The Land of Summer (19 page)

‘Julius?’

‘He went that way,’ one of the women said. ‘My dear, I think he was overcome by such a pretty sight – just too affected.’

Emmaline shook her head, and taking her lace-edged handkerchief she dabbed her forehead with it, feeling suddenly both sick and faint.

What can I have done now?
she wondered, trying to catch the breath that seemed to have frozen in her throat.
Why ever should Julius get up and leave the room in the middle of the poem – what can I have done now?

She slipped out into the corridor, hoping to find him standing outside, perhaps, as the older lady had remarked, overcome by the sad, sweet nature of the poem, but there was no one there, the corridor was empty. She searched further, longing to find him doing anything, anything at all, rather than have to admit what she and Mrs Graham, and indeed Wilkinson, had dreaded all along – that Julius had disappeared.

Drawing a blank, and reluctant to absent herself for too long from her guests, Emmaline leaned against the wall in the corridor, breathing deeply
in
an attempt to stop her head from swimming. Beyond the door she could hear the heightened buzz of conversation, talk that sounded animated and inquisitive, and it seemed to her that everyone in the drawing room was busy discussing Julius’s disappearance.

After a minute or two, possibly as a distraction, someone began to play the piano again, some introductory chords, after which a new female voice arose singing another of Sir Arthur Sullivan’s popular ballads, ‘The Moon and I’.

Feeling sufficiently recovered to rejoin her guests, Emmaline straightened her dress, took one last deep breath and prepared to re-enter the fray, but was prevented from doing so by the sound of voices in the main hallway.

‘You have to wonder what kind of man would apparently take such exception to his wife’s reciting a perfectly beautiful poem like that?’ the first light female voice was saying. ‘The dear little creature was so obviously directing the sentiments most firmly his way. What a compliment to a husband, and what a little beauty she is. Julius doesn’t realise how lucky he is, I would say.’

‘I only wish I had the courage to do something quite as enchanting,’ the second voice replied. It was a deep female voice that Emmaline immediately recognized as belonging to Marguerite Bateson. ‘Can you imagine if I stood up and recited a love poem to Henry on his birthday? He’d probably take a horsewhip to me.’

‘The man must have no feelings,’ the first
voice
said. ‘He must have an iceberg for a heart. Of course his father was an old rogue, deserted the mother in France, left her with the children, caring naught for any of them and coming here.’

‘I have heard how terribly difficult he is, have you not?’ came Marguerite Bateson’s response. ‘But then, given the family history, I suppose there is reason. Even so, such behaviour! Poor little Emmaline, poor, poor Emmaline.’

‘I do hope you mean poor as in unfortunate, Marguerite,’ the first voice chided her companion drily, ‘because as we all know she certainly did not come poor to England in any other sense, not poor at all. Are you sufficiently cool now to return to the party? Because I think I am.’

Wishing to get back into the drawing room herself before the two women she had just overheard, Emmaline hurried towards the door at the less crowded end of the room, so that she was able to slip back into the room unobserved. She herself, however, was well able to observe that there was still no sign of her husband.

‘Have you seen Mr Aubrey?’ she asked Wilkinson some time later, when she had the chance to do so. ‘I do not seem to be able to find him anywhere.’

‘No, madam,’ Wilkinson replied, but from the look in his eyes Emmaline knew at once that he meant the very opposite. ‘Would you like me to see if I can locate him? He might have gone upstairs.’

‘In that case, Wilkinson,’ Emmaline replied,
understanding
the butler’s meaning, ‘let us leave it until later.’

‘I feel that might be wise, madam,’ Wilkinson agreed. ‘Under the circumstances.’

Shortly afterwards a general exodus began, carriages having been called for eleven. Everyone thanked Emmaline for a most entertaining evening, many expressing the wish that they would be seeing her at their own houses sooner rather than later. Their obvious sincerity had the effect of making Emmaline feel for the first time that she was actually welcome in Bamford. Not one guest referred to Julius’s absence, which seemed to Emmaline most definitely odd, but then, on the other hand, perhaps that was the way the English went on. Noticing but not saying.

At last the drawing room was empty of everyone except the servants. Dolly had reappeared clothed in a great black apron, ready to damp down the fires and re-lay them, while Alan and George set about helping Mr Wilkinson to clear up.

‘Bedtime, madam?’ Agnes said, hovering around her mistress. ‘I’ve turned your bed down and laid out your things, so if you would care to go up now …’

Emmaline nodded, turning from staring into the re-laid fires.

‘I want to thank you all for helping me to give this lovely evening for my husband. I am quite sure that he will wish to thank you himself, in
time
, but for the moment I am here to tell you that I could not be luckier in you all, truly. I only hope that you enjoyed yourselves too.’

Wilkinson looked quite affected by this little speech, and gave a short bow, glancing round at the rest of the staff.

‘We did, Mrs Aubrey, and, if I may say so, we were all more than happy to see that all your guests enjoyed theirselves so very much, and that the evening went with such zest, and no one could or did go home feeling anything except happy.’

Emmaline smiled. ‘Thank you, Wilkinson, thank you very much. Now I am sure we are all plumb tired out, as we say in America, so I will wish you all the best of nights and hope for many more such pleasant experiences.’

She turned away, trying not to notice the compassion in the eyes directed towards her. They all knew that her heart was fairly broken by the night’s events, and that the last part of the evening had been a nightmare, saying goodnight to all her guests, seeing how embarrassed they felt for her.

She climbed the stairs to bed, too proud even to glance towards Julius’s dressing-room door to see if there was light coming from under it. She couldn’t care less where he was, indeed she cared so little that for a second, as she entered the bedroom, it seemed to her that she would be quite happy if he stayed away all night.

Once Agnes had helped her undress and had
brushed
out her hair, chattering away about the evening and asking her mistress how everything had gone, Emmaline thanked her and dismissed her, but remained at her dressing table for a moment, not wishing to get into bed until she had composed her thoughts.

‘You sure you’re all right, madam?’ Agnes asked from the doorway, as if sensing something was wrong.

‘I am perfectly fine, Aggie, thank you,’ Emmaline replied. ‘Now run along. You must be asleep on your feet, you poor child.’

She waited for Agnes to disappear down the corridor, listening for the sound of her squeaking footwear to recede, and then she quietly turned the key in the bedroom door before sitting down at the dressing table again. She had not yet been married in the biblical sense, and ignorant though she might be of such matters, she was not so stupid, nor so humble, that she would ever again entertain the idea of letting Julius into the room until he had apologised for his behaviour towards her. He had behaved abominably, and while he might think this was perfectly acceptable in an English husband, it was perfectly unacceptable to Emmaline. She would stand up to him, even if it meant leaving England. She had finally had enough, she was sure of it.

And then too there was the matter of the overheard conversation. The woman who had referred to Emmaline’s dowry. How had she known of such a thing? Very well, it was not
unusual
for an American girl to have a large dowry, indeed it was currently quite fashionable for American heiresses to marry Englishmen, and so endow their husbands’ ailing estates with their new-found wealth. Onslow Nesbitt was a very rich man, and unlike many rich men liked to spend his money. This, coupled with his quite outspoken desire to have the eldest and plainest of his daughters married off, meant that he was more than likely to have erred on the generous side when deciding the exact sum he would hand over to Julius Aubrey.

Nevertheless, it was puzzling to Emmaline that anyone other than Julius and his bank manager could have any idea of what the English called her
dot
. Yet it would seem that it was actually common knowledge among the gentlefolk of Bamford that Miss Emmaline Nesbitt had been an heiress of some considerable means.

Emmaline’s spirits sank still further as she realised that the source of such knowledge must have been Julius himself. She started to see him in a new, darker light. Perhaps the night he so infamously mixed his drinks – their wedding night – had been the night when he disclosed such facts, perhaps at his club? Or perhaps he had been frequenting some downtown bar and had boasted of Emmaline’s dowry? Once they had had too much to drink men were so often indiscreet, and with women, it sometimes seemed to her, it only took a cup of tea.

Her thoughts turned to the matter of Julius’s
walking
out during her recitation of that lovely verse.

What could have been more suitable to celebrate a husband’s birthday than the recital of a poem such as that? Why had he walked out? If he had been temporarily unwell and had to be excused she could have understood, yet from the emotions reflected on the faces of her guests it seemed that he had walked out in embarrassment, which was, in itself, unbelievable. Certainly, surely, it could not have been because he didn’t like the poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, because she knew for a fact that he did, for she remembered quite exactly that he had, at some point, made some casual reference to doing so. Perhaps he did not hold her work in as much reverence as that of
Robert
Browning, but far from dismissing it as sentimental, or simply the scribblings of a woman, he had given Emmaline the distinct impression that he had great admiration for some of her verses, in particular the
Sonnets from the Portuguese
, of which the poem she had chosen was, as it happened, the fourth.

Nor could he have found the
content
of the poem offensive, since its emotion was so tenderly expressed. Yet
something
must have upset him so much that he had found himself quite able to stand up and walk out, very publicly, when his wife of only a short time was presenting him with a flattering and generous moment, dedicated to him alone.

There was the sound of a scratch at the door.

Emmaline turned from her dressing-table mirror and stared at the locked door.

She would not open it to anyone, let alone someone.

She decided on pretence.

‘Aggie, thank you, but I have no need of anything more. You may go, thank you,’ she called, and having blown out the candles on her dressing table she crept to the bed, and slipped into it.

Again a scratch at the door, this time followed by a male voice.

‘Emma?’

She remained silent.

‘Emma?’

She still said nothing.

‘Emma? Please open the door. It is Julius.’

Emmaline pretended to yawn. ‘Goodnight, Julius.’

‘Emma, open this door, please.’ He knocked harder.

Afraid that one or two of the servants might still be up, and would overhear them quarrelling, Emmaline lit her bedstick and went to the door. She unlocked it, making sure at the same time to hold up the candle in front of her so that it acted as a shield.

‘Can you not sleep after all your birthday excitement, Julius?’

Julius walked into the room, and going up to her dressing table he lit the candles on it.

‘One day I will convert the upper storeys to gas,’ he remarked absently. ‘But truly I prefer
candlelight
– it is so much more flattering to women, don’t you think?’

Emmaline walked quickly down the room, still holding her bedstick in front of her. ‘I am sure, and to men too, Julius, particularly older men, I would have thought.’

He started at that. It was the first time she had mentioned his age, and the fact that she did so implied that she knew he was older than her by a good few years.

‘You know more about me than I realised, Emma,’ he said, looking thoughtful.

‘Yes, perhaps I do,’ Emmaline agreed coldly. ‘Is there something you wanted, Mr Aubrey? I am quite tired. It has been such a long evening. All the worry of it, you know, is very fatiguing.’

‘Yes, yes, of course, I perfectly appreciate that,’ Julius agreed. ‘But I felt I should come and see you to explain my behaviour tonight, which must have seemed a little odd to you.’

‘Please, you may behave as you like. You are after all in your own country. An Englishman’s home is his castle, they say, and it seems that his wife is also his chattel.’

‘That’s not quite fair, Emma.’

‘I am very sorry, but I find it quite fair, Mr Aubrey, if I may so address you despite there being no servants present? No, I find it very fair. Try as I do to be an exemplary wife to you, Julius, it seems I can only end up by embarrassing you.’

‘That is certainly not quite fair. I was very pleased with the early part of the evening. You
looked
charming, and the idea of surprising me in that way, well, it was quite touching, really. No, the early part of the evening was most pleasing.’

‘I am very glad to hear it. Now, perhaps, having conveyed your sentiments so honestly, perhaps you would like to leave
my
bedroom?’

‘No, I would not like to leave … your bedroom, Emma, not until I have explained myself to you.’

‘Very well, explain where you went when I was reciting.’

‘Where do you think I went? I went out. I left the room. Because—’ He stopped. ‘Because I …’

‘Because you?’

‘Because I was very moved. I had to leave the room, as you were finishing. I was intensely moved. There is no other word for it. More than anything I was touched by the pains you had taken, by your – sweet ways, but I didn’t want anyone else to see how moved I was, I thought it might prove embarrassing for both of us.’