Afternoons with Emily (53 page)

I was at first not certain I should accept so expensive and rare a gift — particularly when I reread Roger’s note. And yet,
as heartsore as I was, I could not bring myself to return the brooch. Father’s death, the last in a series of terrible losses,
had made it difficult to lose even the suggestion of a happier future. As I wrote to thank Roger for his gift, the letter
seemed to take on a life of its own.

New Year’s Day, 1867

Dear Roger,

At our meetings and in our letters, we have moved from friendship to something more intense and emotional. I have felt this
change developing between us, and I suppose that change is given form in the beautiful brooch you sent me. I am not certain
that I should accept something so costly, but to find a friend who understands me so well is such a balm to my sore heart
that I cannot say no. I thank you for it and will treasure it always.

It is difficult for me to collect my thoughts these days; I feel as if I were caught in some deep well of sadness. It is not
only my father’s death but Davy’s, and before that my dear cousin Kate’s. You never met her, but Kate was, saving only Davy,
my dearest friend. She died giving birth to her third child; I was at the confinement, and it left an indelible mark upon
me. I resolved afterward that I would never bear a child. I have Kate’s Elena as a daughter; I will not leave her motherless
again. I suppose this means that I will never marry, for what man would be willing to have his posterity held ransom to his
wife’s fear?

This is another reason why I throw myself with such passion into the work of the foundation. I cannot abandon the opportunities
for creativity and influence that Davy planned and the foundation offers. These opportunities will be my life’s work. Again,
what man would permit the comfort of his home to be disrupted by his wife’s career?

The last several years of war and loss have left me (as I suppose they have left many people) adrift and bewildered by sorrow.
I need to tell you how very much your friendship means to me.

I was not satisfied with the letter; what would Roger make of it? It hardly made sense, but I could not gather my wits to
tell my feelings more clearly. I sealed it and posted it. It was done, and I felt somehow relieved.

When I next met with Mr. Austin on my father’s business, he expressed concern. “Miranda, your aunt and I are worried about
you. These last few years have been a great emotional strain for you. You have lost a fiancé, a dear cousin, and now your
father. And you have become Elena’s mother! You are overdrawn, spiritually; you must take the time to restore yourself.

“I would like to see you take Elena and go somewhere quiet and beautiful. All your duties here can wait. I will write to Mr.
Harnett and the trustees. Perhaps you should go south, to avoid the rest of our harsh Amherst winter and early spring. I see
you smiling — do you know of such a place?”

“Yes, I do, Mr. Austin. I know exactly such a place, for Elena and for me. It’s in the West Indies, and it’s called York Stairs!”

BARBADOS

FEBRUARY–MAY 1867

E
lena and I reached Barbados on February 3, 1867. Bridgetown had grown bigger and busier in ten years; I had read that sugar
prices were booming. The York Stairs carriage was driven by young Seth, Aaron’s nephew, for Aaron was now old and ill. As
we rode, he talked about Miss Adelaide, lonely since Dr. Hugh’s death and saddened, again, by the news about Father.

“Your face will be the best medicine for her, Missy Miranda,” Seth told us.

We reached Cedar Avenue at dusk. The Palladian staircase opened its arms to greet us. I saw a single slim figure at the balustrade.

“Miss Adelaide is waiting to meet you,” I told Elena as we climbed the familiar curving stairs.

“Darling Miranda,” Miss Adelaide greeted me in her silken soft tones. Her beautiful face still seemed ageless. She held me
a long time, as Elena hovered behind me, reverting to shyness. The reunion was bittersweet — combining the past and the present,
the dead and the living.

She released me and held me at arm’s length. “You have grown into yourself,” she said. Then she bent down to greet Elena.
“And here is a sweet pea.”

Lettie came out of the shadows. I crossed to her, and we held each other wordlessly.

“Let us show this new little one to her room,” Lettie said after a moment.

Lettie and I took Elena downstairs to her room, opposite mine. She was uneasy about the monster shadows leaping across the
curved ceiling, but Lettie told her they were dolphins. I heard their voices as they unpacked.

“Do you know I did this for your Manda, when she was a little girl?”

“She told me. She likes you.”

“And who is this handsome bear?”

“This is Zeus.”

“Is it now! I know that fellow Zeus. He is in the Greek tales. He is king of all the gods, and a bossy master.”

“My Zeus is very quiet and nice.”

“Of course he is. He is your friend.”

“Lettie, will you teach me to swim?”

“It will be my pleasure — the very first thing tomorrow!”

I could see Lettie had already eased Elena past her bad moment and into York Stairs. I told this to Miss Adelaide when I rejoined
her on the gallery. She had festive iced champagne for us.

“We must celebrate your return, dear child, and we must celebrate Elena. I declare, it has been a long time since I have seen
such good manners in one so young.”

“She is like her mother that way — and of course I am raising her the way you raised me.”

“I hear that all over the country families are raising their kin orphaned by the war.”

“It’s true,” I told her. “And there are many, many girls who will be single forever.”

“So we must toast our men.” Miss Adelaide smiled, and we raised our glasses — “To Davy, Hugh, and your father.” Then she drank
to my future: “Perhaps it will start here!”

And so, in spite of the empty chairs that had once been Dr. Hugh’s and Father’s, Miss Adelaide and I dined cheerfully, recalling
many plans, and with a sigh of happiness I relaxed, knowing that in many ways our men were with us, and that this was now
exactly the right place for me to be.

On my bed table I found that Miss Adelaide had left me a new Victor Hugo novel and a vase of syringa to fill my high white
room with sweetness. I went to sleep breathing it and thinking of Roger, and his strong square jaw. He must have read my letter
by now.

Morning brought a dappled radiance that amazed Elena. “A whole new sun!” she cried, bounding into my room.

We dressed in our bright chitons, Springfield copies of Madame Lauré’s design. After breakfast, Miss Adelaide and I showed
Elena around York Stairs, for I wanted her to meet it in the morning light, as I had.

Elena was enchanted, her eyes wide with wonder. “There’s no indoors!”

Lettie then came in with her daughter. Mira was an elegant gazelle of nine, curtsying like a dancer. She and Elena eyed each
other curiously with intense interest, and then Lettie and Mira took Elena off for “swimming school.” I did not join them
until their picnic lunch, for I had decided that my mornings must be spent working at the shameful mass of papers that had
collected since Father died and I became so listless. I wrote until noon and then walked out of my bedroom and down the hill,
to diamond-glittering Learner’s Cove, and into memories.

Elena had learned to duck and blow in the warm green water. She and Mira played like two young angels in a liquid paradise,
and I joined them, shedding time and grief. My little girl and I were the same age, here in the sea. She was awed by the profusion
of shells, having studied my precious collection on Amity Street.

“Are these Miss Adelaide’s shells?” she asked, turning them over on the sandy shore.

“They belong to the sea. It kept them here, waiting for a little girl who loves shells.” I watched as she searched for yellow
pectins with Mira, humming a little — as she used to when Father kept her company beside the brook. After our naps, Elena
begged for the beach again, but I explained that I did not want her to burn and “get too hot,” as Lettie called it.

“And,” I added, “I have something to show you that you will like.”

I led her to the gallery, where Miss Adelaide had rigged us a fine worktable. Dr. Hugh had willed me his entire shell collection,
and this was the perfect time to introduce it to Elena. I brought out the boxes, and we began to arrange the beautiful objects
on two tall panels of silvery driftwood. After a few minutes Elena announced she would like to make pictures of them, so Miss
Adelaide, smiling, found paper and charcoal, and Elena began to draw, outlining the same shape over and over rather than reworking
the drawing. She had Ethan’s talent; she was training her little muscles to use it.

“Wonderful,” Miss Adelaide whispered, and then she left us to our creative tasks. I felt very close to Dr. Hugh as I worked
— remembering his kindness to an odd little stranger. He — and Barbados — had freed me from so much, particularly the fearful
taint of consumption that had haunted me. I was certain that he would be happy with my teaching Elena all the shell lore he
had taught me.

Much later we dressed for dinner, and then we joined Miss Adelaide on the gallery.

“Lettie told me this is when we play the cloud game,” Elena said.

“We certainly do. Why don’t you begin, Elena?”

“I see a big gold rabbit — right there!”

I smiled at Miss Adelaide, remembering, and all through dinner we enjoyed reminiscing, this time without so much sadness.
Elena asked question after question; it was wonderful to see her ever-widening curiosity.

After our dinner and after Elena was in bed, Miss Adelaide and I returned to the twilit gallery, and I admired the handsome
wicker furniture, new since my last visit.

“I was very extravagant and ordered it from India when Hugh was dying. He liked to lie out here and watch the sky, and receive
the callers. It made him happy; he said he had had a fine life. Very few Charleston men would say that, these days.” She moved
comfortably in her chair. “We discussed the idea of returning home, despite the war, to be buried there. But Hugh would have
none of that. Our life there was over long before, when on my behalf he swore he’d never go back.”

I longed to pick up this elliptical reference and open that locked cupboard. The most I could muster, however, was a polite
reminder. “I remember your promise that when I was older you would tell me why you came here. And now I think I am old enough.”

She gave a low chuckle. “And so I will. But not tonight. Tonight I want to tell you about the things I’ve done with our sugar
money.”

“So the war affected the sugar trade?”

“It surely did — it tripled the demand! All those little courts in Europe give balls and ceremonies and coronations for one
another, and all the dukes and princes compete for the biggest and sweetest desserts. Our York Stairs sugar went into ten-foot
wedding cakes for two of Victoria’s daughters. I declare, Dickens would have had some words to say about those cakes!”

“I saw the new fountain,” I remarked. “And the new glasshouse.”

“But you didn’t see the little hospital in Bridgetown and the two native doctors Hugh sent to England to be trained. And you
can’t see my Moore grand-nephews being educated — although you will see the results, someday. Ravenel will take on York Stairs
when he’s grown. Sherman wrecked the Moore plantation in ’64. There’s nothing left of the big house but the stumps of columns
that once held up a beautiful portico.”

“Who is running York Stairs for you, Miss Adelaide?”

“I have a fine English manager. He married a native girl, so he can’t go home. I built them a house near the mill. Then I
remodeled Hugh’s old office into a regular Charleston
garçonnière
for the Moore boys.”

Now I suspected Miss Adelaide of deliberate obfuscation. She had clouded the water so her own story was lost. One day, I knew,
Miss Adelaide would decide to tell me her story. Until then, I could wait, for time meant nothing here, only the long slow
days, and the sun and the sea — the glorious unshadowed time of York Stairs.

I slept, worked every morning, swam, and napped. In the afternoon I played with Elena on the gallery or at Learner’s Cove.
Then I bathed and dressed in the evening and dined with Miss Adelaide; we talked endlessly under the stars — and then I slept
again. After two or three weeks of this idyll, I could feel myself rebounding in body and spirit. I made headway on the article
for the
Atlantic Monthly,
which was to be a history of the Froebel movement, the foundation, and our experiences. I took Elena to different beaches
in the governess cart, driving Hercules, the placid pony. The poor thing was older than I was and almost slept as he trotted!
I read Melville and Hugo, and Miss Adelaide taught me to play cribbage. Elena and Mira were now fast friends. Elena idolized
the older girl, and Mira relished the attention of her small shadow. Mira was as kind and as gentle as Lettie; Elena was in
good company.

I thought of Roger often, especially as I fell asleep. He had thick peaked eyebrows, inviting a caress. Once or twice I felt
foolish . . . what was I
thinking,
to write such a bold letter? I wondered what the consequences would be. How I would miss his friendship if my letter had
pushed him away with its frankness and its assumptions. But there was nothing I could do here. It had been sent.

One day I drove Elena into Bridgetown to see the fishing fleet and to buy some plain paper for drawing. We wandered around
the port and talked to the ship captains. We returned to York Stairs tired and happy, just before the cloud-show hour.

As we climbed the staircase, I heard Miss Adelaide talking to a gentleman. A neighbor, probably. But there was no tethered
horse. Then, at the top step, I clutched the balustrade.