16|
Did she go away to live—or to die?
William Hardy's words echoed in Emily's ears, stealing her sleep and disturbing the remnants of her peace of mind. This was not what she had bargained for when she had gone to see him! Looking for answers, she had come away with more questions...
A rift between her parents?—Differences so insurmountable that Margaret Thornton had chosen the most desperate measures rather than return to her husband? And what would have caused such differences in the first place?
Or did it all come down to her sickness? To the way she had been—according to her father—before she was treated in London? Had her 'mania' returned?
And how reliable a witness was Hardy anyway?—Emily remembered Mrs Faulkner's caution as to his trustworthiness... Would a former infatuation still make him, a married man these days, biased after all this time?
Yet there was corroboration by others—Uncle Frederick and Henry Lennox... But how impartial were they? Their dislike of John Thornton dated way back to a suspicion that he had married her mother for mercenary reasons—and Lennox was another former lover, and a jilted one, moreover...
Edith! I need to speak to her... She must help me make sense of this!
"Cousin Edith!"
The moment she caught sight of her London relative in the lobby of their Lausanne hotel, Emily ran into her arms, fleetingly aware that she would again be a little too demonstrative for such a public place. But she didn't care! Soon now she would have someone to confide in.
Edith Lennox embraced her affectionately, albeit obviously a little startled by the passionate greeting.
"You look exhausted, dear," she said as she held the girl at arm's length. "Has it been a tedious journey?"
"I have so much to tell you," Emily said in a feverish whisper. "I need to talk to you in private!"
"And so you shall," Edith said in the calm reassuring tones of one sensing a domestic emergency. "But first, let me welcome your father... John!—how are you?" she addressed the man who, just finished with booking them in at the reception desk, was heading towards them.
She greeted him with their habitual kiss on the cheek. "This is quite an unexpected surprise—but a very welcome one!—having you here two weeks ahead of time... You missed meeting my Beresford cousins by a day—they travelled on to Italy yesterday after dropping me off here—though, I suppose, meeting the Oxenham set is a pleasure you can easily forego," she said, linking arms with him. "You must tell me all about your travels in France."
"Most definitely," he replied with a smile whose politely noncommittal nature wasn't lost on Edith Lennox. "But all in good time... How about if we met for coffees at the salon at five?" He waved a couple of envelops he held in his hand. "Some urgent correspondence has been forwarded to me; I may have to send off a dispatch or two before the telegraph office closes for the day—"
"Then I shall see Emily entertained in the meantime," Edith suggested.
As they headed up the stairs she turned to her young cousin, "Please remind me later to give you a letter from your cousin Walter; he sent it to me in London, asking me to forward it because he didn't have your en-route addresses."
As usual, father and daughter occupied a suite of rooms consisting of two bedrooms and a connecting parlour. In the latter John Thornton immediately made himself at home to address his paperwork. Emily went to her own room to hurriedly change from travel costume to light day dress—here at the lakefront it wasn't markedly cooler than at the Riviera—and to freshen up. Then she excused herself and went in search of Edith's rooms on the floor below.
"Where is Isabella?" she asked, when she saw that Edith was alone in her parlour.
"She's staying with a friend from school for a few days and I shall join her for three nights tomorrow," Edith explained. "So, there won't be any eavesdroppers right now... You may tell me what troubles you undisturbed."
Emily rushed into telling her cousin what she had learnt during the last couple of weeks, first in Paris from her uncle and then at the Riviera. It was a helter-skelter account of her findings at first, and many questions by Edith were needed to steer the girl towards a comprehensive report. Through it all, Edith held her hand, while her expression gradually changed from dismayed to pensive. William Hardy's final revelation didn't seem to come to her as quite the shock Emily had expected.
When at long last she came to a close, Edith wrapped her in an embrace and tenderly kissed her crown, murmuring, "My poor darling girl". It was such a motherly gesture that it finally brought long-overdue tears to Emily's eyes. Sobbing quietly she let herself be held by her mother's friend as she mourned—for what she didn't quite know...Yet the one thing she was aware of was a devastating sense of loss.
"Growing up is painful business at times," Edith said softly, as Emily eventually sat up and dried her eyes.
"When I first heard that my mother had disappeared, all I wanted was to get to the bottom of it... I wanted the truth—" She looked her cousin in the eyes, imploringly. "Do you know it?—has Aunt Shaw, or has Dixon, told you anything to shed some light?"
"I am so very sorry, but no... As of now you are in possession of all the facts there are—and beyond this there are no certainties."
"So, what am I to believe?" Emily cried.
"What you choose to believe—from the facts as they present themselves to you now, from your knowledge of the people involved, and from what your heart tells you."
"And this is all?—there is nothing else?"
"No." Edith looked at her pityingly. "From this point on it is your choice..."
"Like my father chose to believe that it was an accident?"
"Never forget that, for all we know, it may very well have been an accident, Emily!... And, in the end, the living must look after themselves—they must find a way to go on living."
"Meret, meet Ben," Jareth said as they stepped out onto the terrace.
Meret had been reluctant to follow the invitation when Jareth had called her the other day. But with her departure to Denmark fast approaching she had eventually decided to bear with the awkwardness that might arise from Ben knowing that she had had her sights on his partner. As it was, this might be the last occasion for her to see Jareth.
The man lounging in a deckchair on the terrace had the blond, suntanned appearance of a Californian surfer and he gave her the cheerful grin to match. That he was also handicapped by an injury became apparent when he laboriously rose from his chair to greet her, dislodging a pair of crutches that had leant against the armrest of his chair.
"What happened?" Meret asked, stooping to pick up the crutches. "Jareth mentioned that your job can be risky at times—"
"Torn ligament. I actually slipped in the shower on a bar of soap," He laughed. "It's such a cliché!"
"Happened on his last day out in Morocco, too," Jareth said. "Imagine my joy at picking him up from the airport... He was high on painkillers and his knee was swollen to twice its regular size. So I carted him straight off to hospital."
"Discharged two days ago and pretty much housebound for the time being." Ben sat, carefully placing his injured leg on a stool piled high with cushions. "It's a bugger."
"He's already chomping at the bit," Jareth remarked, looking at his partner affectionately.
"So, I am invited as a diversion?" Meret asked, grinning.
"Jareth told me a lot about you..."
"All bad, I suppose!" she laughingly interrupted, though she gave Jareth a quick sideways glance, wondering if he had in fact told everything.
"... so I was curious to get to know you at last," he said. "And I want to hear the latest developments in your ancestry research."
"Now, there's a bit of news!" She turned to Jareth, excited. "And, uh... thanks for putting a word in with your clients regarding the diary."
"No problem there," Jareth replied. "First thing they did when I handed over the notebooks was to inquire if they were written by a person of interest and, when I answered in the negative, they looked up closing bids of similar stuff on Ebay—and then they decided not to bother. Handed them back to me there and then—and I sent them straight on to the library."
"Fiona—that's the historian I told you about who's doing research on behalf of the clinic—has had them in her clutches for the last few days... And she's given me some incredible news earlier today!"
"How so?"
"The diary is really Emily Thornton's, and it is mostly about a journey to France she took in 1869 together with her father... It solves the mystery of her mother's death in 1854—well... no, that's not quite right... It's proves that there was a mystery about her mother's death at the time—one never entirely solved—and it explains how Emily came to work at a Swiss mental hospital some years later..."
"I'm not an expert by any means," Fiona said, laying her hand on the diary, "but it seems to me that—from what's written in here—Margaret Thornton suffered from postpartum psychosis; in fact, she's pretty much a textbook case."
"Gosh! Is that what happened to her?" Meret asked, stunned. "Was she locked away in an asylum and died there?"
"No. Actually her family tried to take care of her as best they could... She was 'treated'—" Fiona mimicked some air quotes. "—in London. Well, after a fashion... You must bear in mind that this was half a century—or more!—before antipsychotic medication or electroconvulsive treatment were available; so, even if they'd known the cause, there would have been no effective therapy... Eventually she was sent to the Riviera to revive her 'low spirits'." She pulled a face in disgust of the euphemism. "Looks like it hasn't worked out... She disappeared there in April 1854. She fell off a cliff—or possibly jumped."
"That's a pretty rough thing to happen to one's mother... They would have kept the truth from Emily as a young child, wouldn't they? And this—" Meret pointed at the diary, suddenly understanding the implication. "—was the year when Emily found out about it?"
After seeing off Edith Lennox in the lobby early on the following morning, John Thornton and Emily went outside to meet the horse trap that would take them to the start of their hiking tour. Thornton had suggested that some exercise would do them both good after the strain of the previous days. He had always found walking an excellent way to clear his mind—and what better place was there to do it than in the Swiss Alps?
Though, strictly speaking, the actual Alps were a little way off, and their majestic white-topped panorama could only be seen at a distance. Lausanne itself was surrounded by hills covered in vineyards. And it was for a walking tour through said vineyards that they were headed.
The horse trap brought them to Vufflens-le-Château. Here their coachman directed them towards the beginning of their track and pointed out Aubonne in the distance where he would pick them up again later in the day. It was open country, gently sloping towards Lake Geneva in the south, so there was little risk for them to get lost on their way.
They set out at a brisk pace—brisk for Emily who was more used to ambling along urban streets these days than do some serious walking—but it was only a mild incline, and as the track was in good repair, the one pair of sturdy shoes she had brought with her on her journey were well up to the task. After a quick look at the castle with its imposing sheer walls they headed west into open country. They walked continuously and in near silence for about four miles on paths flanked on the hill-facing side by a drystone wall. The rows upon rows of vines, trained along fences to about a height of five feet, were in themselves not the most exciting of sceneries, but what the landscape lacked in diversity the view quite made up for it. The only real distraction, albeit a rather delightful one, was a gathering of numerous fanciful scarecrows near one of the hamlets.
In due course they reached Yens, another tiny village, where they decided to take a rest ahead of the final, steeper incline that would eventually take them across a ridge and down to Aubonne. On the far side of the hamlet they found a bench shaded by an apple tree, and overlooking the lake. It was a perfect place for a rest.
Emily stretched her weary legs, meanwhile her father rummaged in the small rucksack he had borrowed from the coachman and produced some bread-and-cheese, and two flasks of cider.
"Not as well-chilled as one should like, but still quite palatable," he remarked after he had taken a swallow. He watched in mild amazement as his daughter brought the flask to her lips without further ado and drank from it. "I've meant to say that—unfortunately—I've forgotten to bring a beaker, but as I can see now it would have been quite unnecessary."
"Remember, papa, that I was brought up amongst boys."
"And what else did they teach you?"
To pick locks? Emily had a notion that this confession would rather spoil the mood, so she made do with saying, "This", as she put both her little fingers in her mouth and produced a piercing whistle.
"Never let your grandmother catch you at this," he laughed. Then, frowning, he leant over her and swatted a wasp from her far shoulder. As he drew back, Emily for a moment caught a look of utter distress on his face, before he turned away and leapt to his feet.
"What is it, papa?—have you been stung?"
He mutely shook his head in reply, still looking the other way, and Emily saw that his fist was pressed against his lips with such force that his knuckles turned white.
"Papa?" she said again, uneasy.
He walked away for a few steps, drew a shaky breath, and then turned back to her, giving her a strained smile. "That scent you wear... I never thought I'd come across it again—"
"What scent?" Emily wondered. "I don't wear scent... oh, you must mean the new soap—savon du lait d'amande douce," she carefully pronounced. "It's from Marseille. Mrs Faulkner gave it to me the day we went shopping in Nice. She said that it would fit me perfectly... Is there anything the matter with it?"
"Your mother used the same."
"Oh, I see." Emily mumbled, crestfallen. "Mrs Faulkner didn't say so; but then, she may not have remembered... I'm sorry. I shall not use it again."
"That's not what I meant, darling... Being assailed by the memory so unexpectedly was what threw me." His smile was more natural again. "And Mrs Faulkner was right; it does suit you."
"So you don't mind?"
"No, I don't." He resumed his seat next to her.
After a long silence, just when Emily thought that—from his showing signs of restlessness—he might suggest to walk on at any moment, she asked in a low reluctant voice, "Have you ever thought that she might come back?"
She almost expected him to chide her for her foolishness, but quite unexpectedly he chose to address her question.
"At first I could think of nothing else," he replied. "I imagined that something might have broken her fall and that she had hurt her head and lost her memory—that she had wandered off or had been found by someone... I went to all the fishing villages near Cap Roux and asked after a stranger—if they had rescued one or heard of one—but to no avail. I inquired about travellers—gypsies—in the vicinity... At my most fanciful I wondered if she might have been abducted—this used to be a pirate coast, after all... And when I finally had to leave for England, I set up a private investigation. The case has never been closed and I still pay for them to continue with their search—"
"But?"
"But." He sighed heavily. "It has been fifteen years—fifteen long, unshared years... I'm not the man I was then—and the woman I love exists only in my memory... I cannot begin to contemplate the person she might have become if she were to return to us now, after all this time." He sighed again, then he reached out and gently drew her to his shoulder, resting his cheek against her hair.
"When I came to Nice that day in spring, fifteen years ago," he continued, "intending to take her back home... I wondered even then who I would find upon arrival. The woman who had been a mere shadow of herself when I sent her off with a heavy heart before winter, or the woman she had been before?—with all the traits that made her quintessentially herself and that made her the woman I had been in love with from the first time I saw her... Well, let's say, from the second time." He chuckled wearily.
"I've never stopped loving your mother. Throughout her illness I loved her dearly... but I loved her as I would have loved a child or an ailing parent. The woman I had fallen in love with had been lost to me long before your mother vanished." The strain in his voice was giving away the emotions he tried to hold in check. "When I came to Nice, a selfish part of me hoped for one thing most of all... that everything would be as before—and that we would once again be in love."
"But it couldn't have been wrong to hope!"
She felt the twitch of his shoulder as he gave the slightest of shrugs.
"I don't know about hope... but, through it all, there's been a sense of having failed her." He pulled away in order to look into her eyes. "Ever since this came to my mind in the wake of our recent travels, I've been wondering if I'm about to fail you too, Emily..."
"No! You never could," she exclaimed impulsively, wilfully ignoring any doubts she had of late harboured about him.
"Hear me out," he softly rebuked her. "I know that you haven't set your heart on attending finishing school, and I've often had my own doubts whether or not this might be the right choice for you. Just because it deems the approved way of raising a lady, doesn't make it right... But the last few weeks have convinced me that you are not cut out for a conventional life of social graces and early marriage; and fortunately you are just wealthy enough—but not of too much consequence." When he saw her confused expression, he added, "You are not obliged to adhere to convention at all cost."
"Oh—" She still didn't get his drift.
"What I propose is this: In another two weeks at the latest I shall have to enrol you at l'Institut du Mont-Beri. If you can provide a feasible plan for spending the next—let's say—two years in a prolific manner before this deadline, I shall support you no matter how unconventional your choice may be. If not, you shall spend one year here in Lausanne—which, after all, is not such a long time in the greater scheme if things—and at least you'll come away with a decent knowledge of etiquette. Now, what do you think?—Do we have a deal?"
"Yes," Emily beamed, kissing his cheek, "we've got a deal... And, papa, I believe you don't have it in you to ever fail me."
I forgive you, Walter, for... you-know-what—and I wished I could add, 'with all my heart'... but, truth be told, I have decided to forgive you for my sake rather than yours. I'm tired of bearing this kind of grudge. As for your apology... It has been appreciated and has gone some way to assuage my resentment... and yet, I couldn't help feeling that it was a little lame and rather slow in coming—that it was altogether just prompted by the return of 'Origins'.
I am, however, truly sorry for the petty revenge I took on you. It was unworthy of me, besides being an insult on your intelligence. I should have known you would take immediate precautions against detection, even while waiting for the book's punctual return.
I have learnt a few things during my last few weeks of travelling. One of them is that, unfortunately, actions have consequences—and these consequences have the power to change us.
Before I left Milton I was very ignorant in many respects... Ignorance is not always a bad thing, and the ignorance of childhood can be a blessing and a protection. But lately I've done a lot to challenge my ignorance. It's all part and parcel of growing up, I suppose—even though wanting to know is a two-edged sword. So, be careful what you wish for...
You, Walter, wanted to know how it feels to kiss a girl. So, what does your informed mind tell you now? Was it worth it—at the cost of our innocent friendship? ... Because this is what we have lost, dear Walter—and therefore things will never be quite the same again between us. I wished it was otherwise, but... 'Truth', remember?
You asked if we were to become friends again... I'm prepared to give it another try—friendships come in many guises—though on what footing exactly ours will be only time can tell... and, quite frankly, it is not my first priority at present.
For the time being I am—first and foremost—in need of reinventing my own future, and plans are a little vague as yet. The only thing I am certain of is that my path in life won't include becoming an accomplished young lady at a Swiss finishing school. As I write, I'm on my way back to England, and I might very well travel before this letter.
We shall meet again shortly, I believe, because for the remainder of the summer recess Papa and I will come to Milton.
Come autumn I shall return with him to town and I am planning to attend Queen's College for the next two years, or for as long as it will take to be awarded academic qualifications. And then I shall study medicine—
It has become a matter of great importance for me to understand the workings of the mind and, as psychology is a field of medicine yet scarcely filled with scientific certainties, learning about the workings of the body deems me a good starting point... The only drawback is that the eventual learning will have to take place in Zurich—unless Merry Old England has a change of heart in the meantime and admits women to university...
(Draft of a letter inserted as loose page into the diary of Emily Thornton - unfinished)
First impressions didn't deceive; Ben really was easy to like. He had all the laid-back, I-couldn't-care-less attitude that his looks proclaimed. Meret felt an instant connection with him, more so than she had initially felt with Jareth.
In comparison with his partner, Jareth was rather more reserved and, occasionally, inscrutable—and the fact that Meret used to have a crush on him would always remain a tiny stumbling block between them. Generous quantities of alcohol had tided her over her first embarrassment, but this was not a winning strategy in the long run... Not that a strategy was needed any longer, with her virtually sitting on packed bags.
For the time being Meret was having fun chatting with Ben and listening to his inexhaustible fund of hilarious travel stories, while the two of them watched Jareth throw a ball for Pinks on the meadow neighbouring their large back garden.
Eventually, and with Jareth still well out of earshot, she took the bull by the horns and confessed her faux-pas. Ben—as she had expected—was hugely diverted, snorting so much with laughter that he spilt drink down his shirt.
"None of this would have happened if you guys didn't make such a secret out of being an item," Meret remarked with a grin. "I just don't get it... What's the matter with you?"
"Ah, well, you've got me there!" Ben admitted, looking a little rueful. "Friends and family all know about us, of course, but... I'm, like, having a bit of commitment issues. Jareth, now, he's the family guy... and he'd like to make things official." He smiled crookedly.
"How long have you been together?"
"Almost three years now. So it's not as if Jareth's rushing things," Ben admitted. "There's the small matter of my job, of course... I'm travelling to lots of places where admitting to being gay is not a good move—and that's an opportune reason why we're keeping things under wraps for the time being." He scrutinised her, his own expression a little inscrutable all of a sudden. "But, you know, 'will', 'way', and all that... Only, I'm not quite willing to settle down yet—and I don't know if I ever will."
"That's rather tough on Jareth, isn't it?"
"Well, yeah," he agreed, "and I know that he doesn't deserve it... Though, honesty, I'd much rather you didn't spell it out for him."
Meret shrugged, irritated. Pyt med det. She suddenly liked Ben a lot less. Commitment phobic, indeed.
She abruptly excused herself and went to join Jareth and Pinks on the meadow.