The Land of Summer (24 page)

‘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 talent 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.’

‘You have been so kind, Mr Ashcombe,’ Emmaline said, coming to a halt. ‘On behalf of my friend, thank you. This is where I must leave you, alas – but you have been not just kind but so diligent, and I really do thank you, on her behalf.’

‘No, Mrs Aubrey,’ Bray corrected her. ‘It is not I whom you should thank. It is your friend.’

Emmaline was about to turn away when her attention was caught by the unmistakable sight of the stranger to whose aid she and Agnes had come earlier in the day watching the two of them talking. She was leaning against the same window where Emmaline and Agnes first saw
her
arguing with the young man who was now standing beside Emmaline. Seeing her, Emmaline raised a hand in greeting, and after a second the young woman half raised her own in return, before dropping it in what seemed suddenly to Emmaline to be a gesture of despair.

Bray, seeing this, frowned.

‘You two ladies are acquainted?’ he wondered, almost sharply.

‘Hardly,’ Emmaline replied calmly. ‘No, no, we only met this morning when I was on my way to the bookshop. The young woman in question was coming towards us on the street when suddenly she seemed to become unwell, most distressed, so naturally Aggie and I stopped to help her.’

‘I see,’ Bray replied with a nod, staring back at the window, only to see the young woman now waving and indicating something to him.

‘It seems that you two are also acquainted?’ Emmaline said, reading into the woman’s sign an indication that she wanted Bray to go and see her. ‘It certainly appears that she wishes to talk to you.’

‘Yes,’ Bray said slowly. ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’

‘I do so hope she has recovered from her distress,’ Emmaline added, concerned. ‘She was really very unwell, even perhaps feverish, when we went to her aid.’

‘She has recovered, she is perfectly recovered, I do assure you,’ Bray informed her a little too quickly. ‘A passing malaise, that is all.’

‘So you two
are
acquainted?’ Emmaline persisted,
despite
the fact that she knew full well the answer to her question.

‘Yes, we are, Mrs Aubrey. Miss Ashcombe is my sister.’

Emmaline could hardly contain either her excitement or her apprehension on the return journey to Park House. While Agnes sat religiously studying the alphabet book that Emmaline had bought her, her mistress stared out of the carriage window at the grey winter landscape and wondered what might be going to happen next in her life. She supposed there were two possibilities – when she sat down to write again she would discover that she did possess a natural gift for verse, hitherto unsuspected, or she would find herself sitting at her desk and staring at a blank sheet of paper, unable to pen another word.

She gazed at the neat stone-built townhouses they were passing, houses in which other young women like herself were confined by society and by reason of their sex. How many of them, she wondered, would be sitting staring at a blank sheet of paper, feeling the same as herself? How many of them would be inveighing against the constriction of marriage? For, swiftly following on the possibility that she might have an unfulfilled gift for verse, came a truth. She would not be able to publish her poetry, she would not be able to publish anything, without Julius’s permission. It was a fact as unalterable as the colour of the sky, as Agnes’s finger moving
under
the letters of the alphabet, as the blue of her walking dress.

Julius most certainly would not approve of his wife’s being a published writer, the sort of person who not only shows her emotions in public but has the audacity to do it in print. He would be outraged. Even the most famous female authors in England used male pseudonyms, or signed their work ‘by a lady’.

‘Yes, of course!’ Emmaline banged her umbrella tip on the floor of the carriage. ‘Yes, of course!’

‘Beggin’ your pardon, madam?’ Agnes looked up in surprise. ‘Did you say something?’

‘Yes, I did, but nothing that need concern you, Aggie – at least not quite yet.’

Emmaline smiled at the little maid opposite her in her black dress, and her black coat, and her little neat lace-trimmed hat. Her ‘friend’ would publish her verses, if they were indeed good enough to be published, as ‘a lady’. She would be so meek and retiring that nothing else would do.

Her thoughts then turned to the conversation she had had with Bray Ashcombe, not that part of their talk that had been to do with the writing of verse, but the latter part, when they had passed the house of the beautiful young blonde woman who had been taken ill earlier.

How strange that it had turned out to be none other than Bray’s sister whom Agnes and she had come across feeling so unwell. Yet the fact that it was his sister, Emmaline could not help realising,
brought
with it a certain sense of relief. If it had been his wife it would have been disappointing, for he had denied being married with such grace and sweetness that it would mean he was a very different sort of person from the man Emmaline thought she knew had he lied.

Emmaline stared at the street outside, trying not to face the undoubted truth. If it had been Mrs Bray Ashcombe whom they had stopped to help,
Mr
Bray Ashcombe would have seemed somehow a lesser man, less the exciting young scholar, less the handsome young enthusiast. It was not that Emmaline wanted him to be a lonely bachelor, by no means. She just did not want him to be married. If her experience was anything to go by, marriage brought all kinds of complicated emotions in its train, which might influence his reading of her friend’s verse and colour his reaction to it, whereas if he was merely young and single, and not in the least lonely, then his enthusiasm for her poetry was, as it were, freely given, and could therefore be taken at its face value, which was considerable.

By the time the carriage pulled up in front of Park House, Emmaline was in a particularly good frame of mind. She had met Bray Ashcombe and handled their meeting with decorum, being particularly pleased with the way she had not allowed herself to show how exhilarated and excited she had felt. Any show of emotion might not only have given away the true authorship of the verses, but, worse than that, have revealed to
Bray
much more about herself than she would ever wish.

So, when George appeared to help Emmaline down from her carriage, she felt well able to give him a brilliant smile.

‘Thank you, George. What a lovely day it has turned into, has it not, after all?’

George, still holding her hand, which in his eyes was no penance, steadied her as she climbed the shallow steps to the house.

‘It is a lovely day,’ he agreed, wondering whether or not she had heard the news. ‘On such a day one feels ready for anything, that is what I always says.’ But he looked up at the grey of the sky and shook his head.

Emmaline nodded happily. George was right. She felt quite ready for anything now, anything at all.

‘Mr Aubrey has returned, madam,’ Wilkinson informed her as he took her coat from her. ‘He is in the drawing room.’

Julius was standing by the fire smoking a cigarette, one foot propped up on the fender and in his hand the splendidly engraved invitation from Lord and Lady Parham, but he was frowning at it as if it gave him no pleasure.

‘Julius, you are home earlier than expected, are you not?’ Emmaline asked, crossing the room to greet him. ‘I hope your venture was a success?’

‘When did this arrive?’ Julius wondered, as if he had not heard her, still staring at the engraved invitation in his hand.

‘This morning. Why? For some reason you appear to be aggravated by it, Julius. Was it not a compliment to ask us, for Lord and Lady Parham to ask us?’

‘It just isn’t something I was anticipating, that is all.’ Julius tapped the card against the mantel before replacing it there. ‘And yes – yes, my journey was successful, thank you. I suppose we shall have to go to this.’ Once again Julius picked up the invitation and stared at it. ‘I cannot imagine why we have been asked. We are merely the artisans in the pack, they must have other far more important people they could ask, they
should
ask. But then that is the Parhams. They may be members of the aristocracy, but they make little sense out of their lives, poor souls.’

‘Perhaps the Earl and Countess are pleased with your work at Hartley, Julius? Perhaps this is their way of rewarding you, with an invitation.’

‘Well, you may be right,’ Julius agreed. ‘And yes, they were pleased. As so they should be. Mind you, it would not take much to please them as far as decoration goes. I might have advised them to slap whitewash fit only for stables everywhere, and they would have been more than content. They really are the oddest of people. The previous earl constructed a whole system of tunnels under the house for his sole use, the purpose being so he could wander from room to room or whatever without ever seeing a servant.’

‘My.’ Emmaline smiled, sitting herself down
by
the fire in order to get warm. ‘And what about the countess? I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she also has eccentricities.’

‘If it is of any interest, Emmaline, Her Ladyship’s main preoccupation is the breeding of ferrets.’

‘Ferrets?’

‘Yes, ferrets. They are like stoats, or weasels, and they are used for ratting, mostly. I am surprised you didn’t encounter any while you were there. On occasion she allows them to run quite wild through the place.’

‘I did see something I thought was a squirrel once or twice. So that was a ferret?’