The Land of Summer (31 page)

‘Now, now, Mrs Aubrey, we must not have such talk. A more sensible young woman I have seldom met, and that is the truth. No, no, dear, do not trouble yourself, because you are only young, and there is nothing here that we cannot put right, nothing less and nothing more than a little accident, although I do say to you, you might well have been sleepwalking on account of the powders, it is not uncommon, really it isn’t.’

‘I have never done such a thing before, but then I have never taken a sleeping powder before.’

‘Best thing I always find to get rid of bad dreams,’ Mrs Graham told her in a comfortingly practical voice as she steered her back towards her bed, ‘best thing is to do what I do. You get into bed, shake your head, turn over six times, and when you go to sleep you sleep dream-free. Always works for me, I have to say.’

Emmaline smiled faintly at her housekeeper’s well-intentioned suggestion.

‘I don’t know that I have the strength to turn over six times in my bed, or even three times,’ she confessed.

Mrs Graham didn’t answer her for a few seconds, watching Emmaline with concern in her eyes. Then she said, ‘That’s right, now you just climb into your bed, dear, and we’ll soon have you back to rights.’

Emmaline slipped into bed, thinking that with her mind as disturbed as it was there was no chance she would get back to sleep again that night.

‘Now come on, dear, turn over, that’s it, and again, and again, and again! Well, four times will do. Now let me fix your nightstick, and then I’ll be off. Not far from here if you want me, remember?’

Not long after Mrs Graham had tucked her in and blown out her light, and perhaps because of the housekeeper’s insistence on her turning over in bed, Emmaline fell into a dreamless sleep.

So deep was Emmaline’s sleep that when Agnes came to wake her mistress in the morning she lay so unmoving that for one awful moment the little maid found herself imagining that her mistress was dead.

As she watched Emmaline wake up, she was hardly more reassured, for even when awake she seemed to be unusually withdrawn and silent, as if she was actually in some sort of trance.

‘You all right, Mrs Aubrey?’

‘I am, Aggie, although I must tell you I had a somewhat disturbed night, thanks I think to the sleeping powder that Dr Proctor prescribed. I think I dreamed so powerfully that I was induced to sleepwalk, or some such; at any rate, hearing all the disturbance, Mrs Graham came to my rescue. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before.’

Agnes looked round. ‘I thought there must have been a bit of to-do here,’ she said, staring at the marks on the floor, and seeing a bucket in
the
corner of the room. ‘What with the tray gone, and all.’

‘I wonder if you could lay out my dark blue walking dress this morning, Aggie? I, er – I plan to go into town today.’

‘Are you sure you are quite yourself, Mrs Aubrey? Do you imagine yourself to be well enough?’

‘Of course. Once I have breakfasted I will be quite myself. These sleeping powders make a person feel a little dreamy, make me sound the same I dare say. That is all that is the matter with me, Aggie.’

Agnes laid out her bath things in front of the hip bath which was placed in front of the fire for her convenience, and afterwards helped her to dress, and they both tried to pretend that Emmaline was not doing everything at half pace, only seeming to become less dazed when her hair was put up. She stared in horror at her pallor in the dressing-table mirror, and promptly smacked both her cheeks hard, which made Agnes giggle.

‘Best way to get colour in your cheeks, don’t you think, Aggie?’

The maid nodded, and Emmaline went down to breakfast, leaving her to clear up. When the meal was over, Emmaline moved to her little sitting room and sent for Wilkinson.

‘Ah, Wilkinson.’ She looked up from her piece of sewing. ‘I was wondering if anyone called late last night.’

Wilkinson frowned. ‘No one called while I was around, Mrs Aubrey, most definitely not.’

‘No one at all?’ Emmaline echoed, wondering why she did not believe the butler. ‘No one called, say, on business, someone for Mr Aubrey?’

‘I closed the curtains and lowered the lamps at precisely the usual time of ten o’clock, madam,’ he said, leaning forward and putting a log on the fire. ‘I did my rounds of the house shortly after that to make sure everything was locked, and to the best of my knowledge the house was secure by the time I went to bed shortly before it showed eleven on the kitchen clock.’

‘Very well, Wilkinson, thank you. I am sure you are telling the truth, it is just that I dreamed I heard someone downstairs, in Mr Aubrey’s study, later in the evening. But as I say, it was probably only a dream.’

‘As you say, madam. If I may take the liberty, you have been somewhat unwell, Mrs Aubrey, and sometimes a fever-induced sleep can bring about all sorts of hallucinations.’

‘You are perfectly right, those are my thoughts too. Thank you, Wilkinson.’

Emmaline watched the butler letting himself out of her sitting room, and frowned. He had always seemed so kind, and so loyal, but was she mistaken in him? Was she mistaken in everyone at Park House? Were they all, newly in Julius’s pay, sworn to keep some secret?

Later, making sure that there were no servants about, Emmaline let herself into Julius’s study.
The
desk was as tidy as it always was in Julius’s absence, and everything seemed undisturbed, the window fastened shut, the curtains tidy.

‘You see?’ she said to herself, turning round and checking the room once more before leaving. ‘You were dreaming. It is as simple as that.’

Her spirits were raised, however, by her visit to Mr Hunt’s bookshop, which was crowded out with people buying books as presents for the forthcoming celebration of Christmas. Bray Ashcombe made himself immediately available to escort Emmaline through the packed premises into a small but comfortable office at the back where she was introduced to Mr Tully, the man proposing to be her publisher, a thin-faced, bespectacled and completely bald man with a pronounced tic that made him tip his head to one side every five seconds, giving the impression of a cheerful wink.

He stood up from his desk when Emmaline entered and was introduced, at once expressing in an oddly high monotone his admiration for the poetry he had read and read again, and was hopeful of publishing in splendid style.

‘I have already envisaged a cover for the booklet,’ he added, dropping his two thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat and waggling the rest of his fingers rhythmically as he continued. ‘Being verses of a contemplative and melancholic nature I see the binding having a distinct purple tint, lettered in a Gothic style – the poems perhaps entitled
O Love! My Heart! – Poems by a Lady
. I have
also
imagined some decorations that might be suitable to be printed above and below each verse – nothing ornate, just simple linear streamers along these lines.’

Receiving a nod – along with a wink – from the publisher, Bray showed Emmaline a page with printed embellishments, at which Emmaline expressed polite but muted enthusiasm, wondering if it would not be better to discuss the actual agreement before deciding how the book of poems might look. To judge from the smile of delight Bray gave Emmaline it was obvious he was in complete agreement with her, and he picked up another set of documents. He was about to show them to Emmaline when she stopped him.

‘If you wouldn’t mind, Mr Tully,’ she said. ‘I need to have a word in private with Mr Ashcombe. It does concern these negotiations, so I assure you I will not be wasting your time.’

Mr Tully retired to browse in the bookshop, leaving Emmaline alone with Bray, who brushed some long locks of hair out of his eyes and smiled at her as if he had never seen her before.

‘I think I know what you need to tell me, Mrs Aubrey,’ he said. ‘And mind now, I only say this to spare you any undue embarrassment or awkwardness, although there is no need for either.’

‘Really, Mr Ashcombe?’ Emmaline replied with a slight rise of her eyebrows. ‘And what do I need to tell you?’

‘I think you need to tell me the authorship of the poems, Mrs Aubrey. If this were not the case,
I’m
sure you would have felt free to talk in front of Mr Tully.’

‘I do not think that is necessarily the case, Mr Ashcombe.’

‘Very well, Mrs Aubrey – then please prove me wrong.’

He looked at her directly, and in the kindness and compassion of his look Emmaline saw that he had always guessed the true authorship of the poems, and she immediately felt awkward. For if he had always known who was the true author, then he would always have known of her distress and unhappiness, which she supposed might mean that he pitied her in some way.

‘Please, Mrs Aubrey,’ Bray prompted her. ‘Put me out of my suspense.’

‘Very well, Mr Ashcombe,’ Emmaline conceded, unable to resist the gentle plea in Bray’s voice or the look of sympathy in his eyes. ‘I am the author of the poems, if that is what you are thinking.’

‘I so hoped you were!’

Before she could stop him he had taken her hands, which he held tightly while staring at her with passionate earnestness.

‘Mr Ashcombe—’ she began to protest, although she left her hands in his.

‘I really did so hope you were the author,’ Bray was continuing. ‘I don’t think I could have stood it had the author really been a friend of yours, someone I would never meet, someone with whom I would never be able to commune – another soul who understood the anguish and
agony
of life but would turn out to be a distant stranger.’

‘Mr Ashcombe,’ Emmaline said, as gently as she could while finally easing her hands away, ‘Mr Ashcombe, I am very flattered by your zeal, and by your enthusiasm for my work. But I would remind you—’

‘You do not have to remind me, Mrs Aubrey. I only have to say your name, remember your name, to be reminded of your state. But while you may be married—’

‘While I
may
be, Mr Ashcombe? Married I
am
, Mr Ashcombe.’

‘Please, Mrs Aubrey, please,’ Bray pleaded. ‘Not now. This is not the time to discuss such matters, believe me.’

‘I am not really sure what that time may be, Mr Ashcombe.’

‘We have to deal with your agreement with Mr Tully,’ Bray continued, ignoring the caveat. ‘And I shall have to explain to Mr Tully about the authorship, you do realise that?’

‘Of course. But it must remain confidential. And I want it to be agreed that the author remains anonymous.’

‘I understand, naturally,’ Bray agreed. ‘I too shall keep it entirely secret.’

‘I shall require you to sign such a guarantee as well, Mr Ashcombe.’

‘Naturally. Now I think we must call Mr Tully back in.’

The publisher having duly been summoned,
the
three of them sat down to finalise the agreement contracting to publish the poetic works of a Lady, entitled not
O Love! My Heart!
as suggested by the publisher, but simply
Reflections of a Faithful Heart
.

Every morning and every afternoon, to make sure she was not mistaken and that what she vaguely remembered from that night really had been imagined in her sleep and had not happened in actuality, Emmaline requested Wilkinson to telephone Mr Aubrey’s offices to find out the latest news of his return, but nothing more was heard until Friday when a telegram arrived to say that everyone was to expect him back in the works on Monday morning since he was due to cross the Channel on Saturday midday. True to his word a tired and travel-weary Julius arrived back at Park House early in the evening, in time for a much needed bath and then an equally necessary dinner.

Thinking the best time for a proper conversation would be at table and not while Julius was getting washed and changing into evening dress, Emmaline waited, dutifully, until they were settled at table.

‘How was your trip, Julius?’ she asked.

‘As trips to France invariably are,’ Julius said, carefully spooning some soup up and away from him. ‘Very French.’

‘Have you spent much time in France, then?’ Emmaline wondered, ignoring his facetious reply.

‘I have spent some time in France, yes. How is your health, Emma? I am sorry to see that you still look a little wan.’

Emmaline stared down the table at him, knowing that he was putting up emotional barricades, but remembering Mrs Proctor’s teatime visit, she persisted.

‘I am a little better, since you ask.’ She finished her soup, wiped her mouth carefully on her napkin and smiled down the table at her husband. ‘You were in France all the time you were away, were you not, Julius?’

‘What a strange question to come from one’s wife, what a very odd question.’ Julius looked up from his place with a frown, and stared past Emmaline. ‘No, as a matter of fact, I went to the North Pole for dinner one evening and Australia for luncheon the next day. Other than that, yes. Yes, I was in France.’

‘I was merely curious,’ Emmaline replied, ringing the bell on the table for the servants to make the next remove. ‘You never tell me any details of your travels. I am just trying to show my interest, that is all.’

‘My travels are dull, sometimes tiresome, and that is why I don’t discuss them with you. If there was anything interesting in them, I would share it.’

‘You are often in France. Do you visit Paris while you are there, because if so I should so appreciate it if you brought me back some gloves, as I have asked you to before.’

‘I hardly set foot in Paris, hardly at all. If I visit a city on business, it is Lyons, not Paris. That is where the best silks come from, not Paris, but certainly, if you wish me to bring you back some French gloves, I will do so.’

‘And do you always go to this place called the Loire?’

Julius started playing with his napkin. ‘I really do not enjoy being questioned in this manner, Emma. It is not seemly.’

But Emmaline, with Mrs Proctor’s conversation still foremost in her mind, would not let the matter drop.

‘Where did you go to school, Julius? Was it in England?’

‘I am not sure why you need to know. It is not interesting, Emma.’