Afternoons with Emily (60 page)

Finally we climbed the stairs to the fourth-floor apartment. Stepping over the threshold, I exclaimed with delight. The walls
were a pale yellow with white trim, and the curtains and bedding were a deep, rich sea green. A large oak wardrobe stood in
one corner, and a vanity with a mirror and covered stool sat in the other. Delicate wrought iron carvings covered the bed,
with small tables on either side. Looking up, I discovered to my delight that the tin ceiling had been embossed with shell
designs. I smiled at Alan.

“I never forgot your shell collection,” he said. “And how much you loved it.”

“Elena continues the tradition,” I told him. “It is perfect. I feel completely at home.”

Roger put my portmanteau beside the vanity table. “We will leave you here so that you can rest and dress for dinner.”

“Fanny and I will call for you at seven,” Alan said. “We have a reservation at Delmonico’s. And before I forget” — he fumbled
in his pockets and pulled out a set of keys — “these are for you.” He bowed as he handed them to me.

I took them with an equal feeling of ceremony. After a moment I walked the two gallant men back downstairs.

“I’m so glad that you are here,” Alan said warmly at the door.

“So am I,” I told him. I kissed his cheek, acknowledged Roger’s bow, and closed the door on their retreating forms.

Upstairs in my room, I noticed that a bouquet of deep gold roses sat upon the vanity. The note attached said only “Congratulations”
in Roger’s familiar hand. But they were Lady Caroline Paget roses. No one but Roger and I would know the significance of his
choice. I felt oddly warmed and encouraged by the gesture, despite his words in the carriage.

I had been concerned that talk of the foundation would bore Alan’s wife, Fanny, but in our excitement we spoke of very little
else. However, Fanny clearly felt almost as involved as we were and, far from being bored, entered into the discussion with
passion.

“Alan uses me to try his ideas; how could I not form some of my own?” she said. And as a mother of small children, she offered
her own opinions about child rearing and education from a very knowledgeable position.

“You should consider training mothers, not just professionals,” she suggested, dipping her spoon into the creamy mushroom
bisque. “There are many mothers who would welcome guidance. Not a day goes by that I do not worry that I am not providing
all that I can and should for my children’s development.”

Alan laid his hand over hers. “You are a wonderful mother,” he protested.

Fanny colored with pleasure at the compliment but shook her head. “Do you see my point, though? If I, a paragon of motherhood,”
she said while she gave Alan a teasing look, “feel uncertain, think of all the others. Even the best mothers need reassurance.
And so many would benefit from guidance and tuition to better prepare them for this important role.”

“Fanny is right,” I said. “I’m sure there must be some way to include concerned mothers more directly in our program.”

The duck arrived, along with the
pommes Anna
and creamed spinach. As the waiters served, Alan sat up straight in his chair and laughed. “Do you know what we have forgotten?”
he said, almost incredulously.

“What?” Roger asked.

“We are preparing to open one school and expand another. With all this talk of training mothers, we have forgotten one very
important step: training more teachers.”

“But that has always been part of the plan,” I protested. “We built a classroom for the purpose in Washington Square.”

“Yes,” Alan conceded. “But that will not get under way for some time. There is still too much to do in establishing the model
classroom. If we are as successful as we hope to be, we will need to train the teachers sooner.”

“Alan is right,” Roger said, buttering a roll. “We must be able to place skilled people the moment there is demand.”

Alan nodded over a forkful of duck. “That must be your next task, Miranda. Polly Randall can take over your kindergarten section
so that you can concentrate on teacher training. This very fall.”

“Do you think so?” I asked. “I would have to work out a curriculum and find pupils in a very short amount of time.”

“You can do it,” Alan assured me.

I looked across to Roger. He nodded. “I agree. You can do it, and you must.”

Fanny smiled at me. “I shall add my vote as well. You may find you need teachers in a year’s time. You do not want to turn
students away because there is no one to teach them!”

So it was determined, and yet another facet of our foundation would begin to be shaped and polished.

After dinner Roger accompanied us to Washington Square, where he bade me a chaste good night. Fanny and I kissed each other’s
cheeks, and Alan took my two hands in his own. “Now that you are here, it truly feels that we are under way.”

“We are,” I promised him.

I unlocked the door, and Alan and I stepped inside. He lit the lamp just inside the entrance and then the lanterns that sat
on the front table. “I will see you to the apartment,” he insisted.

Together we climbed the four flights, our lanterns casting dancing shadows on the walls. We reached the apartment, and Alan
opened the door for me, holding up his lantern to illuminate the room. Here the shadows were soft and velvety, as if the room
were cloaked in velvet. I crossed to the vanity and lit the lamp there, and Alan turned on the gas in the wall sconces.

“I will leave you to your rest,” he said. “I can show myself out. After all the renovation work I oversaw, I think I could
easily find my way out in the dark.”

“I am sure you could,” I agreed, smiling. “But humor your pupil and use the lantern to go back down those stairs.”

“Good night, Miranda,” he said.

I heard his footsteps echoing through the dark and quiet building, and then the door closing. I was alone.

The night was hot and humid. New York City did not offer the refreshing breezes of Barbados or the cooler temperatures of
Amherst. Siobhan, the hired girl who would help maintain the school, had provided me with a pitcher of water and towels. I
dipped the edge of the towel in the water and dabbed at my temples, my forehead, the back of my neck. I felt curiously alert
despite the heat, the hour, and the long day of travel.

I had imagined, I had hoped, that at this moment I would be preparing for Roger’s arrival. I looked around the beautiful room,
imagining Roger there with me, his hands, his lips, the elegant and inviting bed. The thought made my body restless; I ached
for him, but Roger was not here. If he had never come to Barbados, if we had not become lovers, what would I be feeling at
this moment? Pride at what we had accomplished so far and the need to do more, much more.

I undid my buttons and stays, stepped out of my dress, and slipped on a light cotton wrapper. The apartment was hot and filled
with my imaginings of Roger and myself. The garden would be cooler, I thought. Taking up the lantern again, I went back downstairs.
As I stepped into the garden, I was enveloped in the delicate scent of roses. There was a breeze almost as soft as in the
Barbados nights. I sat on one of the benches and made myself consider how I would go about recruiting teachers. I might have
sat for an hour, perhaps more, making lists in my mind, things to tell Alan, questions for Roger. The more I thought, the
further I was able to push my disappointment at Roger’s subdued greeting. My work was, for this moment at least, truly the
most important thing.

At last I went upstairs. The apartment was empty of ghosts, and I slept well.

If I wished for work, the rest of my visit to New York supplied it in plenty. There were so many details and decisions involved
in opening a school. Alan and I made sure we had enough copies of our Leo books for the enrolled students. We made final decisions
about the decor and went over the curriculum. Roger was in and out of the school, discussing foundation business and funding.
Each time I saw him, I felt a momentary shock; if my mind had accepted that, for now, he was only a colleague and a friend,
my heart and my body pined for the lover. And there were moments when I thought he felt the same way, but he said nothing.
There were documents to sign, letters to write, a future to build for the foundation.

When Roger saw me off at the station, I felt again that flutter of anxiety, an unspoken question: “And now?” Roger did not
answer my anxieties directly.

“Have a good trip, Miranda,” he said formally and bowed over my hand.

I thanked him and was about to withdraw my hand, but he raised it to his lips in a brief kiss. In that instant I thought I
saw naked longing in his expression, and when he looked up, I was sure. But he stepped back quickly and the moment passed.
I thanked him for his good wishes and his continued help, and boarded the train. It was just as well that I had the compartment
to myself for several stops. We had proved we could act as colleagues for the good of the foundation and our work, but for
how long? We would see each other the following month, and again in September for the opening. Who could say what would happen?
I refused to think further into the year than that.

The moment I alighted from the carriage in Amherst, Elena proudly showed me the berries she had collected from her very own
bush.

“They’re for my pies,” she declared. “Grandmama Helen and Bridget are showing me how to make them.”

“She is a very good student,” Aunt Helen said. She gave me a wink. “Not like
all
my charges.”

Later on, as we waited for the pies to bake, we went outside to escape the oven’s heat. Elena was nearly bursting with anticipation
and needed to be distracted to keep her from returning to open the oven door to check on the pastries’ progress, so I described
the new school building and all the work there was yet to do.

“Was Mr. Daniels there?” Aunt Helen asked.

“Oh, yes,” I told her casually. “He heartily approves of all our new proposals. He says that the endowment is thriving, and
if enrollments continue at the current pace, the Amherst school will be self-sufficient quite soon. New York will take longer,
but it is a far more ambitious project.”

I could tell from her manner that Aunt Helen was reassured that there was nothing inappropriate in my relationship with Roger.
And for the moment and by her standards, there
was
nothing inappropriate.

Miss Adelaide’s reply to the letter I had sent before my trip was waiting for me, filled with her warm common sense.

There is a bond between you and Roger that is palpable. It goes far past mere attraction and is built upon mutual respect.
You and I know all too well that the rules society dictates or deems appropriate may not be right at all. In my younger life
I tried to abide by my society’s code, and you know the tremendous cost. But I believe you have too much sense not to understand
that flouting those codes may also have a bitter cost. Somewhere between one extreme and the other, your path lies, and while
it will be a hard path to find, I believe it will in the end lead you to great happiness and accomplishment. I agree that
you should not burden your dear aunt with information that would make her feel compromised; I am glad that you confided in
me. Know that you always may and that I will support the choices you make with your heart with all of my own. They can bring
only good.

How I treasured Miss Adelaide. My letter had been written when I hoped for a reunion with Roger that was quite different from
what had occurred. But her letter seemed to me to honor his caution and my choice at the same time. Reading it, I felt more
hopeful of Roger’s feelings. Rereading the letter, I realized that, despite my own mother’s absence, I was privileged to have
two mother figures in my life. Aunt Helen and Miss Adelaide were different in upbringing and experience, but each provided
comfort and guidance. Aunt Helen had had a more conventional life; Miss Adelaide had taken an action that had changed the
course of her life in surprising ways. Each followed her conscience. Each was able to see beyond her own experience to another’s
point of view. Each lived in the world and contributed to it. I hoped I could emulate both.

Then, ironically, someone quite different from either of those fully engaged women demanded my attention.

“Emily sent over two notes,” Aunt Helen informed me. “I told the hired man who delivered the first note that you were in New
York and would not be back for at least another week. She wrote you a second letter anyway.”

I took the two letters from my aunt. The first requested a visit; the second complained that I had gone again so soon. She
had referred to me as a bird, and I was not sure if I was being scolded for being “flighty” or superficial with my comings
and goings, or if she was suggesting that I was practicing leaving the nest until I would return no more.

The letters troubled me. It was not what was actually said but rather that she was saying so much! The second letter was particularly
troubling because she seemed to be becoming more blatantly resentful of my expanding world. But speculating about Emily’s
intentions and moods was often a useless enterprise. Instead, I sent her a note suggesting we see each other the following
Monday. I received a return card simply saying, “Till then.”

“Miranda, at last! I thought you had forgotten the way,” Emily greeted me when I arrived. We embraced lightly, and although
she laughed, I sensed an edge to her teasing complaint.

I untied my sun hat and laid it on the front hall table. I ran my hand through my hair; the day was warm and the humidity
was making my curls rather unruly. “It has been a busy time.”

“Of course,” she said. “You have been ACCOMPLISHING.”

I ignored the mild censure in her voice and turned to a subject she would appreciate: herself.

“And you, Emily? How have you been spending your time?”

“As I always do. WRESTLING for dominion.”

We had climbed the stairs to her room. I was not sure if she meant literal struggles — perhaps fighting against the demands
of the household and her family — or if she meant struggling with her work. But I was glad to hear her strong language; Emily
used weaker imagery in conversation only when she herself was suffering.