Emily Hudson

by Melissa Jones

  I have seen so much in Rome, so much that has filled my eyes and senses, but nothing that has moved me so absolutely as this. She would not have him. But indeed to what does she succumb in his stead? The tendrils of the tree, the leaves, the solid imprisonment of herself?

  I walked around it for a long time, quite alone. Every detail is very delicate, and poised, you see.

  Rome is fond of sacrifice and sometimes I am weary of it. I had to turn away.

  And here is the extraordinary thing—I bumped straight into Dr. Cooper! Can you believe it? Lovely, kind Dr. Cooper. I had not even heard his footsteps, I had been so absorbed. I could not have been more surprised. It seems he has been in Switzerland plotting some new sanatorium with a friend of his and now he has come to see the sights at this most unseasonable time of year. Yet I suppose a doctor must travel only in summer when nobody dares to be ill! (Come to think of it, he travels in winter too, for he also went to Switzerland then, and I did not have the opportunity to bid him farewell before quitting London.)

  He was so kind, as genuinely pleased to see me as I him, I think. He remarked that I had left no address. He has been away frequently over the last months in conference with this same colleague (who obviously has far too great a call upon his time!), and he inquired after my health in a manner that was genuinely concerned without being in any way untoward. I always liked that so much about him.

  He remarked that I looked in excellent health, which was a little confusing, for I did not know whether or not to confide in him, what was the appropriate course in so public a place.

  He too looked extremely well, younger in a peculiar way.

  I invited him to attend our exhibition tonight—goodness knows why.

  Tell me how you do. The London season has so many diversions I am sure you can think of some to describe for me. How are dresses being worn this year?

  I still have not heard from you.

  Affectionately,

  Emily

  At first Emily was afraid no one would come. The refreshments were laid out and the musicians were ready, the students trembling next to their work. Emily had never seen Miss Drake so nervous. She snapped at her and did not appear to listen to what was being said to her. But then little by little the tiled floor began to echo with footsteps and voices, and dear friends began to arrive. Hands were clasped and jokes were made. The work was admired. Musicians began to play. Evening light streamed through the long windows, and candelabra inside the studio lit the pictures in soft and moving ways, giving them a mystery and depth that daylight could not bestow. Anna and Paulo fussed and fretted over the antipasti in the kitchen and the bowl of punch that Miss Drake had insisted upon as a reminder of home. There were little dishes of strawberry granita packed in ice in the small pantry off the kitchen. Anna’s brother had been drafted in to help serve.

  Emily took care to stand as far away from her own work as possible because it embarrassed her so deeply; in fact she wondered why she had agreed to show any of it at all.

  Dr. Cooper arrived with admirable punctuality, taking Emily’s hand and introducing himself to Miss Drake with all his well- remembered formality, while a feeling of his loving- kindness toward her emanated from him. It was peculiar because while she had been his patient at Marsh House Emily had barely troubled herself to imagine his life outside his care of her, and at that moment there seemed very much more to discover. She could not help but think of the volume of verse he had sent to her, now so familiar to her she could not begin to recall it or she would blush.

  “Have you a painting here?” he said. “Might you show me?”

  “I have several. But they are not—”

  “Good enough?” He smiled. “Of course not. Show them to me anyway.”

  Emily laughed.

  “Please, take me and show me.”

  She showed him the study she had made of Caroline Trelawney at Marsh House the summer before. Its colors and its tenderness moved her still, even though she was sensitive to every fault, every line she could have made better.

  “That is beautiful,” he said. “I recognize Miss Trelawney in your English Madonna.”

  “Indeed, you are quite correct. But I had to invent the baby. Here in Rome it is much easier to find models—children will come with their mothers—I feel much less like a criminal simply for pursuing my work. People understand how important it is.”

  “You have made your home here?”

  “I suppose I have. Among the antiquities.” She gave him a slightly wry smile and wondered why on earth she had done so.

  “If you should ever become restless again, the place for any artist is Paris. I was fortunate enough to spend a few days there on my way to Switzerland. So much is happening in that city, there are so many new beginnings—”

  “I fear you take me much too seriously, Sir. Indeed, it would be impossible. I know no one there,” she said in some rising panic and confusion, as if she were someone who did not know how to hold a conversation. It was most peculiar.

  “Of course. I had not thought.” He spoke with sympathy.

  She felt clumsy to have stalled all talk of Paris, when in truth she longed to hear everything about the city: its scandals and its glamour and its austerities, the salons and the cafés and, above all, the work.

  “Well, if you will excuse me, I must attend to my guests,” she said, and blundered away into the kitchen where she stood, surveying the refreshments with unseeing eyes, distracting Anna and standing in the way. She had behaved foolishly in the light of his obvious interest and admiration and could not explain it to herself.

  The crowd increased and with it the roar of conversation and the heat of the room. All the pleasure she had expected to feel in the evening was thrust out of the way with the worry that the doctor would not come near her again and she would not have the opportunity to inquire after his sojourn in Rome, even if it was too public a place for her to confide anything in him about her health or how grateful she had always been to him. There were a good many things she wanted to know about him. He must think she thought only of herself. And it was not true; she was curious concerning him, and longed to question him now that he had gone away.

  Within an hour he came to her again, this time accompanied by a very tall gentleman with a patrician nose and receding hair.

  “Allow me to introduce you to my friend, Robert Harrington.”

  “How do you do?” said the stranger. “I understand you are an acquaintance of Dr. Cooper from England?”

  “Yes.” Emily was grateful for Dr. Cooper’s discretion about the circumstances of what could only be described as their intimacy.

  Mr. Harrington raised his eyebrows. “I understand from George that you had entirely disappeared from that country, leaving no trace whatsoever.” He spoke in the English way, as if mocking his own words. George must be Dr. Cooper’s Christian name, she thought stupidly.

  Once again, Emily found she could say nothing at all.

  “We must go and dine. The crowd here is dreadful,” said Mr. Harrington.

  There was a very long pause and then Dr. Cooper said, “Might I have occasion to call on you before I leave the city, Miss Hudson?”

  “Of course, Doctor. You will usually find me here.”

  He pressed her hand, inclined his head in that charming, awkward, formal way she remembered and was gone.

  EIGHTEEN

  A week of waiting and Emily was sure Dr. Cooper had gone from Rome. She was troubled by how urgently on a sudden she longed to see him, but equally sustained and exhilarated by it. She did not know why she desired it so powerfully, but was dimly aware that in thinking about him she could no longer concern herself about William—his opinion of her; how matters stood between them. There was a great deal that she wanted to ask him and tell him both, without being confident that there would ever be sufficient time, and to be ignorant of a specific, appointed meeting was jarring to her heart. She began to remember three o’clock on Thursday afternoons
the summer before at Marsh House with more affection than she could have imagined possible.

  Sunday morning and Anna came out on to the loggia while she and Miss Drake were finishing breakfast. “A young gentleman is here to see you, Miss Emily,” she said.

  He had come at last, and she was a little perturbed at her own unexpected dismay.

  “An odd day to choose to pay a call,” said Miss Drake, slowly. “Where would you like to receive the gentleman?”

  “Outside, if it is convenient.” Emily swallowed with difficulty in an attempt to hide her nervousness.

  “Perfectly. I have a little business to attend to in the studio.”

  As the women stood up in the bright morning light, a figure approached, coming toward them from the shadows: for an infinitesimal second sufficiently indistinct for Emily’s heart to pound uncomfortably, when she realized with a jolting shock that it was William. He was immaculately attired as ever, and she observed how his eyes took her in: the smudged blue dress, the untidy loosened hair, the color she had allowed the sun to bring to her face, and she could feel him storing the impressions in his mind as she knew he stored every instant that he experienced.

  “My dear cousin,” he said, standing still, leaning on his stick. He extended a hand but did not smile. The vision of him almost jumped before her eyes.

  Emily felt a deep blush, not only of surprise but at how unwelcome the sight of him was to her, sensible that her two passionate written entreaties had come as close to summoning him as any request.

  “William. I am amazed. What brings you to Rome?”

  “I am fond of travel, you may recall, my dear,” he said with an air of humor and veiled meaning, before glancing at her companion.

  “Allow me to present my dear friend and employer, Miss Catherine Drake.”

  “How do you do?” he said, with an air of perfect mastery of the situation that Emily longed to equal, forgetting he had the advantage of surprise.

  Miss Drake scrutinized William in turn in a fashion that showed she did not care whether or not she appeared indelicate. Then she said, “I will leave you to your conversation. You must have more than sufficient to say in private. May I offer you some refreshment, Sir?”

  “A glass of water would be gratefully received,” he said, without so much as a glance in the lady’s direction.

  As soon as she was out of earshot he continued, taking a step toward Emily, “You have no notion of how my eyes have suffered from the lack of you.” It was the most passionate and lover- like Emily had ever heard him sound, and yet there was no youth or ardor in him. Even so, she felt that if she had moved to embrace him he would have welcomed it. But she could not. She could not move at all.

  “You look as if you are enjoying perfect health and spirits,” he said, studying her, musing, wondering, his eyes still firmly fixed on her own.

  “It is true, I am.” She tried to smile. “How goes it with you, Cousin?” Her heart was beating and she had to fight an animal desire to turn and run.

  He opened his mouth and began to speak, exactly as he always had; he had always been able to give a fluent account of himself, had relished the opportunity. “My first novel is published. It is a succès d’estime—I think that is the chosen expression. The world at large does not clamor for copies, but the people for whom I have respect have looked upon it very favorably. I have started to receive invitations to grander houses, as a man of letters. I am certain it is because I am so kind about the English aristocracy in my book, they believe they can trust me a little.” He smiled slightly.

  Emily did not feel equal to a conventional remark about how she regretted not having read the early manuscript at Marsh House due to her indisposition, fearful of evoking their quarrel and her own despair.

  “You have always been entirely trustworthy, Cousin,” she observed, feeling herself shrink at the truth of this.

  They sat down together at the table and William took off his gloves and leaned his stick against the palazzo’s stone and stucco wall: it looked incongruous there against the pink and gray. Anna brought the water; William thanked her but did not look at her. Emily smiled, swallowed, turned to William, trembling.

  “Do you still make your home at your club?”

  “Indeed. How otherwise would I have received your letters?”

  “Of course.” She had forgotten how stupid he could invariably make her feel, with what speed he could reduce her to confusion.

  “And what of the Trelawneys? How do they do? Caroline writes but …” She was aware she was questioning him rapidly to avoid any confidences: she knew he knew it also and was in command.

  “Your Miss Trelawney has at last decided she is an old maid and a bluestocking. It is as well. She was only ever in love with Firle, and that did nothing but cause her pain. Now she fulfills her part in society usefully and remains excellently connected.”

  Emily wondered feverishly how she could ever have been so blind to this feeling in her friend but determined to say nothing. Yet she recalled Caroline’s blushes whenever Firle’s name was mentioned, and the awkwardness of the interview they had shared when she had been so painfully chastized for associating with him. She was convinced William offered her the information about her friend not merely as a distraction, but purely as an invitation to reveal herself. She would not take it.

  “How is dear Thomas?”

  “He remains a gentleman who dabbles in the literary scene. A trifle lazy. But no more than befits his talent.”

  A coolness came over their silence.

  “And what of London?”

  “It is as stimulating as ever. But never more so than when you were there, my dear.”

  She looked at his narrow face and fine eyebrows, the immaculate preparation of his fingernails, steeling herself at the memory of all their time together, and a passionate desire to escape it. She wanted him to go away. Any notion of reconciliation seemed to belong to a long-ago phantasm.

  “Thank you for your letters, Emily,” he said. His eyes were veiled but his voice betrayed unusual feeling.

  “My apologies were sincerely meant,” she ventured, heart beating, uselessly afraid. Never had she sounded so false and conventional, she felt, and it was ironic to her that it should be in his presence.

  “And they are gratefully accepted.”

  She looked away, frightened still. The power of his indistinct glance had only increased since their last meeting.

  “Would you care to examine our view of Rome?” she asked, desperate to stand up, to move away. “It is very fine.”

  “Gladly.” He got to his feet slowly and followed her to the front of the loggia, Emily grasping the broad stone wall with both her hands, William allowing his to rest upon its surface with a very slight pressure.

  Her throat was constricted. “This prospect is particularly fine in the early morning sun, and on Sundays, there are so many bells—”

  “Yes, that is the flaw of these Catholic countries: so bad for the nerves.”

  “I find the sound of praise beautiful—if occasionally melancholy.”

  “You have become religious?” he inquired, turning his head. She was unsure whether he was amused.

  “Indeed, no. It is only that I cannot but be touched by others’ faith.”

  “How extraordinary,” he said. “I have always feared it.”

  Recalling his father, Emily wished she had not spoken.

  He glanced toward the open door of the studio where Miss Drake could be heard moving about within. “How is your work? Do you have any canvases to show me?”

  “No,” she said swiftly, “nothing is finished.” Turning from her contemplation of the city to look up into his face, she saw a flicker of expression in his eyes that revealed he had not forgotten any of the circumstances of their intimacy.

  “I am sorry for the pain our nearness brought,” she said quickly, more honestly and simply than before. “Such a waste of affection—and hope.”

  “Aah. H
ope, too,” he said.

  She observed wholly how pale he was and in the morning sun how much older and iller he seemed.

  “So you would not consider a return?” he said. “I have kept your rooms as you left them.”

  She imagined her beautiful dresses still hanging in the wardrobe. “A return?” She groped to understand.

  “To the old life—yours and mine.” He paused, as if deciding whether to continue. “I shall not marry and imagine neither shall you. We could have our own small household, travel together, work. Maintain our … privacy, of course.”

  Instinctively she took his hand and pressed it, full of sympathetic feeling, and he looked at her with an expression of such nakedness and yearning, such childlike devotion, that she realized he understood the gesture to mean assent.

  “But William, I couldn’t—you must understand.” She denied his look instantly: to prolong his nakedness would have been a sin, if she believed in sin, which she did not.

  He withdrew his hand and tilted his head so she could not see his face. He cleared his throat. “It was just an idea that I had … entertained,” he said in a muffled voice.

  “I did not know that that was how you felt.”

  He looked back at her. “My dear girl, it is not a question of feeling but of convenience,” he replied. “You cannot stay in a single room in a drafty palazzo with a spinster for the rest of your days.”

  They looked at one another with complete clarity.

  “Such decisions are for myself, alone,” she replied, quite without the old passion or defiance, deprived of the anger, in perfect command of herself.

  “You have not changed at all,” he said, as if remarking on the color of the sky, but then, dropping his voice, looking away, he added in a voice almost of wonder, “except that you are even more beautiful.”