Afternoons with Emily (57 page)

“They have, and they will,” I promised her.

We rose and, arms around each other’s waists, walked down the stairs toward our separate, contented dreams. I knew my time
in Barbados was vanishing, as the frilled ripples of Learner’s Cove sank into the creamy sand. But I was strong and energetic
and hopeful; I could not even remember the lethargy that I had felt when I came here. I looked forward to Amherst, where Elena
and I would have another spring — and to my work and my love, waiting. When it came time for us to leave this astonishing
island, my heart would be full — full of the love and contentment and beauty I had found here and would continue to have as
I returned to Amherst.

On the dock at Bridgetown, Elena worried till her shells and my panels were carried aboard, and Lettie kissed us both. Miss
Adelaide and I embraced; we needed no words for our parting. I had already told her that I would write every week. Then Elena
and I walked onto the ship and stood at the rail till Barbados was a faint violet shadow on the horizon. Two dolphins frolicked
in our bow wave for a while; then they slipped back to rejoin their friends.

AMHERST AND NEW YORK

1867

I
had left Amherst in deep winter, the biting winds stinging my cheeks, my accumulated cares layering frost around my heart.
I returned to late spring; Amherst and I had thawed together. Once again Barbados had healed me and ushered me into the next
phase of my life.

All those years ago, when, as a child, I had grown strong upon that island, I had discovered a physical and active world,
a world in which I was not dying. Once more, Barbados had awakened my body, this time enabling me to embrace my new life as
Roger’s lover.

Aunt Helen must have heard the horse’s hooves as our carriage drove up to the house. She flung open the front door and ran
toward us before the driver had even instructed the horses to stop.

“Grandmama Helen!” Elena cried beside me, waving furiously.

We clambered out of the carriage while Bridget and Sam organized the removal of our trunks. Aunt Helen swept us into an embrace;
I buried myself in her flour-and-lemon scent, Elena squealing and snuggling with furious intensity.

Aunt Helen gazed at us appraisingly when she released us. “Look at your sun-kissed faces. You’re positively aglow.”

“My shells!” Elena cried as she spotted Sam carrying her precious cargo. Aunt Helen and I linked arms and chatted our way
into the house.

I was arriving home at the end of May, a time of mud and promise in Amherst. Today the contrasts delighted me: the dark fecund
earth, the delicate first blooms. Every flower, every dappled shadow edging across the lush grass lawn, seemed infused with
renewed energy, made all the more intense in the vivid scarlet sunset. The colors, the scents, resonated in me like a struck
gong. Was this how Kate had felt when she and Ethan began their lives together as lovers, their new physical knowledge of
each other? Did her body feel suddenly, completely, alive?

By the time Aunt Helen and I had arrived in the house, Elena had already charged up the stairs to dictate the proper handling
of her precious collection. Aunt Helen and I chuckled at her bossy little voice, giving orders.

“She certainly knows her own mind,” Aunt Helen observed.

“Do you think she gets that from Kate?” I asked.

Aunt Helen smiled. “I think she gets that from all of us. Which makes her quite the formidable personality.”

She gave my shoulders a squeeze. “The trip has done you such good,” she said. “I can tell it.”

“It was exactly what I needed” was all that I said. It was far too soon to mention Roger — too soon for Aunt Helen and too
soon for me. Leaving Barbados was like being brought from one world to another without being able to distinguish readily which
was real and which the dream.

During my months in Barbados, Aunt Helen had spent much of the time with Ethan in Springfield, visiting her grandchildren.
I was happy to hear that Aunt Helen and Ethan’s new wife, Ann, got on splendidly during this extended stay. I had wondered
if it would be difficult to see her daughter’s husband married to another woman. Now I was relieved to see that the delight
she took in Kate’s boys, and her obvious relief that her grandchildren were well cared for, counteracted any lingering discomfort.

Bridget had kept the house dust-free while we were gone and had collected the mail that arrived in our absence. I was astonished
to see the stack that had accumulated. Aunt Helen saw my expression and gave me a rueful smile.

“I have not been able to bear facing it all,” she confessed.

“I’m sure there is much that is my responsibility,” I assured her, picking up the pile of letters, newspapers, circulars,
and journals.

“My subscriptions!” Aunt Helen shook her head. “How will I ever get through them all?”

“Tomorrow,” I said. “We’ll do it together. But tonight, let us enjoy our reunion.”

Aunt Helen smiled and gave me another quick hug. “How I’ve missed you. We have so much catching up to do!” She bustled off
into the kitchen, where I could hear her humming and pots clanking.

Elena appeared at the top of the stairs. “Would you like to come help Bridget in the garden?” I asked her. She dashed down
the stairs and took my hand. I grabbed a basket by the back door, and together we went outside to a scarlet sunset. We strolled
to the kitchen garden, where Bridget was working, and we three tore loose the spinach and the dandelion greens for dinner.
I pressed a clump of soft earth between my fingers. “We should be getting the seedlings planted,” I murmured. “The ground
is just right.”

“Let me!” Elena cried. “I want to do it.”

I had not realized I had spoken the words aloud, but the eagerness on Elena’s face gave me an idea. “Would you like a garden
of your own?”

Elena’s eyes widened, and she nodded her head vigorously. “Yes, please!”

Dusk enveloped us as we returned to the house. Dinner was brief that first night; Elena nearly fell asleep before our main
meal was finished and missed dessert entirely, and I was ready to do the same. By the time I carried Elena up to bed, Aunt
Helen and Bridget had already cleared the table and started the washing up. I said a brief, sleepy good night and at last
completed my homecoming by falling asleep in my own dear room.

The next morning, Aunt Helen, Elena, and I went to work creating Elena’s private garden. We dug the rows, planted seeds, and
transplanted some of the shoots Aunt Helen had started inside to their new home in the earth. Elena was particularly pleased
with the small tomato plant we bequeathed her. When I left them to tackle some of my waiting chores, Elena and Aunt Helen
were drawing a careful map of the new garden so that Elena could make identifying signs for each plant variety.

I carried the mail into the study and separated it. I placed Aunt Helen’s pile on the small table by the armchair near the
window, then sat down at the desk. Soon Aunt Helen came in, carrying a tray with a pitcher of fresh lemonade and a plateful
of cookies.

“Mmmm,” I murmured, biting into the rich shortbread. “Precisely right for facing all this mail.” Returning my attention to
the pile, I spotted a broad, familiar handwriting. Roger. My heart soared at the sight of my name on the envelope. If my own
name, rendered by his hand, could trigger such a flush of sensual memory, could I risk reading the entire letter in Aunt Helen’s
presence? I glanced at her as she sat in her armchair, a newspaper turned to catch the afternoon light. She seemed quite engrossed.
I opened Roger’s letter.

Dear Miranda,

You will, by now, have returned to Amherst. I hope that your sojourn in Barbados has left you refreshed for the tasks that
we have ahead of us in the next several months. . . .

It was a very proper, businesslike letter, filled with useful and encouraging news of the foundation’s progress while I had
been away. But there was nothing personal, no mention of our changed relationship. No word of love. From the evidence of Roger’s
letter, I might have dreamed our nights in Barbados.

“I don’t know how I will ever get through all of these subscriptions,” Aunt Helen muttered. She lay the newspaper down on
the side table. “Well, it is no longer truly news if it was printed back in March, I suppose. Are any of those letters from
Mr. Daniels?”

I hid my confusion. “Yes, this one is,” I said.

“I thought he might have written you in Barbados,” Aunt Helen said. “He was quite keen to learn of your whereabouts.”

“Yes,” I said absently, my attention returned to the letter.

“Miranda, is something amiss with the foundation?”

I forced myself to look up and smile. “Not at all, Aunt. Why should you think so?”

“You looked — stricken — for a moment, my dear.”

“Everything is fine,” I assured her, folding the creamy paper and slipping it into my pocket. “In fact, the remodeling of
the new building is ahead of schedule, and we have had a large number of inquiries regarding enrollment here in Amherst.”

“That is certainly nothing to frown at,” she said comfortably. “I had been worried when he contacted me. Matters seemed quite
urgent.”

“It was a misunderstanding,” I said, struggling to give my aunt an answer that would satisfy her without betraying my own
confusion. “I had written Mr. Daniels a letter that he felt needed an immediate response, and when he found that I had gone,
he was concerned that the matter might not be resolved in a timely fashion.”

“So nothing is wrong now?” Aunt Helen looked at me.

I forced another smile. “Not at all. For a moment I think I was as overwhelmed as you by the sheer amount of mail — and the
work it represents — that piled up while we were gone.”

Aunt Helen put her newspaper aside with a grimace and picked up an issue of
Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper
from her stack. “I can well believe it, my dear. And I’m glad that you and Mr. Daniels sorted out the problem. He is a very
interesting man.” She smiled and opened the magazine.

I took up another letter, opened it, and stared at it without seeing. What was I to make of Roger’s letter? Was he merely
being cautious lest my letters be read by someone else? Did he regret what had happened between us? The mere sight of his
handwriting had called up memories that made my hands tremble as I opened his letter. Was it possible that our joining had
meant less to him? I could not believe it. But we had, both of us, left the enchanted isle and returned to our workaday world.
It would take some time for us to find a way to work together and to express our love. I must be patient. I must believe.

I returned my attention to the letter in my hand — an invitation to a lecture now several months past — and put it aside to
answer later. The next letter was addressed in Emily’s distinctive handwriting. Rifling through the stack, I found several
others and pulled them out to read together.

The first letter was an invitation to visit on Monday afternoon. The request had gone unanswered for three months; I could
imagine her petulance in hearing no reply. This was another contradiction Emily never recognized in herself. I’d seen her
rage against the silence of others — while insisting upon silence for herself. She admonished others for “chatter” and “social
insistence” while demanding they respond instantly to her irregular contact.

I was surprised, however, what with her gossiping sister living in her house, that Emily had not known immediately that I
had gone to Barbados.

When I opened the second letter, it was clear that Lavinia had performed her duty and informed Emily of my itinerary.

Miranda,

You have forsaken winter and taken crimson and violet with you. In Amherst the air is hushed — there are no birdcalls now.
But though you have gone, I know you will return. I remain, as ever,

Emily

Emily’s acknowledgment of my trip made me all the more curious about the third letter, dated a month ago. She knew I was still
away, yet she sent another message.

This one was a poem without a personal note.

The Definition of Beauty is

That Definition is none —

Of Heaven, easing Analysis,

Since Heaven and He are one.

“It is as if it doesn’t matter whether I read these or not,” I said, perplexed. “She’s sending them for the sake of the sending,
I think.”

Aunt Helen sniffed. “You know my feelings about that woman. She is as strange as . . . well, I actually cannot think of anything
to compare her to!”

I laughed. “You’re quite right, Aunt Helen. Emily is incomparable.”

Aunt Helen glanced at me. “Two hours is enough time to work on your first full day back,” she stated. “Give yourself a chance
to rest and recuperate from your journey.”

“I think you’re right,” I told her. “Shall we come back to this later? The weather is too beautiful to stay indoors.”

“Quite true.” Aunt Helen stood and rubbed her hands together as if to warm them.

“Is your arthritis bothering you?” I asked.

“Nothing to fret about,” she assured me.

With her lively manner it was easy to forget that Aunt Helen was growing older. After all, she was only a few years younger
than Father. I vowed to help her more with the household duties to ease some of her burden.

I suggested we go for a walk, and we wrapped ourselves in woolen shawls: early spring in Amherst was not always warm, particularly
compared to the weather I’d been enjoying in Barbados, but arm in arm, we toured our neighborhood, taking note of new plantings
and tiny decorative changes around us.

“I see Adele Summers has repainted her porch trim,” Aunt Helen pointed out.

“It goes nicely with the shutters,” I agreed. “And I see her cat had another litter.”

I took in deep, satisfied breaths. Although Amherst did not provide the exotic floral perfumes mixed with salted spray of
Barbados, the scents of the New England spring were invigorating. We passed The Homestead on Main Street, and I automatically
glanced at the upstairs window. I certainly am well trained, I thought, and then pushed the unworthy idea aside. “I really
must go see Emily soon,” I said, though I was oddly reluctant, contemplating the idea.