07|
On Monday mid-afternoon Emily and Vivienne were headed for Hyde Park in the family landau, to take their daily walk. Cousin Edith set great store by regular exercise—though not to the extent of actively participating in it—and therefore, whenever the weather permitted, all the Lennox children were carted off to one of the nearby parks. 'Mademoiselle', the governess, was to take care of Paul and Adele, while Vivienne and Emily would walk on their own, except for the footman who was to trail after them at a distance. Emily, being used to roaming the streets between Marlborough Mills and York Street in Milton all on her own, thought such decorum quite ridiculous. But those were Edith's rules, and for as long as she was the Lennoxes' guest she was to abide by them.
"Look, this is Dr Parker's house," Vivienne pointed out as the coach slowly made its way south through the dense traffic in Harley Street. "He lived here fifty years ago, and they say that..." The rest of the sentence was relayed in a hasty whisper—hot breath brushing Emily's ear—and was partly unintelligible. Emily did understand 'cut-off limbs' and 'cooked' which was just about all she needed to know to get the gist. And even if she had been of a mind to dig any deeper, Mademoiselle's stern reprimand against whispering in company would have prevented it.
Vivienne giggled, not in the least embarrassed. She delighted in ghoulish stories, both in hearing and telling them. She tended to pick them up from the servants and wasn't ashamed of quizzing them for all the gory details. Especially those stories concerning their immediate Harley Street neighbourhood gave her a constant thrill.
At the next crossing she exclaimed. "Last month a gentleman from Weymouth Street was mugged right here..."
"Language, Miss Vivienne!" Mademoiselle interrupted with another prim look. "We do not use such common expressions."
"Mugged," Adele repeated gleefully, memorising the word for future reference.
"... It was late at night and he had not only his pocketbook and purse stolen, but also his boots. He had to walk home in socks—in the pouring rain!"
A moment later they went past a wide brick façade with a central portico of four white columns. The letters 'Queen's College' caught Emily's eye. She must have driven past many times before without ever noticing it. "What is this?" she asked her cousin.
"It's a school that offers higher education for girls," Vivienne replied, shrugging indifferently. "They teach sciences and all."
"Do they?" Emily exclaimed. "How exciting! There's no such thing in Milton... And it's so near your home! Why don't you go there?"
"I believe, it is for families who can't afford to have their daughters privately educated," Vivienne said dismissively. "So why should Mamma want for us to go there?"
"It is a remarkable institution," Mademoiselle corrected her. "It has been the first in the world to award academic qualifications to women."
Emily's enthusiastic "Oh!" was quickly drowned out by her cousin saying, "And much good it will do them! They can still only become teachers." Vivienne almost spat out the last word. "It's not as if they're allowed to go to university."
As they were ambling along the Serpentine, at a distance from the governess and her young charges who were feeding the ducks, Vivienne muttered, "I can't wait for another year to be over, and then I'll be on my way to Switzerland, too. I do envy you for going this summer!"
"What's to envy about going to finishing school?" Emily said derisively. "It's all about social graces—deportment and etiquette—followed by a few seasons out in society, and then comes marriage... Are you so keen on getting married, Vivienne?"
"Certainly not! I'm not like Isabella," the other girl replied with a snort. "But I long to be out in society, to be allowed to play the piano for an audience outside our family circle... You don't know how it feels to be a middle child and the only plain one amongst the lot. You're the apple of your father and grandmother's eye, and a great heiress to boot, what would you know about being one of many? The only thing that distinguishes me is being able to play well—and I can't wait for all of London to hear me!"
Emily felt an unexpected surge of sympathy for her wayward cousin. "I should never have guessed that you harboured such aspirations... to persue an objective—and one that, through your own talent and zeal, is attainable. So, in the greater scheme of things, it is for me to envy you—because, according to Grandmamma, I'll be stuck with making an advantageous match—"
"—and who needs a husband, anyway?"
"Exactly."
Emily's wardrobe had arrived for its final fitting; and after everything had been tried on and approved of, Mrs Cutter had left again promising that it would be ready by the end of the week. By then the shoes would be delivered as well. Which left only the hats...
Two straw hats—a wider one to protect from the sun while travelling and a perky small one for wearing in town—were yet to be purchased, and for that purpose they patronised another one of Edith's favourite shops, a milliner in Oxford Street. Edith had been confident that they would find 'just the thing' there—"I always do, you know?" she had declared—and therefore had left hats for last.
And she was right; within minutes they had found just the right styles to go with Emily's new wardrobe—exchanging a black ribbon for a blue one to match her travel costume was just about the only alteration necessary. This had almost been fun, Emily had to admit; and as she was waiting for her cousin to make arrangement for delivery, she had a closer look at the fans on display. Most of them were overly ornate affairs made from latticed bone, but a few of them were simpler ones in the Chinese style. She carefully picked up one made of dark varnished wood with a cream leaf, with two dancing cabbage white butterflies painted on it as its only decoration. She experimentally fanned herself with it.
"This is rather pretty," Edith said stepping next to her. "And it might come in handy when travelling in a hotter climate... Do you like it?"
"Very much," Emily admitted, "but it seems so extravagant... I am sure Grandmamma wouldn't approve. She has a thing or two to say about fans and flirts—"
"—and therefore it is a good thing that Mrs Thornton isn't here to criticise... This will be my present for you, as you are setting out to become a young lady." She took the fan out of Emily's hand, snapped it shut and handed it to the milliner's assistant, asking for a matching fan case.
Back in Harley Street Emily went to her bedroom to stow away her gift. Edith had advised her to keep it out of Adele's sight. "She can't keep her clumsy little paws off my things," Edith had sighed, "and only the other week she broke one of mine! She is a nosey one, too. I wouldn't put it past her to prowl your bedroom when her governess isn't looking."
The wardrobe, or more precisely the carpet bag stowed within, seemed the safest place. This was when she came across Dixon's notebook again—the one that might have belonged to her mother at one point, but now contained nothing but useless lists! During the last week she had totally forgotten about it.
She felt a sudden revulsion against it and, on impulse, decided to return it. Book in hand she rushed out of her room and down three flights of back stairs to the basement.
Right enough, there she was—Dixon—in the kitchen helping Cook peel potatoes. Emily cautiously approached them, uncertain of what to expect.
"Miss Emily," the cook greeted her, "Is there anything the matter?"
"Well... yes. I thought I might come to see Dixon once more before I'm to return to my father's house in a couple of days."
"Fancy that!—a visitor, Miss Dixon," Cook said in the slightly raised voice of people addressing the hard of hearing, although it weren't Dixon's ears that stood in the way of understanding. "Why don't you take a cup of tea in the common room? I'll be along directly and bring you some biscuits—a new recipe and not yet tested upstairs."
"Thank you," Emily said, smiling diffidently. Leading the way to the common room, she hoped that Cook wouldn't dawdle with the tea tray and join her and Dixon before too long.
Once they had reached Dixon's accustomed place by the window, the old servant turned and gave her a surprisingly piercing look.
"You are not Miss Margaret," she stated. "You may look like her, but you are not her... Who are you?"
"I am Emily, Miss Margaret's daughter."
It seemed that Dixon was a little more coherent that day; and while she didn't recognise her as herself, she was at least aware that she was not her own mother—which was a relief.
"Miss Margaret has a daughter?" Dixon was looking at her own worn hands, her voice bemused. "But how can she? She is gone—"
"I was born before Mamma passed away in France—" Well, that's rather self-evident, Emily thought, rolling her eyes at her own explanation. "—I was six months old at the time and was brought up in Milton by my grandmother Thornton."
"Milton," Dixon mumbled, her expression changing to one of disgust. "Dirty, smoky place it is... I said it would be the death of us all... My poor mistress—married to a dissenter and exiled to the North—"
Here we go again, down the rabbit hole, Emily thought in exasperation. It might be better to miss out on those biscuits and make a speedy exit. She held out the book.
"I have come to return your book. You kindly lent it to me when I last came to see you." She hoped that Dixon would buy into her explanation and just take it back.
But the old servant looked at the book aghast. "Oh no!... No, no, no. No! You keep that away from me!" she exclaimed, waving her hands.
At that moment Cook entered with the tea things. "What's all this fuss about?" she asked Dixon as if chiding a child.
"I tried to give back this book to her," Emily explained, embarrassed about being the cause of this upheaval. "But Dixon doesn't like to take it."
"Didn't she give it to you only last week, miss?" Cook said. "Well, as they say, 'a gift is a gift'—and so it may be kindest to keep it... Miss Dixon seems to think so, anyhow."
Emily nodded, feeling thoroughly chastened, and crammed the book into her—fortunately spacious—skirt pocket. Once it was out of sight, Dixon quickly calmed down again and happily munched at a biscuit. Emily had one, too, out of courtesy, but declined the tea. At first she felt very awkward, but then, quite unexpectedly, she found the biscuit rather delicious. She was still child enough to find comfort in simple pleasures—reminiscent of those not so long ago times when the pain of a grazed knee would be soothed away by a kiss and a sweet. And, after the excitement she had caused in the basement, she was grateful for this moment of companionable silence.
Eventually she excused herself. She was in the doorway when she heard Dixon mutter, "It's all the black man's fault... Miss Margaret went away because the black man came after her—"
What did Mamma actually die of?
Cousin Edith had given her a startled look, and then had replied sotto voce, "Pas devant les enfants, ma chère."
Though, perhaps from sensing that Emily wouldn't let the question lie if there was no answer, she came to her bedroom on the following evening.
"Sorry, dear, for not giving you an immediate answer," Edith said, sitting down next to her on the bed. "But I thought it might upset the little one's hearing about your losing your mamma so young."
"But don't they know anyway?" Emily wondered.
"They are aware that you don't have a mother... but children take many things for granted and rarely question them. However, learning about the particulars might drive home the point—if you understand my meaning?—and distress them."
"Quite," Emily said. "So, how came she died in France?—was it consumption?"
"Poor Margaret was very ill at the time—although she wasn't consumptive. It was a peculiar complaint and, after treatment here in London by a Harley Street doctor, didn't show the desired effect, we all agreed that she shouldn't suffer the fog and misery of an English winter... We thought—well, we hoped—that a change for a milder climate might bring about a change in her condition at last. And so your grandaunt Shaw—my mother—and Dixon went with her to the Riviera early in December, two months after you were born. " She smiled sadly. "Alas, she didn't improve; and so she never came back to us."
"Was Papa with her when she passed away?"
"He was on his way but, tragically, he didn't arrive in time."
"Poor Papa! He must have been devastated!" Emily exclaimed, with ready tears shining in her eyes.
"He was," Edith nodded. "And I believe he never quite recovered from it—"
Emily was packing her carpet bag. Her father had sent a message that he would come and pick her up this afternoon. The maid had already taken care of her trunk, so all she had to do was pack her toiletries and her other small possessions. Dixon's book already lay at the bottom of the bag, covered by both her own diary and Origins. Regarding the latter, Emily briefly wondered if she should relieve Walter of his anxiety and send it back to him before she left for France, but then decided against it. No! Unless there was a satisfactory apology forthcoming prior to her departure, the book would travel with her.
Walter's transgression had been too severe to be so easily forgiven.
All of a sudden she wondered how she would have felt if Sholto had been the perpetrator. Would she have been less upset if he had suddenly kissed her?—or would she even have been secretly excited? And was transgression more allowable in a handsome man than in a plain one? Because—if she thought soberly about it—Sholto would have had as little a right to go beyond proprieties in this matter as Walter did.
It was an unsettling thought—but one she had no time to ponder upon at present; therefore Emily resolutely shoved it to the back of her mind and continued with her packing. Papa would be here soon and she didn't want to keep him waiting. With Edith's words fresh in her mind she felt a new consideration for him. Until the present she had always perceived him as a man of iron. Indestructible. To understand that he had suffered a great deal in the past and that the echoes of these sufferings might still reverberate, made her want to tread lightly in his presence. Not for fear that he might shatter—no matter what, he was not brittle—but because she wanted to spare him further heartache.
She went to her vanity table by the window to collect her fan—earlier in the afternoon she had been practicing fanning herself in front of the mirror, so as not to look ridiculous when she first used it in public. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw movement by the porch.
It was him. Papa! Arriving on foot because he preferred walking to any other mode of transport and dressed all in black, as usual...
And suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, it struck her that, if anyone in her mother's vicinity would have befitted the expression 'the black man', it was him—John Thornton! But why in heaven's name would Dixon be so distrustful of him?