ferment of delight, in fact. Your brother concerns himself (unnecessarily) with my every comfort, and we pass our days deep in conversation as we used to at Newport Beach, in the midst of what he calls “The English Pastoral Idyll”—but not on the grand scale, you understand!

  I must confess to feeling more at ease here than in London, which, though stimulating, tires me frequently.

  I have set up a small painting corner for myself in the sitting room, and I wish I could say I was more industrious than I am, but William insists that this is an opportunity for rest rather than work. I think of you often as I sit doggedly at my sketchbook—despite his advice—hoping to achieve something of merit. You and I share a devotion to our work, I believe; I remember how you used to shut yourself up in your room to write and think.

  I hope your health is proving strong enough to allow you to venture out, and that you are occupied in studying without allowing it to exhaust you, because you know your father would wrest that pen out of your hands at the earliest opportunity were he to see you weaken! Forgive me if my attempt to joke is clumsy.

  Let me know how you do.

  I remain yours, affectionately,

  Emily

  “But my dear, this could not be more perfect!” said Caroline.

  The Trelawneys and their relation Mrs. Phelps had alighted from the cart and the entire party was standing in the front garden of the house, admiring its modern proportions and delightfully picturesque air.

  “And we have had bright sunshine every day.” Emily said it as if she were personally responsible.

  She had never seen Caroline look so enchanted. “It can be very wet in this low country,” her friend said. “Especially in spring, which has passed, thankfully, but we have come prepared for every event with all sorts of outdoor apparel.”

  “We shall play at having our own establishment with everything as we please,” said Emily.

  “There shall be no playing about it,” said Mr. Trelawney. “I shall press wildflowers and categorize birds until you beg me to leave well alone.”

  “Do not forget that we are your hosts,” said William, taking his cousin’s elbow in a proprietary manner.

  “And William shall write every morning and I shall paint and draw and walk to my heart’s content,” said Emily, with a smile.

  “I fear idleness,” said Caroline. “I am not used to it. But I have the dogs. They shall help me find occupation.”

  “Do not allow them to chase the sheep,” said William.

  “But this is a time expressly for your recreation, my dear,” said Mrs. Phelps to Caroline, in her widow’s weeds and cap and kindly plumpness fulfillling exactly Emily’s wishes for a chaperone. “You do not have two houses to run, and the world to entertain, so you shall read and improve your mind and go walking and have picnics on the beach. But not too much air, my dear, remember what Mr. Cornford said about the damp.”

  “We shall visit Rye,” said William. “I have an especial desire to see it.”

  “That you can do alone, Cousin. I do not wish to see another building for a long time,” said Emily.

  “Fresh cream from the farm,” said Mrs. Phelps. “I shall explore the kitchen and larder directly.” And she was gone.

  “There is something I have been wanting to ask you, Caroline,” said Emily, drawing her aside beneath the shade of the tree. “Do you consider, do you think we might—just while we are here—dispense with our corsets? So we can walk freely, and be unfettered?”

  Caroline laughed, looking Emily firmly in the face. “But of course we cannot, my love,” she said. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  MISS AUGUSTA DEAN

  HOTEL D’ANGLETERRE, ROME

  MARSH HOUSE

  July———, 1862

  My dearest Augusta,

  I cannot describe to you my feeling of relief that you are settled on removing from Rome, although I understand that in your opinion there is no real danger. I feel entirely unqualified to advise you on where you choose to remain for the time being, but I understand that Paris in the summer months is not to be recommended. If it has anything approaching the airlessness of London at this time of year I can fully appreciate the difficulty. I have heard that Switzerland and Vienna can be delightful, and I glory in imagining you in a slightly fresher climate.

  In my already beloved Marsh House the good weather continues unabated. I must admit I had not expected it to hold. I write this before dinner in a beautiful extended twilight that seems so delicate and especially English. Moths are beginning to flutter close to the lamp that I have just lit, so I will be brief.

  Today we journeyed to Camber Sands with our picnic basket. There at last was a shore to compare with Newport! We had to beg a ride from the farmer in his cart but he did not begrudge us our pleasure, agreeing to deposit us at noon and return for us at fou
r o’clock. We were quite stranded. Mrs. Phelps begged to be allowed to remain at home with her needlework, even though there was no breeze that could have disturbed her and the glare was not harsh.

  I became almost entirely out of breath scrambling along the dunes, but would not give up—the higher you climb the more of that extraordinary yellow shore you can see, and then sliding down is almost like tobogganing on warm sand! I scratched my hands on the marsh grass though; it is quite fierce.

  Caroline has become quite placid, she stayed on the rug beneath her parasol watching her dogs, and the gentlemen walked along the shore. I ran down to join them. I had forgotten how hard the sand is with the ribbed pattern of the waves when the tide runs out, and as I came closer the waves breaking was like a gentle rushing sound, so like a stream or a waterfall you forget it is the ocean—or the sea, as they call it here. (The word “ocean” seems to provoke hilarity in the English, as do so many American words and habits of speech.)

  William has become quite absorbed in his many talks with Thomas Trelawney and his watchfulness of him makes me consider that he is using him for some character or other. His look is almost hungry, sometimes, when he considers him; it is strange, very like, I must admit, the way he frequently looks at me. It is peculiar because when we are all three of us together I see him hesitate occasionally as if questioning whom to favor. I only walked with the gentlemen for a short time, they were so occupied with one another: one so clean and English and upright, the other so stooped and tall and peculiar.

  Dear William has brought down the manuscript of part one of his first full-length novel for me to read, which is a tremendous honor—partly, I think, because he knows I will praise it as I praise all his stories, and with justification, of course. His writing has a delicacy and a menace that can be unnerving and feels altogether unique. If I could produce a painting with his eye for detail and his exquisite variation of light and shade and, above all, mood, I would truly have achieved something considerable.

  As I walked away from them back to Caroline I thought of Captain Lindsay with a stab at the heart that was quite acute. I have not forgotten him. That I have not mentioned him in my letters does not mean I do not think of him often. But it is part of my attempt to see him as a friend and in memory only that I do not write of him. Yet I found it impossible today to walk along close to the water without him coming into my mind. I wonder how it is with him. I have written to Mary but did not inquire after him for fear of bad news—but I cannot go on. Even when I am so happy—as now—a fierce sorrow for the past is still with me.

  We ate strawberries and cream on the rug—the best I have ever tasted. After lunch I took off my shoes and stockings and paddled and made the gentlemen paddle too, though Caroline refused. It was properly warm. I am determined that next time we shall play together in the waves, and she will see—she will see how simple joy is.

  Later, before bed

  The moon is full. We have the most delightful times at table here. Sometimes I sip some wine. It is very informal—we serve ourselves. Mrs. Phelps often retires early, leaving us to talk into the night if we wish and I can become as excitable as I please. If the evenings continue warm I hope to persuade her to allow us to carry the kitchen table outside so we can enjoy our dinner under the stars.

  Acquaint me at the earliest opportunity of where you have decided upon settling next.

  Affectionately, as ever,

  Emily

  “Who shall accompany me to Rye today?” said William, looking only at Emily. “I would like to climb that famous bell tower and see the world spread out before me.”

  “Merely England, my dear fellow,” said Thomas. “And a small part of it at that, not the world.”

  “I could not stir from this place on such a lovely day,” said Emily, and when Caroline also demurred, Thomas said he would gladly go. Mrs. Phelps was pressed to accompany them. Emily sensed her cousin was displeased at her flat refusal, but she had no mind for sightseeing.

  “Will you not reconsider, my dear?” said William, when they were left alone amid the bustle of preparation.

  “I have no desire for it. You would not insist, surely? You must go and confide your impressions to me on your return.”

  He gave her a somewhat bitter smile before saying quite gently, “Very well.”

  “How shall we amuse ourselves for the day now that we are quite alone?” said Caroline. Arrangements to borrow a neighbor’s conveyance had already been made and the party was gone by ten o’clock. The day was bright. The women waved together from the door.

  “Will you walk with me?” asked Emily.

  “I went earlier with the dogs. I think I will stay inside and read a little.”

  “Would you mind if I were to sketch you? I have so little opportunity to work from life.”

  Caroline smiled. “Not at all.”

  Emily fetched her sketchbook and pencils, busying herself with setting up her equipment just as she liked it, beginning to experience the clarity of her working mind as she let the real world recede.

  “Emily—forgive me for asking—do you have any notion of how long you will remain in this country?” It was as if her friend could not ask her while she had her whole attention.

  Emily was a little taken aback. “Why? Do you wish me gone?”

  “Of course not. It is merely that I cannot imagine a life of so limited a horizon as yours.”

  Emily looked up sharply, although by now she felt she should be accustomed to her friend’s frankness. “You mean unlimited,” she corrected, regarding Caroline with all seriousness.

  “Believe me, I do not.”

  “I can do as I please. I am without responsibilities.”

  “Are you quite sure that is the truth, my dear?”

  Emily found she could not answer. “I am going to arrange you in profile now, looking out of the window. You must try not to speak.”

  “You are unusually evasive,” pursued her friend.

  “I am concentrating. There is a difference.” Caroline wore a simple brownish sprigged dress with a white collar. Her hair was drawn back from her face. “You could be my Madonna,” said Emily.

  “Except that I am not beautiful and I have no child.”

  “Wait a little—I will furnish you with a baby,” said Emily, and quickly deposited a small tapestry cushion in her lap. “Lower your head a little as if to look into its face.”

  “Emily, there is no face.”

  “Try.” Caroline adopted the age-old posture of bending neck and lowered eyes, as if it were ordained. “Good.”

  Emily worked for some time, and Caroline was an obedient model, still and quiet. The heat mounted in the room, for they had not opened the windows and it was past noon.

  “Your aunt has left a little bread and cheese for us. Shall we eat it, and perhaps, if you are willing, continue in the afternoon?”

  Caroline turned to her and, nodding, appeared moved. “Would you like to show me what you are doing?”

  Emily took her sketchbook to her friend’s side. “These are the preliminary sketches from the model at school. Her features are far coarser than yours.”

  “But she is pretty.”

  “Yes. Very fair. She reminds me of my dearest friend, Augusta—I have not seen her for more than a year.”

  “How many sketches must there be before you can start the portrait?”

  “It is not a portrait exactly—too much must be imagined. I want her to hold the child against her breast, loosen the dress to show that, but I have no model.”

  “I see.”

  They went into the kitchen that was cool and dark and helped themselves to cheese and bread and cold water. Then they went out into the garden at the back of the house, smelling grass and contemplating sheep and butterflies. A sweet lethargy was stealing on the afternoon.

  “I find I am rather tired after staying so very still and dreaming,” Caroline said. “I think I shall go and rest. We shall have tea by and by.”


  When Emily did not reply she continued, “I wonder how the gentlemen are finding Rye. I hope they are not wearing out Aunt Phelps with walking. Excuse me.” And she was gone, taking her formality with her.

  Emily lay down and fell asleep in the grass.

  When she woke it was to the sound of a clattering of china in the kitchen. The grass was soft and itchy. Rising to her feet, Emily went into the kitchen where Caroline was boiling a kettle and collecting crockery for the tray.

  “Shall we take it in the front garden?” she said. “Look at you, Emily!” and she reached out and touched Emily’s hair. “All grass stains and tangles.”

  “I slept well. Did you?”

  “Happily. Emily, if you wish, I will sit a while longer for you. And if you were to assist me it would be easy to unhook my dress.”

  They looked at one another in the dark room, Caroline’s eyes serious and full of feeling and trust and Emily felt thankful. They finished their tea in the kitchen and returned to the drawing room, taking the places they had relinquished.

  “The light has changed.”

  “It is lower. No matter.” Emily stood behind her friend to unhook her collar and loosen her dress. They took her arms out of her sleeves and bared her breast so that only corset and light undergarments remained. “You can preserve your modesty, friend,” she said.