She sat on the bench and cried; she paced in fury and cried; she thought and cried; she felt and cried; and with her hand closed over Captain Lindsay’s letter, wished with all her heart and soul that she could stand beside him and tell him that she understood it all. That he should be so unhappy was unbearable to her. The tears continued to stream, the storm of grief and fury unabated.
She felt entirely alone. Miss Drake was taking a group to St. Peter’s and Anna had gone to the market. The dancing beauty of the summer day became visible to her anguished eyes before retreating again, to be replaced by her vision of Newport’s shore and the generosity of spirit of her friend, who would fight for his country even though he was afraid, and encourage an angry orphaned girl to have the courage of her highest dreams.
Then she saw the snow at Boston and remembered his cheek against hers as he begged her to marry him, and she thought of the comfort they could have brought each other and the true affection. She mourned for the children they had been and the innocence they had shared.
MRS. R. W. HARPER
HOTEL SPLENDIDE, VIENNA
ROME
August, 1863
My dearest Augusta,
I have had occasion to hear from Captain—now Major—Lindsay. I wish you too had had the opportunity to meet him—he is very dear to me and the fact that he lives seems an extraordinary miracle.
His letter has revealed an underhand cruelty of my cousin in keeping us apart that has left me reeling as if from a blow to the soul.
I long to go to him—stupidly—passionately—but do not even trust myself to write until I am calmer.
Forgive me this selfish letter.
With love,
Emily
[Letter unsent]
MAJOR J. C. H. LINDSAY
———SQUADRON
ROME
August, 1863
Dear Major Lindsay,
From my heart I thank you for your letter. It seems we have both suffered terribly at the hands of my cousin, you and I.
That he should be so sure an angel of destruction is almost beyond my comprehension, and yet I do believe it and see it clearly now.
I wish—fervently—that I had the power to pluck you from the war, its horrible dangers and corruptions, and keep you near me so that I could tell you that I too have never ceased to think of you as one of the purest memories of my heart. My strongest wish is that you should know how passionately I wish that you were safe.
Please write to me at the earliest opportunity to assure me that this is so.
In the meantime I shall attempt to find the key to patience.
Yours truly,
Emily Hudson
In London, William stood in Emily’s empty rooms. He had insisted that Mrs. Denham allow him to do so alone. From his previous searches he knew that she had left nothing he could find or keep, nothing of herself except the dresses he had bought her. It seemed ironic to him that her proud independent existence in this city had been—from the first—entirely funded by him, how in fact her life had differed in very few respects from that of the gaudy kept women he passed every day on the streets and whose glances he endeavored to avoid.
With his hands he examined in detail the dresses in the wardrobe. Like their wearer they seemed to mock him still. He could not allow them to remain. They must be destroyed and quite dissolved or he would have no peace.
NINETEEN
Telegram to Miss E. Hudson, Palazzo ———, Roma:
ARRIVING ROMA 18TH AUGUST 10PM STOP
MEET US STOP CANNOT WAIT AUGUSTA
Augusta alighted from the train the same bright thing Emily remembered. True, her hair was now elaborately arranged beneath a fashionable hat, her delicate feet shod in the finest kid, but her merry smile and wave of recognition were the same.
Emily ran into her arms. “You are such a lady,” she murmured into her hair. “You are all in velvet!”
“I wish that I were not. Mr. Harper made me wear this because he feared I would catch cold when the train journeyed through the mountains.”
Behind her, supervising two porters with a substantial array of elegant luggage stood Mr. Harper. Turning to greet him, Emily saw that he was somewhat portly and quite of middle age. Augusta had never mentioned this in her letters and Emily felt touched by it for a reason she could not name.
“I am so glad to make your acquaintance,” she said.
“And I yours.” He nodded, as if to say, We shall be friends and we shall understand one another and all shall be as it should: decent and convivial.
The following days were taken up with such a riot and a flurry of gaiety, conversation, and visiting back and forth that Emily found she had little time to brood, but Major Lindsay remained constantly in her mind, his unhappiness like a thorn in the palm of her hand. She must endeavor to make her peace with his memory, but he frequently felt so close to her that she could not describe his presence only as that.
Emily and Augusta were cosily settled in the small sitting room attached to Augusta’s bedroom in her apartments in the city. They could barely move because of the heat. Mr. Harper was abroad hunting for a more commodious dwelling place for his young wife.
“We have not yet begun our confidences,” said Augusta comfortably.
“There are so many I do not know where to start.”
“But I do know one thing, Emily. You have been unwell and you have been concealing it from me. All this talk of resting and chills, it has gained no ground with me. Quite unlike you.” Augusta’s voice was affectionate and teasing, but her eyes were full of tears. “Forgive me,” she said, simply. “I cry very easily at present.”
“It is only that I could not bear to intrude upon your happiness.” She did not want to add: and we are so different, you and I; the intimacy we shared has altered quite. There are so many things Augusta did not know the truth of and that she felt now she would never tell her.
“And you can never bear to compromise yourself, Emily, even with the truth. Was it … what we have long feared?”
“Yes. But it has left me. For the present.”
Augusta leaned toward her. “My dear girl, I was selfish in my happiness, and should have made you tell me.”
“No. I strive to believe that all has been for best. It is a difficult lesson.”
Augusta frowned. “But why should it be so much harder—always—for you than for me? I have always been so coddled and spoiled.”
Emily smiled. “To answer that question would take longer than an afternoon.”
The two women clasped hands.
“And what of your cousin?”
“He has gone.”
Augusta looked at Emily sharply. “You are still keeping things from me. I do not like it.”
“It is the right thing, dear heart, for the present.”
Augusta hesitated but did not insist. It was not like her to want to look too deeply into another’s soul. “I am feeling not a little shocked to think that perhaps you are becoming wise.”
At that minute Mr. Harper came into the room carrying a pretty box tied with colored ribbon, bowing his head as if entering a burrow.
“Aah. Here he comes now. Here is dear Mr. Harper. It is a miracle that the gentleman has found Turkish Delight in this city with such speed. I must have some at once. Let us hope you have the same luck with finding rooms where we can breathe.”
Augusta’s husband reached down and briefly touched his wife’s neck as he passed her the box, and she looked up at him and smiled. Emily felt she was no longer needed.
She stood up. “I must be going,” she said.
MISS EMILY HUDSON
ROME
NEWPORT, R I
July 30th, 1863
Dear Cousin,
That I should be the one to bring you this news is only part of the pain of it.
Major Lindsay has been declared Missing in Action at Gettysburg.
I know nothing further of the circumstances, but from the wa
y he spoke of you when last I saw him I know he would feel it my duty to let you know.
Yours affectionately,
Mary
MISS MARY CORNFORD
CORNFORD HOUSE
BOSTON, MASS
ROME
August, 1863
Dear Mary,
You are indeed both brave and correct to advise me of this shattering news.
I cannot write more.
With love,
Emily
MISS EMILY HUDSON
PALAZZO———, ROME
NEWPORT, RI
August, 1863
Dear Emily,
I feel I cannot attempt to distract you from the hurt the news of Major Lindsay’s fate has clearly given you with trivialities but, nonetheless, I write in the hope that reading this letter will provide you with a few moments’ diversion.
There is a strange atmosphere in the city, as if Boston were holding itself in readiness for a crisis. We have had so much of bloodshed and so many dead that here it is like a contagion, and yet we can see no end to it, despite our prayers. You are not alone in feeling a loss, my dear.
We expect at any minute to hear of something terrible concerning my dear brothers, because now that Matthew has returned to duty, there is no respite for either of them.
I suppose we are not the first country to believe naively that our war would be short and glorious, but even the most pessimistic of people could not have imagined this waste of years and youth.
A strange result of it is that I think of my own fate far less than I used to. I use what skill I have with the pen to record what happens around me, what this war seems to do to each individual creature. We all share the optimism followed by the dread, followed by the gritted teeth of endurance, and the slow blow of waiting.
My father continues willfully blind to the sacrifice of the young, still buried in his study amid his books, but he cuts a more curious figure to me, somehow; he has ceased to influence me in quite the same way. My mother suffers in silence from whatever the particular ailments of her soul are, but worry for my brothers is never part of her conversation. Forgive me for I cannot understand this.
In Rome you are fortunate to be away from the disease of this fighting, although I know it remains on your mind.
I simply seek to assure you of my good wishes as ever.
Yours truly,
Mary
MISS CAROLINE TRELAWNEY
TRELAWNEY HOUSE,
RICHMOND, SURREY
ROME
August, 1863
Dear Caroline,
Thank you for your kind invitation, but I am not inclined to travel at present. I have heard that a dear friend of mine from Newport days, Major Lindsay, has been declared Missing in our calamitous war, and it has quite put paid to any thought other than his fate. Memories assail me, glimpses I had forgotten, things that he has said. He had recently written to me after a long silence and I had replied, so he has been brought very close. I cannot write of this further.
I long to see you, however, and hope that you might consider a visit, perhaps in the spring. I do not know if you are aware of this, but my cousin has had occasion to visit me, and it has somehow brought you closer but made you feel farther away at the same time.
I am directing this to your house at Richmond, but imagine you may well be taking part in a very English shooting party in some far-flung moorland house as I write. It is odd, not knowing quite where you are.
The summer is reaching its zenith and stillness has settled on the city with the dust. I imagine everyone who has occasion to has left it until September, including my dear Miss Drake, who is indulging her love of mountain air at the lakes. I expect her return within a few days.
Do not forget me. Time and seas may divide us, but that is all.
With much love,
Emily
MISS EMILY HUDSON
PALAZZO———, ROME
TRELAWNEY HOUSE,
RICHMOND
September 2nd, 1863
Dear Emily,
It appears you have known many trials in your short life, and I am only sorry for your sake that you have had to bear another.
When I think of you it is with a kind of wonder that you have endured what you have endured and found so much for yourself at the end of a very treacherous path. I continue to have faith, though, dear friend: not only in you, but also in an outcome for you that should give you something of what you deserve.
Believe you are in my thoughts.
Hold fast.
With love,
Caroline
MISS EMILY HUDSON
PALAZZO———, ROME
———, SWITZERLAND
September 4th, 1863
Dear Miss Hudson,
My work in Switzerland is now concluded, and I am eager to return to London and take up my practice once more. I feel as if I have been absent for far too long.
I am to pass through Rome where I shall change trains on the 10th of September with very little time to spare. If you would oblige me by taking the trouble to cross the city so that we could meet close to the station, I would be most obliged, as it would be a great pleasure to see you again.
Yours truly,
Dr. G. A. Cooper
“I will not offer to chaperone you,” said Miss Drake wryly. “You are quite your own mistress.” They stood in the September breeze on the loggia looking at their eternal city and sensing autumn in the wind.
Emily shivered. “I do not want to go.”
“If you have encouraged him, even slightly, you owe it to him to be there.”
“I am aware of it.” Emily’s face was serious and she fidgeted with her purse.
“You must not believe it of yourself, my dear.” Miss Drake’s expression was kind.
“What must I not believe, Catherine?”
“That you are inconstant. I know that is what your cousin always delighted in implying. But in truth, it is merely that you are very young. I remember it all clearly, you know.”
By happenstance Emily had arranged to meet Dr. Cooper at the same café where she had breakfasted with Miss Drake on her first morning in Rome. He stood waiting outside the establishment so that she would not have the indignity of entering alone and looking about for him. The punctuality and consideration were typical of him.
“Miss Hudson.” He smiled warmly, if somewhat guardedly, gauging something from her face, and shook her hand. “It is kind of you to come so far to meet me.” They looked at one another briefly.
“It would be unthinkable in London. Quite disgraceful.”
Emily was trying to sound light- hearted, but succeeded, she felt, in appearing both stupid and flirtatious. She was deeply embarrassed and sensed that the doctor was similarly uncomfortable. After they had sat down she began to bite her nails, hoping that the waitress would come soon for their order and interrupt them. She had barely taken him in.
There was a silence. Then he leaned toward her confidingly and said, “There is nothing untoward in our meeting, Miss Hudson. You are simply saying farewell to your doctor.”
She looked up at him and smiled. She did not see the feared disapproval in his eyes, merely the kindness and affection. “I am afraid I have behaved more than a little impulsively where you are concerned.”
“Perhaps. But it is no matter. Your health and happiness, for a number of reasons, are important to me, and I have been keen to satisfy myself on that score. I would not have you fail me now with self-accusation.”
She smiled at him again and it was understood, just as he had always seemed to understand and sense how it was with her from the first days of their acquaintance. “You are unnecessarily kind.”
He drew in a breath, seeming to become more reserved. “I do not believe so.” He stated it as if it were a scientific fact. There was a further silence while the coffee was brought. He added sugar and stirred his methodically. “What shall you do now that the year is waning? Remain in
Rome?”
“I shall stay here. And I shall wait for news … that the war is over back home.”
“It is said that the end is not far off.”
“I hope and pray for it.”
“Would you consider returning to America at any time?”
“I have learned in my short life that plans are useless—but if I were to have the opportunity, I do not think I should like to return there to live. It is only that I have dear friends in that country whose future is connected to my own.”
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