Emily Hudson

by Melissa Jones

  William

  It was as if she were already dead.

  The doctor who brought the letter was bearded but much younger than she had expected. She wondered what he might look like beneath his beard. She did not think his chin was weak—he had a very determined and decisive air but a quiet one too, as if at ease with himself, as if he did not require the good opinion of the world.

  She was strong enough to receive him in the parlor, but with all the energy it had required to dress and descend the stairs she almost regretted it, and reading William’s words under his watchful eye was disconcerting.

  Caroline had brought him into the room. He smelled of the summer outdoors.

  “Dr. Cooper?”

  “Miss Hudson.” He took her hand lightly and let it go, sitting at a respectable distance while Mrs. Phelps brought in the tea. Then she stood beside Caroline and they were like two sentries on duty. “May I request an interview alone?”

  In her strained smile, Emily detected all Caroline’s fears. “I promise to tell the whole truth,” she said, looking at each of them, and they, in turn, withdrew. She was concentrating so much on the doctor she did not hear their murmured excuses, if any were made at all.

  He poured the tea for her and put the cup on the table beside her chair.

  “It is very good of you to come such a long way, Dr. Cooper. My cousin should not have put you to the trouble.”

  He smiled. “I enjoy the countryside. Although it is a little warm today.”

  “By all means open the window. I shan’t complain.”

  He did so, allowing in a few inches of air.

  “The daisies on the grass are very pretty, aren’t they?” she said. “I like touching the warm stone wall out there too.”

  He turned toward her. “It is a terrifying condition.”

  “Yes.” She had not expected this directness, this warmth and this calm. She looked at his watch chain. A solid gold watch.

  “You are studying to be an artist?”

  “Yes. Did my cousin tell you?”

  “He has written me a long letter all about you. He is very fond of you.”

  This was not the doctor’s business or his concern but she did not mind. She did not say to him: he has many feelings about me—too many, but the curious thing was that she should want to.

  “Yes. He took this house for me—for the summer—for us all. He wanted to give me happiness.”

  “I am sure it has been delightful for him too.”

  “I regret to say I cannot call it that. At first we were very happy here.”

  He did not press her to continue, but she found that she did. “Then we quarreled. I am very willful, you see.” She rubbed her eyes, pressing her knuckles into the sockets.

  “I do not want to tire you, Miss Hudson. If you could tell me a little about your attacks.”

  “Attacks. Yes. That is what they are. My cousin must have told you I was out in a storm. I think it is about a fortnight since. I collapsed. I had a fever and then fits of coughing—and then the first one came.”

  “Have you had fits of coughing before?”

  “Yes, last winter in Boston. But I recovered. I have been perfectly well.”

  “And had there ever been—blood, in Boston?”

  “No.” She remembered the blue dining room on New Year’s Eve and Captain Lindsay’s face; the smell of the Christmas tree and the candles in the ballroom. “No. Nothing of that kind.”

  “Have you ever been unwell before last winter?”

  “I was indisposed at Newport, in the summer.”

  “With what?”

  “A cough. It passed after a day or two.”

  “How indisposed?”

  “I was confined to my bed.”

  “Was a doctor called on either of these occasions, allowing for your family history?”

  “No. And I would not have wanted it.”

  “Of course not,” he said mildly, as if this made perfect sense. “May I examine you now?”

  She nodded. He listened to her chest, and then gently motioned her forward to listen at her back. He listened for a long time. “What color is the blood?”

  “Bright.” She shuddered and began to cry. He put away his stethoscope while she wiped her eyes.

  “Do you ever take sugar with your tea?” he asked.

  She lifted her head and laughed. “No.”

  “I think you should. You will find it quite the thing, very reviving.” He poured a new cup, added a spoonful of sugar, and passed it to her, taking care to avoid touching her hand. Then he withdrew to the sofa as she sipped.

  There was more silence. It was as if they were on a picnic rug listening to the sea: there was no imperative, no question of life or death.

  “Doctor———, who saw you first, was quite correct. It has only affected one lung. And it is in its early stages.”

  She found she could say nothing.

  “But it wants to take hold. I say this not to frighten you, but to make you understand. If you have more than three hemorrhages a day I must be called. In the meantime, you must eat. You must rest. You must take plenty of nourishment.”

  “I shall die of boredom!”

  “Why not ask them to make up a bed for you down here, by the garden windows? It is so warm and you can watch the sky and fields, see if anyone passes on the road, perhaps sketch a little or read. Would you like to return to school in the autumn?”

  “Very much.”

  “Good. Take a little air, but not if it is damp. You may go outside as long as you are closely wrapped, but not for another two weeks.”

  “You have a schedule for me, Sir?” She pronounced it in the American way.

  “Without a ‘schedule’ ”—he echoed her pronunciation—“we are in confusion. That will not do.” He smiled again as if he could see the future.

  She shook her head in agreement with him, once more unable to speak.

  “Next time I come, may I look at your drawings?”

  “Of course, I would be delighted.”

  “One more thing. Do not excite yourself. Try not to disagree with anyone. Or let anyone disagree with you.” There was humor in his words and a kindness held back. He gave a slight bow, a dignified, almost comical inclination of the head and said, “Good day, Miss Hudson. I am privileged to have made your acquaintance.”

  “Good day, Doctor.”

  Emily felt at ease in her rest after that, falling asleep there and then on the pretty sofa he had sat upon. Caroline came with an eiderdown to keep her warm.

  WILLIAM CORNFORD, ESQ.

  C/O CARLTON CLUB, SW

  MARSH HOUSE

  August———, 1862

  My dear Cousin,

  Thank you for your kind letter and for the doctor who was equally kind. I am pleased that you are occupied, if not with the seashore at least with your friend, and I am reassured that there is to be no quarrel between us. I strive to be of good heart and spirits.

  Please convey my warmest regards to Mr. Trelawney.

  With love,

  Emily

  MISS EMILY HUDSON

  MARSH HOUSE

  DR. G. A. COOPER

  HARLEY STREET, W1

  Dear Miss Hudson,

  Please accept this volume of verse in lieu of a prescription.

  Read at least one a day.

  I am, etc., yours respectfully,

  Dr. G. A. Cooper

  The book was Elizabeth Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese. Emily put it aside in her drawer.

  It was a slow process, recovery, and sometimes Emily lacked the ability to distinguish between illness and convalescence. But a part of her knew that if she were to mend her lungs she must believe it could be done. To her many follies she dreaded adding the false hope of the invalid, but there was such an avalanche of fears in her path she must choose her way carefully for there to be any progress at all. Hemorrhage continued—a nightly battle, though she believed there was less blood. She found it ve
ry hard to sleep. She knew the restless energy of the consumptive was a danger but she did not want to take any form of sleeping draught. To succumb to that put her in mind too much of oblivion.

  The weather continued warm and there were no storms. Dr. Cooper visited once a week.

  It was three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon. “You could set your watch by him,” Caroline said.

  Emily looked forward to his visits in a way she could not admit, even to herself. If the night before had been feverish and the blood had been bad, she felt less afraid simply because she knew he would be present for her to confide in the following day. He regarded her illness as a significant and serious thing, but in his eyes it was in every way separate from her, her true being and essence. She was enduring it, and she was taking all possible steps to combat it, but it was not her: just as Emily’s mother’s illness had not been what made her uniquely herself. The elopement and manner of her death would be for ever connected in the eyes of the world, whereas to Emily, to her father and dear family, they had always been entirely distinct.

  To Dr. Cooper’s tolerance and complete understanding was added, to Emily’s mind, a complete lack of pity. Or if he felt pity he concealed it. Equally, she did not feel ashamed—ever—in his presence. He did not exaggerate her hopes of recovery, nor did he pander to her fear of death. He tried to teach her patience, she supposed: it was no use wishing her circumstances were not what they were, or that her illness would miraculously disappear, but there was always quiet and profound hope.

  After a month Emily’s hemorrhages ceased. It was like the incessant clamor of a fire bell and its accompanying thundering hooves suddenly being wiped away, leaving only silence and birdsong and the colors of the sky.

  They would not let her sit upon the ground, but put a daybed in the garden for her, protected by a parasol and an awning that the ladies constructed from a tablecloth attached to two easels. “My pagoda,” she called it. She tried to be gay, always. “A mournful invalid is not to be countenanced,” she said.

  Sometimes she closed her eyes in the open air and allowed herself to drowse and remember the ocean and her first walk with Captain Lindsay, the quarrel that led to their first understanding of one another; how happy and whole that had made her feel, almost as carefree as a child. She relived their walk, their handshake, the dancing waves; she remembered the sound of the carriage wheels when they had taken their only ride together, the feeling of laughter and how easy it was to laugh. What had happened to him? Was he suffering, and she not there to help? She thought of the comfort she might have given him as his wife in doing his duty for his country and her refusal of him seemed suddenly trivial and unnecessary, perverse as the whim of a child. Then she remembered that in doing so she had protected him from seeing her wasted like this, weak and recovering from fever, but waiting, always waiting to be pulled down under the water again. Their innocence would never have survived. But it was very hard, and she would be forced to turn from the thoughts and memories, squirming, shift her body away from the source of the pain so that she no longer lay upon the wound.

  MISS EMILY HUDSON

  MARSH HOUSE

  LUDLOW

  September 7th

  My dear Cousin,

  Doctor Cooper writes that you have been untroubled by hemorrhage now for above a week. Thomas asks me to tell you he has said a prayer of thankfulness.

  We are returning shortly to town and then I will come and visit for the day.

  Affectionately,

  William

  MRS. R. W. HARPER

  HOTEL SPLENDIDE, VIENNA

  MARSH HOUSE

  September, 1862

  My darling Augusta,

  I am delighted to hear that you have chosen Vienna. It sounds the perfect place for your wedding trip. I am only sorry to have missed your wedding, but from your description it was so perfect and private an affair that I was not needed.

  Forgive me for being so very feeble a correspondent this summer.

  I fear I have become lazy what with the beauty of this place and the unending brilliance of the light and coolness of the shade. They have quite overwhelmed my senses and I have been overtaken by a certain lethargy, contentment, call it what you will, that has even forced me to neglect my work.

  Besides, it is possible, I have discovered, to have little news!

  William has gone into Yorkshire in pursuit of horses (most unlike him, I know!) and this is a house of women, peaceful and quiet.

  Write to me of Vienna—I am told its opulence is quite austere.

  Love always,

  Emily

  MISS EMILY HUDSON

  MARSH HOUSE

  CORNFORD HOUSE

  BOSTON, MASS

  September 15th, 1862

  My dear Cousin,

  I have heard from William that you have been most seriously ill these last weeks and I am heartily sorry for it. He also says that you are beginning to be stronger. I look forward to hearing how you do by your own hand, but please do not tire yourself to reply until you can do so without taxing yourself.

  Thank you for your letter. I have passed a pleasant enough summer at Newport Beach and I have been in sufficient health and spirits to venture into society with my mother a number of times. I have taken to writing a daily journal of these events and I must admit I find it very rewarding: a life cataloged is more definite and worthwhile than one conducted in perfect solitude. My father has been very busy with his work and I trust that in Boston this fall I shall continue to make my forays into the world undisturbed, for I find that I take pleasure in observing it—it affords me no little satisfaction.

  It seems hardly possible that more than a year has passed since you spent the summer with us there. This cruel war has so far spared my beloved brothers. I pray for them every day.

  Please keep me abreast of your condition and try to remain hopeful.

  Yours affectionately,

  Mary

  MISS MARY CORNFORD

  CORNFORD HOUSE

  BOSTON, MASS

  MARSH HOUSE

  September 25th, 1862

  Dear Mary,

  Just a few lines to thank you for your kind letter. It is true that I am improving. But it is very important to me that my condition is not generally known. I have not admitted it even to my dearest friend. It is a kind of pride, I suppose, and a feeling of being at a disadvantage in the world. I have no hesitation in believing in your discretion, having never had cause to doubt it. Your brother has always been similarly discreet.

  I struggle every day to be of good heart.

  I shall write again presently, but allow me first to tell you how gratified I am to hear of your improved health and spirits and the increased activity of your daily life.

  Affectionately,

  Emily

  Emily was standing when William came into the room. It had become so familiar to her, that drawing room: every line and shadow, every simple piece of furniture, and as he came in she could not help but remember the last time he had surprised her there. He was awkward. His face bore the marks of exposure to the sun and open air, but had not benefited from them. If anything he was thinner.

  “William, you look so different!” she burst out.

  “As indeed do you, I am glad to say.”

  “Thank you for your letters, and the doctor.” She felt embarrassed. It had not been so long ago, after all, that they had fought bitterly. And now she was thanking him once more.

  “It was nothing.”

  He was waiting for her to apologize. Breathing and swallowing, she plunged in, entreating him with her eyes not to punish her, hating herself for doing so.

  “I am sorry we quarreled. I am sorry I have been so ill and caused you so much worry and trouble.” She knew as she spoke them that these were not the words he wanted, but she had no others.

  “It is not so much the illness but the recklessness that caused it. Admit that you are sorry for that, too. And tell me you are free of i
t, Cousin. That this has taught you to be?”

  She felt a great weakness in her legs and on a sudden found she must sit down. “I have always thought that you admired my unique spirit.” She tried to sound close to merry, arch and light-hearted, but knew that she did not, that it was the old painful struggle resurfacing.

  He bit his lip and an opaque look came into his eyes, the flush that presaged emotion came to his cheek. He moved to the window and looked out. “This is indeed a beautiful view. I am soothed to think you had occasion to draw strength from it.” He did not appear soothed in the least.

  “The house has been a peaceful one, William.” But for the night terrors, she longed to say, and the blood, and the housekeeper pounding the linen to remove it.

  “You have been safe and warm here,” he said. “Untroubled?”

  “Indeed.”

  He turned toward her. “Might you consider staying here for the winter? You need not be lonely. You could have visitors.”

  “I had not thought of it.”

  “If you return to town you will be alone again with the weather, the mire in the streets. Winter is filthy here, you know. There is not the blue of Boston.”

  “You talk as if you have already thought of an alternative.”