Her curiosity now well aroused, she hurried to the dressing-room door and peered out into the darkened corridor to make sure that there was no one down the landing or downstairs in the hall. The storm having stopped as suddenly as it had arrived, the house was absolutely quiet, and seemingly deserted, only the sudden distant sound of someone in the basement kitchen calling to someone else disturbing the eerie stillness.
Emmaline quickly returned to the dressing room, and easing the heavy chest away from the wall she pulled out the frame, which she immediately found to be not just a frame but an oil painting. When at last she had the picture propped up the right way she saw a portrait of a beautiful young woman in a white dress, a dress which seemed suddenly all too familiar.
She stared into the dark eyes of the beautiful young girl, and as she did so it seemed to her that it was this girl whom she had heard calling out above the sound of the howling wind, this beautiful girl who had been calling to her. Who was she, though? She had the air of a foreigner, and in her eyes was the look of someone who knew she was not long for this world.
She had little time for any more conjecture, for she heard a sudden noise in the hall, the sound she thought of someone at the front door. As quickly as she could, being careful not to damage the fine frame or indeed the painting itself, Emmaline slid the portrait back into its hiding place, replaced the cloth that had been covering it and finally eased the chest back into position before hurrying out of the dressing room, gently and silently closing the door behind her.
Someone was coming up the stairs. She could hear footfalls as the treads creaked under the weight of whoever was climbing towards her, and knew she had just enough time to get back into her own room before whoever it was reached the top of the staircase and began to walk down the landing. Hugging the wall as closely as she could Emmaline flew on tiptoes along the corridor, just managing to reach the bedroom and ease the door shut behind her before the unseen person came into view. Leaning against the wood, she heard footsteps approach her door and stop, as if whoever it was out there was intending to come in. Holding her breath, Emmaline remained where she was, her back against the door, her eyes tight shut, until to her immense relief she heard the person walk on down the corridor and open a door, a door which, since it only shut after a few attempts, gave her to understand that it might be having difficulty with its latch.
There was no exact way of telling whether or not it was Julius she had heard without going along the corridor to listen at his door, but once she was sure she was going to be spared a visit from her husband she hurried to her desk, locked the drawer containing her precious notebook and flopped herself down on her bed to try to work out why on earth Julius would suddenly decide to take down that portrait and hide it away in his dressing room. Was it perhaps of his sister who had married and gone to live in Canada? Was the wedding dress a family heirloom, and was that why he had behaved so oddly on their wedding day? Had she broken with some family tradition?
It was more than odd that Julius had not only taken the portrait down and hidden it away, but had also allowed her to believe that the missing painting had been of his father. The more she thought about it the less Emmaline was able to explain his actions, unless he had suddenly, for reasons known only to himself, taken a dislike to the painting and decided to remove it. But then why lie about it? Why, Emmaline wondered, yet again allowing despair to take her over, was he treating her as if they were not married?
Julius had met her – he had seen her, he had talked to her, he had danced with her, he had asked her father for her hand in marriage, then as soon as she had arrived in England, except for the rare occasions when he had caressed her hair, he had treated her in the same way that he treated his servants.
Unless, and this suspicion was starting to seem increasingly likely in Emmaline’s mind, unless Mr Julius Aubrey had always been playing out a deliberate and well-planned game, the all too common game of finding a plain little rich girl and marrying her not for love, but for her money.
The awful fact was that this interpretation was making increasing sense to her. After all, it was common knowledge that Julius had been over in America on business, and from the few idle conversations she had overheard between her father and her mother she had gathered that Mr Aubrey was keen for his company to be promoted nationally by Onslow Nesbitt’s own business enterprise, in particular his famous catalogue.
Yet Julius could surely have married anyone? For all his strange behaviour, she could not bring herself to believe that he was a fortune hunter. He had a good business, a fine house, paintings, silver, servants – he would not need to stoop so low, surely? She could perfectly understand that Julius had asked her to dance because he felt sorry for her, that she could accept. He might have agreed to dance with her, to pay some attention to the girl who seemed to be the wallflower of the family, for all kinds of reasons, but not that he would marry her as part of some sort of business bargain. Nor could she believe it of her father, for tough as Onslow always had been in business, and worldy and impatient in character, as a father he had never been anything but affectionate and generous to his wife and daughters, putting up with his wife’s affliction with as good a grace as he could muster, and with his younger daughters’ bumptious ways the same. So yet again Emmaline found herself unable to come to any conclusion about Julius, but this time the comforting knowledge that her verses were secreted away in her small Davenport gave her life a strange new reality.
By the time Agnes knocked on the bedroom door to tell her mistress it was time to dress for dinner, Emmaline had convinced herself that somehow Julius’s removal of the portrait, his hiding of it in his dressing room, must all be part and parcel of whatever it was that had happened to him before they met to cause him to act as he did, but as to what it was, she still had no idea.
‘I was wondering about what our Christmas arrangements might be?’ Emmaline said a few days later during lunch, a meal that once more she found herself taking alone with Julius. Their solitariness was becoming so irksome that she was hard put to it not to turn and ask the servants to sit down with them.
‘Our Christmas arrangements? Yes, of course!’ Julius seemed to be coming to, as if he had quite forgotten what season it was.
‘It is such a lovely time of year, and this will be our first Christmas in this house. Did you ever have Christmas here with your family, Julius?’
Julius looked up from staring at his plate with sudden interest.
‘Would you think this fish is fresh, Emma?’ he asked, as if he had not heard a word that she had said.
‘I would say yes, the fish is fresh, Julius,’ Emmaline told him, ‘but if it is not, Cook’s cat has just had kittens.’ George, the under footman, smothered a giggle as Julius continued to frown at the segment of fish on his fork. ‘Yes, Cook’s cat has just had kittens and will no doubt be most grateful. So why not leave it for Prudence?’
‘And what were you saying, Emma? What might it be that you were saying?’
‘Leave the fish for the cat.’
‘Not about the cat, about something else?’
‘Christmas. In America we spend weeks preparing for Christmas. It is a time of great celebration.’
‘As it is here, I do assure you, Emma.’
‘Is that so? In that case, since it is only three weeks until Christmas, and we haven’t discussed the matter once, perhaps we could discuss it now?’
‘What is there to discuss?’
Holding on to her patience, Emmaline took a deep breath before replying.
‘What we should perhaps discuss, Julius, is what you would like to do over Christmas.’
‘Nothing very much. We shall go to church, of course, and then Cook will produce a goose or a turkey, and we will eat it, and a plum pudding, and then we shall perhaps give each other gifts, and that will be Christmas.’
‘Not so different from any other Sunday here, from the sounds of it.’
‘It is a religious festival
.’
‘Do you want to ask anyone to lunch on Christmas Day? Or perhaps for dinner on Christmas Eve, which I understand is the Continental way?’
‘No.’ Julius stopped her. ‘I don’t want to ask anybody.’
‘That is a pity, because I would quite like to invite some people to share Christmas with us, Julius.’
‘I would really rather not have guests, Emma.’
‘I am sorry about that, because in America it is a time for seeing friends and celebrating.’
Julius stared down the long table at Emmaline with a sudden look of speaking sadness in his eyes. She stood up.
‘You may leave,’ she told George and Wilkinson. ‘No removes from the table at the moment.’
She went up to where Julius was sitting as the servants hurried off, and stood in front of his chair.
‘Julius,’ she said. ‘You know we cannot possibly go on living like this.’
‘And what might you mean by that?’
Emmaline saw that it might be necessary to speak to him as if he were a child.
‘I have said this to you before. We’re meant to be man and wife, and we’re not even living together—’ she stopped, ‘we’re not even living together like brother and sister. We’re like two strangers.’
‘I hardly think so, Emmaline. You are exaggerating here. You must have become infected by reading too much, or playing too much romantic music.’
‘We are, Julius, we are like two strangers. And every time I try to make life more pleasant, suggest some sort of social activity – even as in this case at Christmas – you deny me everything, and yet you expect me to stay here with you, to go on living like this, in a nightmarish state, not knowing where you are when you go away on business; and now it seems to me I have no idea who you are.’
Julius stared past her as if he hadn’t heard her.
‘I shouldn’t have done this,’ he said quietly, half to himself, but loud enough for Emmaline to hear. ‘I should not have done this.’
‘Done what, Julius?’
‘I should never have done this,’ he repeated in a dazed fashion.
He rose to his feet, screwed up his linen napkin, and quickly left the room. Emmaline was about to get up and go after him when Wilkinson, George and Dolly came in. They appeared so promptly that Emmaline knew they must have heard everything, although no one actually spoke, and as Emmaline sat on, braving it out on her own through the succeeding courses, their faces reflected her own sense of despair.
When Emmaline finally left the table, she knew that what had happened would already be a source of gossip and speculation in the servants’ hall. The happy atmosphere that she had been able to engender when Julius was absent had quite disappeared. At home in America, old Mary had always said unhappy marriages made for badly run houses, and that servants did not want to stay where the atmosphere was uneasy. She had said that if the maid who opened the door to you was rude and surly then you should expect the mistress and master of the house to be the same. If the servants left, Emmaline would have no friends, and that was the truth.
Just then, though, Emmaline could think of nothing except that she was cold, and tired, and trapped. She went back to her little sitting room and seated herself in front of the fire, which, perhaps knowing how she must be feeling, Wilkinson had stacked up once more. She was staring into the friendly flames, wondering whether to leave Park House before or after Christmas, when she realised that she could only see half of the fire, and then less than half. She felt overcome by panic, as if an enormously heavy net had been thrown over her, weighted down at every corner, and she was struggling with it, only to realise that she was fighting for her life while someone on the outside, in the room, stood waiting with something terrible with which to kill her. She was suddenly quite certain that she was going to die.
By some good grace Wilkinson was just passing by the door of the sitting room when he heard the noise, a crash as if someone had toppled into a piece of furniture followed by a thud as whoever it was fell to the floor. He found his mistress lying in a faint by the fireside, her head resting sideways on the brass fender, a trickle of blood seeping from a wound in her temple. Post haste, he sent George for the doctor, while Agnes, Mrs Graham and he carried their unconscious mistress upstairs to the bedroom, where Agnes and Mrs Graham loosened all her clothing, and laid her under the covers to wait for the doctor.
‘Do you think we should have moved her, Mrs Graham?’ Agnes wanted to know as they both stood staring down at Emmaline lying on the bed. ‘I am not at all sure that we should have moved her, really. I remember when there was this accident at the works, when Mr Ralph knocked himself out, the older women said they should leave him where he was, quite still, that it was better that way.’
‘I think the most important thing is to keep Mrs Aubrey warm, Agnes,’ Mrs Graham replied, sitting herself down on one side of the bed to keep watch. ‘It isn’t as if she has broken anything, fallen downstairs or from any sort of a height. My fear is she fainted.’
‘She has been looking awful pale of late, Mrs Graham,’ Agnes chipped in, standing with her hands clasped tightly in front of her on the other side of the bed. ‘I been that worried about her ’cos she has been looking awful pale, like she’s not been sleeping or something, and she has acted awful strange since the master came home.’
‘She’s only very slight, Agnes,’ Mrs Graham stated, carefully avoiding the emotive subject of Mr Aubrey’s treatment of his wife, while keeping her eyes directed on her patient. ‘Mrs Aubrey is not the strongest of souls. And she eats very sparingly.’
‘You think it was a faint then, Mrs Graham? She fainted, like …’
‘And banged her poor head on the fender, Agnes, yes,’ Mrs Graham agreed.
‘Well, ladies can faint sometimes for all sorts of reasons, can’t they, Mrs Graham? For all sorts and sizes of reasons.’
‘I think we should perhaps mind our tongues until the doctor arrives, Agnes, truly I do,’ Mrs Graham said quickly, realising that any minute Agnes would be going too far.
‘Very well. It was only that I was thinking—’
‘Best not to think just now, Agnes, best to just watch and pray.’
The genial, kindly Dr Proctor duly arrived within half an hour, throwing his hat and cape at Wilkinson before climbing the stairs breathlessly, cigar in mouth and Gladstone bag in hand, his stethoscope half hanging out of it. As he was examining the wound to Emmaline’s forehead, she stirred and opened her eyes.
‘Sound,’ he said with some relief. ‘Sound. At least we’re still alive then. Least we’re still drawing breath. How long d’you say she’s been fainted, Mrs Graham?’
‘Over half an hour now, sir,’ Mrs Graham replied, up from her chair and standing at the end of the bed.
‘Long business for a faint, I would say, wouldn’t you?’ Dr Proctor asked himself. ‘I would say so,’ he replied to himself, clearing his throat. ‘We must have actually knocked ourselves out then. Must have knocked ourselves out good and cold.’
He handed his cigar, which too had now gone out, to an astonished Agnes.
‘Hold that for me, girl. Or put it down somewhere,’ he said. ‘I need to examine this head wound. Can you hear me, Mrs Aubrey?’
Dr Proctor bent over the bed and carefully turned Emmaline’s head towards him so that the wound on her temple was visible.
‘What happened?’ Emmaline asked of no one in a dazed whisper. ‘I don’t remember anything. Why are you here? Who are you?’
‘Took a bit of a bang, Mrs Aubrey. A bang to the head – I’m just going to take a look now. Can you move your fingers and toes, that’s what I want to know now, eh? Can you feel your digits, Mrs Aubrey?’
‘Who are you, please?’ Emmaline said, closing her eyes in pain. ‘What is happening exactly?’
‘I need some warm water in a bowl, girl, and quickly,’ the doctor told Agnes. ‘Quick as you can, girl – get moving.’
Agnes did as she was told, scu
rrying off as fast as she could to fulfil her errand.
‘I need to know if you can hear me, Mrs Aubrey, there’s a good lady,’ Dr Proctor repeated. ‘Say if you can hear me, that’s all.’
‘I can hear you,’ Emmaline told him in a vague voice. ‘Though you seem very far away, and I feel dreadful.’
‘That’s because of this nasty bump to your head here. Fingers and toes? Move them all right, can you?’
Emmaline moved the fingers of both her hands, which were resting in front of her on the sheet.
‘That’s the thing, good girl,’ Dr Proctor said. ‘Toes as well?’
‘I think so,’ Emmaline agreed. ‘Yes. Yes, I can move my toes as well.’
‘That’s the thing. Jolly good show.’
Once Agnes had returned with the hot water, Dr Proctor set about dressing the bump and bruising to Emmaline’s temple, checked her pulse rate, looked carefully into his patient’s eyes and then pronounced that all was as well as could be expected.
‘Somebody has got word to her husband, I imagine?’ he asked Mrs Graham as they descended the stairs. ‘Nothing to be unduly alarmed about, but someone had best tip him the wink. Don’t want the poor fellow coming home and finding a wounded soldier in his bed.’
Mrs Graham gave Dr Proctor an old-fashioned look before assuring him that she would telephone Mr Aubrey’s office with the news immediately. Then she handed him over to Wilkinson, and disappeared below stairs to arrange for her mistress to have a cup of camomile tea taken up to her, a beverage that the housekeeper believed was second to none when it came to calming the nerves after shock.
‘I wonder what happened,’ Emmaline said to Agnes when her tea had been brought up to her. The maid was sitting as requested by her mistress by her bedside. ‘I really do not remember one thing about it at all.’
‘All I knows is Mr Wilkinson heard what he says was you falling, madam,’ Agnes replied. ‘So everyone thinks you must have fainted out.’
The Land of Summer Page 20
