Afternoons with Emily (65 page)

I crossed to her desk so that I could face her. “Emily, I came here to share the joy of the season with you.”

Emily sniffed and continued to move her pen across the paper.

“Have you nothing to say to me?” Not moments before, my generous-hearted Elena had been worried that this rude and selfish
woman was lonely.

“I have nothing to say,” Emily replied. “Nothing at all.”

Her voice seemed to come from a far distance, hollow sounding, and I knew she was addressing not just me but herself, and
perhaps whatever demons were currently haunting her. I didn’t know how to respond, so I glanced down at her sheet of paper.
My eyes widened. There were no words, just rows and rows of inky lines and hash marks. Judging from the piles of papers crumpled
around her, and the heat coming from the stove, Emily had sat here and made meaningless lines on reams of paper. Perhaps for
hours.

I cleared my throat. “Emily, this is a day of beginnings.” I was not certain where my words would take me. “New chances to
leave old woes behind in the passing year and embrace opportunities that arise in the new. I wish this for you, and for myself
as well.”

Emily’s pen paused, and her eyes flicked to my face, then back down to her paper again. “New. A new approach. A new technique.
Perhaps that is what is called for.” She leaned back against the slats of her chair and laid down her pen. “Yes,” she murmured.
“I’ll consider that.” She looked up at me with her now-placid brown eyes. “I suppose you will be going to the Borgias’ palace
for the festivities?”

“Yes,” I told her. Would this anger her? “Aunt Helen and Elena are waiting for me.”

She nodded. “Kiss all the babies for me. Children are what the New Year is truly about” was all she said, but I knew I had
been dismissed.

I pondered Emily’s dilemma as I went down the stairs, and the dilemma she posed me. She was obviously not writing as she had
been, and it was affecting her moods and behavior. Yet it was so unpleasant to be around her at this time that I was torn
between pity and anger. Anger won out as I continued to walk, until I reached Mrs. Austin’s front hall and Elena flung herself
around my knees, thrilled that I had arrived in time for the magic lantern show. I knew that if Emily was truly disturbed,
Mrs. Austin would find a way to tell me, and as a consequence I could, for the moment, push that problem to the back of my
mind. This would be relatively easy, as I was finding my increasing correspondence and my work at the Amherst school quite
demanding, and the winter kept us busy as well with its chores and tasks.

I tried to use that busyness as a drug, to dull the ache in my heart. I felt other pangs as well: I was young, and my body
had been thoroughly and skillfully awakened. Whatever my feelings for Roger were, my body’s longings were uncomplicated. In
bed each night, no matter that I had worked myself to exhaustion, I lay awake, haunted by the memory of Roger’s hands on me,
of the taste of his mouth and his scent. When I slept, I dreamed of Barbados, the flower-scented breezes and languorous air
— and Roger. I did not sleep well, and when Aunt Helen fretted that I looked tired, my answer was to work more, in hope that
I would sleep more readily.

One afternoon Aunt Helen suggested that I visit Emily. I realized it had been nearly three months since my New Year’s visit.
Of course, I had not heard from her, but that was not unusual, as she often alternated between silence and effusion.

I sent a note suggesting a visit, and when I received a return invitation, I walked up Main Street through sunlight that had
the look of early spring. A verse from one of my favorite of Emily’s poems came to me:

Consulting summer’s clock,

But half the hours remain.

I ascertain it with a shock —

I shall not look again.

I admired again the clear ring of authenticity, like the striking of a crystal goblet. This perfection had to be genius. I
had met and recognized it in a score of Emily’s poems — and each time I did, I told myself she should be exempt from the usual
social laws. Forget her lies, forget her fantasies, her selfishness: genius lived by its own rules.

Emily must have seen me coming up the street. This time she stood in the door to her room — as she did for that awkward little
girl who climbed the stairs so many years ago. How much I had needed a friend that day!

“You are the surest sign of the coming spring,” she greeted me. “All of God’s creatures are finally ROUSING themselves.”

I detected no hidden resentment in this statement — she was not accusing me of a lack of attention, as she had in the past;
rather, she seemed simply pleased by my arrival.

“I do feel a bit as though I were coming out of hibernation,” I confessed.

“Then let us take full advantage of today’s sun and wake up my garden,” she suggested.

It was just the right way to spend the afternoon. It was brisk in the garden; spring was still merely a hint, not a complete
thought, but our steady work warmed us. Emily seemed in much better spirits than when I’d last seen her. Perhaps all was well
with her again, and I could reassure Sue, and myself, that her course — as individual and unique as it was — was steady once
more. When I left her at dusk, a bit stiff from kneeling, I felt a guilty pang for not seeing her more often. My world had
expanded greatly since she and I first met, and so much in it now demanded my attention — attention I gave gladly and wholeheartedly.
And yet I realized that, preoccupied as I had been with Roger, I had missed the excitement I had felt in those first years
of my friendship with Emily, when her quicksilver mind challenged and delighted me, her observations stunned me, and her conversation
educated me.

As March mud gave way to the vivid green of April, my life settled into a routine of work and home that was deeply satisfying.
The restless hunger of my body continued unabated, but my daylight thoughts of Roger were becoming sweeter and without so
much regret. I often looked forward to things in the future without imagining Roger in those plans. Meanwhile, the world around
me was bursting into bloom, and the school year would soon be ending. As a teacher and as an avid student, I celebrated this
demarcation. Perhaps this was the most appropriate timing of all, for had our goal not been to prepare our students — child
and adult — to go forth into the world abloom themselves, to flourish and pick their bounty?

Mulling on this one afternoon, I returned to the house to find several envelopes awaiting in the mail. I recognized Alan Harnett’s
writing on one and opened it eagerly.

Dear Miranda,

I have received a very disturbing letter and am told that the same letter, or one materially the same, has been received by
at least three members of the board of our school. Accusations are leveled in it, at you and at Roger, of a very distasteful
nature, claiming that Roger has an “unconventional influence” (whatever that may be — although the writer’s intent is clear
enough) on you. I need not say that this casts as unwholesome a light on the school and our mission as it does upon you. What
is strange is that the letter was emphatic in its praise of our methods and was sent anonymously by someone who signed himself
“A Friend of Education.”

I have known you almost all your life, Miranda, and my faith in your good sense and integrity is absolute. Although I have
not known Roger as long, my certainty extends to him as well. But the board — Mr. Vanderbilt, Mr. Beecher, and Mrs. Whitney,
who have received the letters — is very troubled. If they withdraw their support, the mission of the school may be so compromised
that it will be difficult to recover. I urge you to come to New York as soon as possible. I regret to be the bearer of such
bad news, but I hope very much that by meeting with the board, we will be able to put to rest these unsavory rumors and go
back to the important work to which we have devoted ourselves.

I sat for some time, with the letter balled so tightly in my hand that it marked the flesh of my palm. It seemed to me that
the pain was all that kept me from fainting. This was what Roger had feared. This was why he had refused to continue in America
what we had begun in Barbados. I had thought he was foolish to worry, but I had been wrong, and now everything was in jeopardy.
For I knew with cold certainty that if the backers of our New York school withdrew and the school failed, the Amherst school
would follow; even Leo Press and our beautiful books might be discredited.

After a time I looked at the other letters. Two of them were from backers of the New York school, essentially saying the same
thing that Alan’s letter had but without Alan’s generous and good-hearted faith in me. It was clear that I must go to New
York and defend myself and my school.

I sat down to write a telegram to Alan, promising to be in New York as soon as possible. I suggested that he contact Roger,
if he had not already done so. Then I flew downstairs to tell Aunt Helen that I must go.

“Who would say such things?” She was horrified. “I can certainly tell them that you have not set eyes on Mr. Daniels except
under strictly chaperoned circumstances!
Unconventional influence
indeed!” My dear aunt began to bustle about the room as if her outrage needed some physical outlet. “What this could do to
your work — and to you! Once such rumors get about, it is almost impossible to put paid to them, even when they are entirely
untrue!”

As I packed I reflected on Aunt Helen’s outrage, and Alan’s, with some discomfort. I could certainly say that Roger Daniels
had no “unconventional influence” over my work at the foundation or at the schools: my passion for early childhood education
had begun long before I met Roger, and if anything I had influenced him! But what these letters implied — that Roger and I
were lovers — was true. And as much as I disliked it, I would almost certainly have to lie in defense of myself, the schools,
and the foundation.

I spent the evening playing with Elena and talking quietly with Aunt Helen, pretending that everything was just as it always
was. My train did not leave until the next day, and although I dreaded meeting with the board, I was so anxious to do something
that I could not sleep. Instead, after Elena and Aunt Helen had gone to bed, I found myself writing to Miss Adelaide. I poured
out, in page after page, all my confusion, anger, and hurt, my fear, to the one person I knew would not judge me by society’s
standards but by the standards of her own wise and loving heart. When my letter was done, the sky in the east was lightening,
and I was finally able to sleep.

I woke later than I had intended; I would have to hurry to be ready to meet my train. I dressed and went downstairs, where
Aunt Helen met me almost immediately with a telegram.

“It was delivered this morning, but you were so deeply asleep. I hope it is not more bad news!”

Anxious, I fumbled with the envelope, ripped it open, and prized out the telegram. It was from Alan and simply said, “New
developments. Urge you delay trip; more information to follow.” Alan must have known how anxious I was, for it ended with
“Don’t worry. Alan.”

“New developments?” Aunt Helen asked. “Well, Miranda, if you are not going to New York today, you should at least have some
breakfast. It will not help to starve yourself, and there are fresh muffins. Mr. Harnett will tell you soon enough what has
happened.”

It was hard to wait. For the next two days the hours dragged, and every clock in the house ticked too loudly. Even the sound
of Elena’s laughter as she capered in the garden, rolling her hoop, did not soothe my nerves. Aunt Helen was a quiet, sympathetic
presence; I would come out of a reverie to find a cup of tea had appeared at my elbow or a letter had been taken away to post.

And then, when I was awaiting the arrival of the mail, Alan Harnett himself appeared at our door.

“I had to come and tell you everything that has happened,” he said after we had greeted each other. “You can imagine that
very little of my usual work has been getting done in the last few days.”

We sat in the parlor, and Alan began.

“Roger sent a telegram to me, with letters to follow to every backer of the school — the members of the foundation’s board
and others. Of course, he denied the slanderous accusations in that letter — but in order to spare the board, the schools,
and you further embarrassment, he is passing all foundation business to a friend and colleague in Chicago while he is gone,”
Alan finished.

“Gone?” I repeated. “I’m sorry, Alan. My mind wandered. This is so much to take in. Where is Roger going?”

Alan looked at me with great kindness. “He is going to England, Miranda.”

I looked at him numbly. If Roger was no longer to be the foundation’s adviser, the last thin cord between us would be cut.
I felt as if I were bleeding.

“Apparently an opportunity had arisen that he had expected to decline, but this situation has made it appropriate for him
to distance himself from the foundation and from you. It is an excellent solution but one which will be hard on all of us.
Roger was one of the foundation’s greatest adherents. He assures me that Mr. Martindale will be as enthusiastic — and Roger
promises to be available to advise us by mail, should the need arise.”

I nodded. “You still have no idea who wrote the letters?” I asked. “Did you bring your copy?”

“I left in such a hurry — I will send it to you, if you wish, but do you really want to see it?”

Again I nodded.

“I will send mine on to you. But as I said, they were not signed. We may never know. The board met when Roger’s plans became
clear and agreed that this was nothing more than a malicious attempt to discredit the school, by one of our detractors.”

“But what can anyone possibly say against the school?”

Alan smiled. “The fact that this person had to resort to personal attacks suggests that he could not think of any real objections.
You are too good-natured to see that there are people who are deeply troubled by change. Some dislike the challenge to established
order and feel the old ways are best. Some believe that a desire for change is a criticism of the way they themselves were
taught —”