Still clasping his note to her, she stood by the window looking out at the wintry landscape wondering what she should do, and how this moment might have changed her life. Of course she must keep her feelings to herself, or at least to her poetry, yet she could not bear the thought of not returning to the bookshop to see Bray and hear him talk more about the poetry of her friend.
But how best to go about it? If she wrote a note back to him, she thought it might well give him the wrong idea, and while Emmaline knew that she had been thrown, perhaps understandably, into an emotional turmoil she was still sensible enough to realise that she must under no circumstances give the young man any false impressions. For a start, she was a married woman, and even had she not been, she was not and never would be the sort of young woman who indulged in flirtations. Furthermore, she was determined to keep their relationship artistically objective, for had she not seen him with a young woman, and one who was less than happy?
Remembering that Julius was due home by the end of that week – although knowing her husband, as she thought she was beginning to know him, he could just as easily arrive back two days earlier, this afternoon, or not until the middle of the week after next – Emmaline thought she would do well to get the meeting with Bray out of the way as soon as possible. And if there were any danger of Bray’s considering her too keen, it would be easy enough to appear only eager on behalf of her friend, for her friend was not enjoying the happiest of times, and that would surely excuse her precipitate behaviour. So once she had composed herself, and had locked the note away with her verses in her little bureau, Emmaline summoned Agnes once again to accompany her into Bamford.
As always Agnes was only too happy to accompany her mistress, since even if she ended up once again sitting alone in the carriage, it would be greatly preferable to having to perform the innumerable domestic tasks which Mrs Graham would find for her if she suspected that the young girl had time on her hands.
Instead of leaving Agnes behind to wait for her in the carriage, however, Emmaline, knowing how much she had enjoyed sitting in the window of Mr Hunt’s bookshop, decided to treat her again. Having instructed the driver to wait for them in the Market Place, Emmaline led Agnes once more towards the bookseller’s.
As they approached the end of the High Street and the house where they had witnessed what appeared to be an argument between Bray and an unknown woman, by chance they saw the woman approaching them. Emmaline recognised her at once, not just by her striking looks but by her long blonde hair, which was no longer loose but heaped up under a small piece of lace. As the parties approached each other, the young woman began to walk unsteadily, putting one hand to her mouth and reaching out with the other one to lean against the nearby wall. By the time they met she had come to a stop and was standing with her eyes closed.
Emmaline went to her aid at once, enquiring whether the young woman was all right, and if she was not, might there be something they could do for her? The young woman opened her eyes to look at these kindly Samaritans, while the hand that had been at her mouth stayed put. After a moment she shook her head slowly.
‘Thank you, no. I am fine, thank you,’ she said in a low voice. ‘A slight fit of dizziness, that is all. It will pass.’
‘You look very pale, madam, if you don’t mind me saying,’ Agnes remarked crisply.
‘What we really need is to have you sitting down,’ Emmaline told her.
‘You’re American, aren’t you?’ the young woman asked, looking at Emmaline with sudden intensity.
‘Yes, I am indeed, and very clever of you to notice,’ Emmaline replied, taking the woman’s arm. ‘Not everyone in Bamford recognises so readily where I am from, probably because there are so many newcomers, so many different accents, since the new factory opened on the edge of town.’
‘Few people here in Bamford have ever heard an American accent, let alone met an American,’ the young woman said. ‘What are you doing so far from home?’
‘I live here. And you live …?’ Emmaline enquired tactfully, knowing very well that she was but a couple of doors from the stranger’s house.
‘I live here in town,’ the woman replied. ‘Only along the street, a couple of houses down. Please – I shall be perfectly all right now. You’ve been most kind.’
‘Let us see you to your door,’ Emmaline insisted. ‘I think it’s the very least we can do.’
Agnes and she escorted the young woman the few remaining yards to her house, which indeed was the very one in which Emmaline and Agnes had witnessed the vehement argument. Thanking them for their kindness once more, the woman let herself in.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right now?’ Emmaline pressed before the door was finally shut on them. ‘You have someone to look after you?’
She had of course asked the question in the hope of shedding some light on the reason for Bray’s presence in the house on their previous visit to Mr Hunt’s shop. It was none of her business, yet she could not contain her curiosity as to the relationship between this striking young woman and her poetic friend who sold books and took such an interest in Mr Hunt’s customers. But the young woman was obviously not going to provide any information of a personal nature, assuring Emmaline that she was quite recovered, despite the fact that she was still looking ashen-faced, and making sure to thank her most warmly before finally closing the front door.
‘She’s probably sickening for this thing everyone’s getting here in Bamford,’ Agnes offered once they had resumed their progress to the bookshop. ‘Everyone’s going down like skittles with some ague or other. Mind you, it’s no different to last winter – and winter afore, come to that. Soon as winter comes seems everyone here in Bamford takes to their beds like bunnies to their burrows.’
‘Let’s just hope we’re not to be counted among their number, Aggie,’ Emmaline said as they reached the door of Mr Hunt’s shop.
‘We got a bit close to her, madam,’ Agnes remarked sagely. ‘You did, certainly. Closer than what I did, I couldn’t help noticing.’
‘Thank you, Aggie,’ Emmaline replied with a smile. ‘That has now filled me with the happy expectation of being felled by some dread disease known only to folk who live in Bamford.’
As she left Agnes once more in the window of the shop, Emmaline went to where Mr Hunt liked to stand to survey the world and its doings, the position he always adopted when he was not directly involved with one of his customers, on a small dais towards the back.
‘Good day to you, madam,’ he said, with a short bow. ‘Here to browse? Or have you come for another tutorial from our Mr Ashcombe?’
‘I am here to buy a book, I do assure you, Mr Hunt,’ Emmaline replied firmly, determined to give the right impression of what she was pretending was her objective. ‘I wish to buy a speller and a first reader, if I may.’
‘Of course, Mrs Aubrey,’ Mr Hunt agreed, turning to lead the way to the relevant shelf. ‘You should find everything you are looking for in this section here.’ He gave Emmaline an odd look. ‘A speller and a first reader for yourself?’ he asked, his head on one side, looking diplomatically indifferent.
‘These will be for myself, yes.’
‘I see. Were you not then putting the cart a little before the horse when you were here the other day?’ he asked, careful to adopt a kindly tone.
‘Not really. You see, Aggie can at least say her ABC, so she has had a little education, but I intend to start her reading lessons as soon as possible. Not to be able to read is a terrible thing, is it not, Mr Hunt? What we are deprived of if we cannot read is something that you and I can only guess at. Ah – A Child’s Book of the Alphabet. The very thing to get Aggie started.’
‘Aggie being your daughter?’ Mr Hunt asked, looking both relieved and amused.
‘Oh, no, Mr Hunt. No, Aggie is my maid. She is seated there by the window. She has fallen in love with your shop, Mr Hunt. Mark my words, it will soon be Aggie to whom you will be sending books. Which reminds me that I have to th
ank you for the volume you sent me yesterday. I am very grateful and much appreciate both your tact and your generosity.’
Mr Hunt laughed appreciatively, and turned away as Emmaline looked around innocently for help. Well, innocently as far as any stranger could have told, but not as far as she was concerned, for without looking up she knew that he had seen her. She could sense his gaze, and imagined those intense eyes looking at her, waiting for her to notice him. She found herself making him wait, as if she were playing a fish the way she did on the lake back home, walking round the shelves, taking books down, putting them back on the shelves again, and never once looking in Bray’s direction. Finally it became too much for him, and when Emmaline did finally turn her attention to the more general aspect of the shop she found herself all but face to face with her poet.
‘Mr Ashcombe,’ she said. ‘I was hoping I might see you before I had to hurry home.’
‘Mrs Aubrey,’ Bray returned with a half-bow. ‘You are running short of time?’
‘This really was intended to be a flying visit,’ Emmaline explained. ‘I do have quite a few other calls to make.’
‘I see.’ Bray nodded. ‘You did – did you – did you get my note?’
Emmaline noticed that Agnes was watching them from the window, and turned her back to her.
‘Your note?’ she wondered deliberately. ‘Ah, the note you sent round about the verses we were discussing? Thank you, I did.’
She smiled politely at Bray, noting his surprise before returning her attention to the book in her hand.
‘Good,’ Bray said uncertainly. ‘And – and were you – I trust you were happy with my comments?’
‘I really only had time to glance at them before I left the house this morning,’ Emmaline replied. ‘But from what I saw I would say they seem very favourable, so yes – if that is indeed the case then I shall be very happy.’
‘There is quite a lot more I would enjoy discussing with you,’ Bray continued. ‘Whenever you have the time – and of course the inclination.’
‘Of course, Mr Ashcombe. But as I said, I have other calls to make and I am not altogether sure when we could – when we could have any further converse.’
‘I could perhaps call on you?’
‘No, that is not possible, since my husband is away at the moment, Mr Ashcombe.’
‘I understand.’ Bray, once more seeming to have come to a dead end, stood for a moment in thought while Emmaline browsed through some more reading primers. ‘What time would you be free to walk in the park, I wonder? If it was around the time of my lunch hour, and if you could spare me ten minutes, we could walk together and I could quickly give you my further thoughts on – on your friend’s poetry.’
Emmaline smiled at him, glanced up at the clock on the wall of the bookshop and considered the matter.
‘I have to be back at my house by one o’clock, so I doubt if that would give us sufficient time.’
‘I could ask Mr Hunt,’ Bray suggested. ‘He would probably allow me to take ten minutes from my lunch time now, or whenever it might suit you.’
‘Very well, Mr Ashcombe,’ Emmaline agreed. ‘If you feel this matter to be so pressing, if it really cannot wait—’
‘For the sake of your friend,’ he told her with sudden passionate intensity. ‘I really think the sooner I relay my full opinion on the poems to you, so that you can pass it on to her, the better for all parties concerned. I do have a very positive suggestion to make.’
While Emmaline waited to have her purchases parcelled up, Bray obtained permission from Mr Hunt to take the required time off in advance of his lunch hour, and he accompanied Emmaline and Agnes as they left the premises.
In line with her mistress’s instructions, Agnes dropped half a dozen paces behind Emmaline as Bray fell into step beside her.
‘I wish you had read my note more closely,’ Bray said in a voice he hoped would not be overheard by the maid. ‘If you had you would have sensed the excitement I felt on reading these poems.’
‘Rest assured, Mr Ashcombe, I read enough of it to get a very good impression,’ Emmaline told him, smiling her reassurance.
‘Even so, I get the impression you are in some way chiding me – for my enthusiasm perhaps?’
‘Not in the slightest, Mr Ashcombe. You must remember these poems are the work of a friend. Had they been, let us say for the sake of argument, by myself, why then naturally my emotions would be quite different.’
‘Of course,’ Bray said carefully, taking a sideways look at Emmaline, who continued to look straight ahead. ‘I understand. Since we have very little time to discuss this matter fully, let me just say this, if I may. You might remember I said in my note that I was so struck by the style and content of the verses that I found myself feeling quite jealous – of your friend.’
‘Indeed?’ Emmaline gave a slight frown as she turned to glance at him. ‘I really do not recall that statement, but then I was interrupted before I could reach the end,’ she added, raising her eyes to ask God to forgive her such an untruth.
‘Well, that was exactly how I felt when I had concluded my study of the poems,’ Bray continued with a sigh. ‘Perhaps I should not say this, but compared with the verses I myself am trying at this very moment to create, your poems made me feel, well, there is no other word for it, I am afraid – they made me feel envious.’
‘My friend’s poems, Mr Ashcombe,’ Emmaline corrected him. ‘I showed them to you on her behalf.’
There was a slight, perhaps inevitable pause.
‘Yes, of course – so now let me come to the point. The point is, Mrs Aubrey, from what I have read—’
‘The little you have read, Mr Ashcombe.’
‘In this instance a little is quite enough, I do assure you. It is quite sufficient for me, or for anyone, for that matter, to realise that the author of these verses has a truly singular voice, and one I really feel quite passionately should be heard. Which is why I would suggest, if you will permit me, that these verses should be shown to a professional publisher – one, naturally, whose field is poetry – to see whether or not I err in my firm belief that this poet should be published, that these are not verses to be kept by the poet in a drawer. You know of course that there is a new printing works attached to Mr Hunt’s shop, and that his friend Mr Tully, who has a great interest in poetry, is making a good business from it?’
Emmaline was aware that she must be careful in her response. In all her imaginings she had never gone so far as to see herself as a published poet – after all, she had only sat down on two afternoons and written from the heart. Why she had done so, she still had no idea, unless perhaps her overwhelming sense of loneliness had led her to stray into a strange, mystical world, a world of images, of paintings with words, of unexpressed feelings that had forced themselves into her imagination, willing her to put them down.
She hesitated, quickly remembering her ‘friend’, and the undisputed fact that when she had first read her poems back to herself she had had the distinct impression that they had been penned by someone else. It was this feeling that she now kept before her, as she walked beside the handsome young scholar. Someone else had indeed written them, someone not previously known either to herself or to her family, and certainly not known to Julius.
‘Mr Ashcombe,’ she began, hoping she sounded prosaic, adopting an everyday tone such as she might use when discussing menus with Mrs Graham. ‘Mr Ashcombe, this is very exciting for my friend. It is particularly remarkable, since my friend has really only just started writing. She has written nothing other than the verses you have in your possession, so we would have to call her a tyro, a beginner – only at the start of the artistic race for perfection, if you like. This might be all she has to offer the world, Mr Ashcombe. There is nothing to say she will be able to produce more verses of the quality you so admire. We have to bear that in mind in order to forestall any future disappointment. I have read of shocking cases where the first blooms of literary ta
lent have been killed by the enthusiasm of others.’
‘What you say is true, but life is for the brave, for the courageous, as we know. Besides,’ Bray replied, giving her a sudden appreciative look, ‘seen from any point of view, whether yours or mine, surely that is a question that can only be answered when your friend sits down to write some more verse?’
‘True,’ Emmaline agreed. ‘That might well be the only way to find out. I must tell her to take her courage in both hands and pursue her own inner voice, to listen to the muse and not to mind if the result is less successful.’
‘For myself, if I can be of any assistance, you must tell your friend that I am here, if she so wishes, but only if she so wishes.’ He smiled. ‘You have probably realised that I so love the art of verse writing that I am more than interested in trying to help anyone who aspires to pen even one line of poetry, particularly someone who is as obviously talented as your friend.’
‘Very well, Mr Ashcombe,’ Emmaline agreed. She allowed a few seconds to drift by as they walked on. ‘I shall certainly make it my business to convey your enthusiasm to my friend, and, if I may, I will show her your note – with your permission, that is?’
‘Certainly. By all means. I wrote it with your friend in mind.’
‘After which I shall of course let you know her reaction.’
‘You may also tell her that there are a number of publishers to whom this type of poetry has a very strong appeal. My only other suggestion concerns the second of the verses you gave me to read, the longer one without any title. This is to be part of a much longer work, I imagine?’
‘I would not know, Mr Ashcombe – but I could enquire of her.’
‘Please do, because if it is intended to be a longer poem, then I think it most certainly has every chance of being published as a single work, such is the power of the stanzas I have already read.’
The Land of Summer Page 18
