Afternoons with Emily (58 page)

“If you must,” Aunt Helen said. “But surely not today. Let us go back to the house. This cool spring air has made me hungry.”

After lunch I peeked in on Elena, who was already fast asleep, surrounded by her shells. I carefully removed each one, worried
she’d roll over onto them in her sleep. I placed them in rows on her desk, enjoying their faint, briny smell, their undeniable
reality a testimony to our having actually been to the islands.

Then, although it was the middle of the day, I too lay down upon my bed, letting my thoughts drift, my body remember.

I slept through until the next morning. We had been at sea, on trains, in carriages, in many different climates and cultures,
all as part of our return home. I knew Aunt Helen was right: it would take time for my body to adjust. Elena, however, seemed
entirely reacclimated. When I came into the kitchen to discover that she was tucking into a large Amherst-style breakfast
— griddle cakes, fried ham, coddled eggs — I knew she had made the transition and that all was well.

“Then we practiced swimming with the waves,” Elena was explaining to Aunt Helen. “Miranda can float very well. But Roger was
the best of all.”

I clutched the high back of the wooden kitchen chair. The power of my grip made the chair legs scrape a bit on the floor.
Elena looked up from her plate at the sound. “Will Roger visit us soon?” she asked. “I want to show him my room.”

“Mr. Daniels, dear,” Aunt Helen corrected. Her tone was wary. “And when do you expect to see Mr. Daniels again, Miranda?”

“I cannot say for certain. There will undoubtedly be foundation business for me to attend to in New York,” I suggested, attempting
to regain my composure. “It’s only four months until the school opens there, after all.”

“His business with you was more urgent than I surmised,” Aunt Helen said coolly. “I am surprised that you did not mention
his visit.”

“I’m sorry,” I said simply. “I was more tired than I knew yesterday.” I could see that she was unsatisfied and that Roger’s
visit to the island required further explanation.

“There are some things more easily resolved in person,” I continued. “As I said, we had misunderstood each other in our letters.
Mr. Daniels was determined that we clear up the misunderstanding so that we could go forward. He was also quite a help to
Miss Adelaide — he is now her representative on several matters regarding Dr. Hugh’s property.”

Reminded of my genteel and proper chaperone, Aunt Helen’s frown of concern softened. “I am glad, then, that I helped him to
reach you.”

I sat down and joined Elena at breakfast, but I knew I would have to be careful of what I revealed about my relationship with
Roger. If Aunt Helen were to learn what had actually occurred in Barbados, she almost certainly would not view the situation
as I did. In the intoxicating air of Barbados, I had had no difficulty in putting aside thoughts of what might be considered
impropriety. Returned to the bracing, Protestant air of Amherst, back to relatives and expectation and concern with appearances
and social standing, I saw that I needed to be careful. Aunt Helen was not hidebound, but neither was she unconventional;
in an argument about the absurd value placed upon virginity, we would almost certainly be on different sides. Those rules
had receded into the background in lush and pliant Barbados; this short conversation had caused them to leap to the fore.
But I was also determined to guard against the encroachment of rigid New England mores upon my newfound happiness.

After the first few days at home, I slipped easily into working for an hour or two in the morning while Elena tended to her
new obsession, her garden. Afternoons, I made good on my private, personal promise to help Aunt Helen more with the domestic
chores, despite my embarrassing lack of natural aptitude. I could tell she enjoyed my companionship and the passing on of
womanly arts, and — as I intended — she didn’t suspect that my increased interest was an effort to lighten her load.

I also began to organize my work schedule. June was fast approaching, and the New York school would open in early September.
The major building renovations were complete, with only cosmetic choices left to be made. We needed to furnish the upstairs
apartment, which had gone far beyond simple kitchen facilities in the final design. We would invite important educators and
school administrators for conferences, to observe the school. As some of these visitors would be unchaperoned ladies, we must
provide safe and respectable lodging.

I put my pencil down and allowed myself a bit of daydreaming, watching the soft cottony clouds drift across a pale blue sky
outside the study window. Might those lodgings enable Roger and me to be together? I smiled. Whatever the distance between
us now, I was certain that, face-to-face in New York, Roger’s feeling for me would match my own for him. Would anyone question
ordering a larger bed? I flushed at the thought. Then I admonished myself to concentrate and focused once again on the papers
in front of me.

By the end of the week, I had separated my foundation tasks into two columns: New York City and Amherst. I was pleased to
discover that this summer my duties in New York would require my presence in the city several times before the opening reception.
Roger would also need to be there, and at that thought my blood quickened.

But for now I had Amherst calls to make. First on Sue Dickinson, for suggestions on our all-important guest list for the New
York reception when the school opened. I would send her a note today; this was a task that she would enjoy. Mrs. Austin relished
her role as intellectual and social matchmaker; it was a position that suited her well. Lolly had invited Elena and me to
tea next week. Mary Crowell had sent an announcement of a lecture that she suggested we attend together. And there was Emily’s
request.

I frowned. Planning a visit with Emily felt more like a duty than a pleasure. I did not think I had felt quite so much this
way before I had left for Barbados, but Emily’s recent letters put me off in a way I couldn’t quite articulate. I had already
realized that there was an arrogance in her insistence upon communicating even if no one was there to receive the message.
Now it was coming to me slowly that that was what Emily always did, in her notes, in her poetry.

I walked cross lots to The Homestead and rapped on the door, and was greeted by a surprised Vinnie.

“Oh, Miranda!” she gushed. “Emily will be so pleased to see you.”

She gripped my hand and tugged me into the house. Startled by her aggressive enthusiasm, I stumbled a bit over the threshold.

“I must tell you,” Lavinia confided, “Emily has missed you. She’s had no company at all while you were away. Other than me,
of course,” she added.

I hid a smile. There was nothing unusual in Emily’s seclusion, but perhaps in these winter months, without her garden or bird-watching,
Emily had relied a bit too heavily on Lavinia for Lavinia’s comfort. I suspected Vinnie was the one who was glad to see me
back, to distract her demanding sister. I heard Emily’s door open upstairs, then saw the slanting light illuminate the upper
hallway. “Lavinia, I believe you are detaining my guest,” Emily scolded.

I smiled. This was the Emily I knew well, who had been listening at her door since Vinnie brought me into the house.

“I’m welcoming our neighbor home,” Vinnie replied. She made a little shooing gesture at me, waving me toward the stairs.

Emily hovered in the doorway, her pristine white dress looking crisp and cool.

“Why, you’ve gone as bronze as a Greek soldier’s shield,” she said as a greeting.

I laughed. “I was certainly not off to battle in Barbados.”

“Of course you were,” Emily countered. “Battling INERTIA. Battling sameness. Battling for your soul.”

I was startled at the image. She was right on all counts. I had gone to Barbados as a way to wage a war against ennui. I battled
my fears about Roger and then fought with the constraints placed on me by society.

“Then I need some laurel from your garden for my victor’s crown,” I said, settling into “my” red chair. “For I have surely
won.”

“But what of your friends?” Emily demanded. “For we were the sorry victims you abandoned to go to war.”

I choked back a laugh. This too was an Emily I recognized. I remembered how she had taken the enlistment of her Mentor Thomas
Higginson during the Civil War as a personal slight.

Emily sat at her desk and arranged her skirts in a peevish manner. “Now, Miranda, I must scold you. You never told me you
were leaving. And to be gone so long! Think of how I felt!”

Her posturing irritated me. “Your brother must have told you the state I was in before I left,” I said. “He was the one who
suggested a trip away.”

“Perhaps he said something to me, but I don’t recall. We don’t speak regularly, you remember.” Then Emily’s brows knit together.
“And how is your delightful charge? It is . . .
Elena?
”

“Splendid and thriving. With quite a personality of her own. She — ”

But Emily was not interested. “Are the flowers in Barbados quite exotic? I remember that you learned your admirable flower-arranging
skills from your Miss Adelaide on that mysterious island.”

I barely knew whether to laugh or to scold: she remembered my flower arrangements but not my daughter’s name!

“The flowers are lovely. And yes, you are right. Miss Adelaide taught me a great deal.”

“And while she was teaching you domestic arts, did she never teach you to cook?” Emily teased.

When I had stayed as Emily’s houseguest several years before, I had confessed my complete inadequacy in the kitchen.

“No.” I smiled. “Aunt Helen has been my tutor in that art, but I will never achieve your artistry as a baker.”

“It is by necessity that I take on such chores, though I am pleased that my efforts do not go unnoticed.”

For all of Emily’s rejection of “doily talk,” this was our laciest conversation by far.

Emily sighed heavily. “We have had such a time finding the right girl,” she complained. “The household falls heavily upon
my shoulders.”

“There is always so much to do,” I agreed. “I don’t know how I will ever manage it when I have a household of my own.”

Emily stared at me. “You? Running a household?”

Her surprise insulted me. “Of course. Why should I not?”

“You’re so young,” she protested. “And independent. I can’t imagine you married. I always assumed you had come to the same
conclusion I have made regarding marriage.”

“Why would you think that?” I bristled.

“Why? Because it is sensible. Perhaps even more for you than for me. You have ambition. You travel. You want to see the world,
be influential. How could any man accept that?” She thought for a moment. “I, on the other hand, could be a wife, to the right
man,” she said almost smugly. “I would always be at home. And if he would leave me be, then I could write as much as I wanted
to. But there are other reasons I could not marry. Men expect . . . children.”

I was not sure if that was what she had meant to say, but I did not want to pursue it. Perhaps touching on such a personal
matter unsettled Emily, for she quickly changed the subject.

“How did you spend your time on your island paradise?” she asked.

“Enjoying myself,” I answered.

“How did you accomplish that?”

I thought. I would not discuss Roger with Emily, certainly. What had I taken pleasure in before his arrival?

“I was able to see the natural world around me,” I said. “I could take the time to really pay attention.”

“Ahh, then your journey was worthwhile.” Emily nodded her approval. “So few people really NOTICE things. But we do. We’re
alike in that.”

This comparison to Emily did not rankle. Her capacity for intense observation was a quality I admired. Having arrived at a
more harmonious moment, we settled down to a happy discussion of the books she had read in my absence.

But once I had left her close and suffocating room, I felt unsettled. There was a neediness in Emily that I had not seen before.
She always demanded attention — her very manner compelled it — but this was different. She had never wanted
my
attention in particular before. I had always felt like a captive audience in Emily’s personal drama rather than a real person.
Yet it seemed to be my specific presence she had missed — why else make her laughable attempt to ask after Elena, except to
enter into what was important to me, if only for a moment? Perhaps for the first time she had admitted my importance to her.
It was how friends were meant to feel about each other. Then why did it bother me so much?

Is
she a friend? That had always been the question. I had never been sure what our relationship really was, and if it was not
friendship, then what might it actually be?

The next day as I sat at my desk, Aunt Helen came in, bearing a tray holding iced tea and ginger biscuits. “I thought you
might be feeling a bit parched by now.” She sat down in the side chair beside the desk. I thanked her and took a sip of the
cool amber liquid.

“Is there an understanding between you and Mr. Daniels that perhaps I should know about?” she asked, coming straight to the
point.

I should not have been surprised, but how could I answer? I would not lie — I would not claim that he was an unmarried man
and a suitable prospect. But I could not tell the complete truth — particularly now, when the feelings and intentions that
had seemed so plain on Barbados were still muddled and unclear.

“Mr. Daniels is not free to marry,” I said. I sipped my tea and avoided looking at my aunt. “He has a wife, and she is an
invalid. He does not speak of it because he does not wish to be looked upon with pity, although he is quite deserving of our
sympathy. As is his poor wife.”

I gave Aunt Helen a brief outline of Roger’s situation. “Mr. Daniels has always treated me with respect,” I added. “I cannot
deny there is a — a sympathy between us, and he told me of his history so that I would have no misunderstanding of our circumstances.”