The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 8

by Beth Brower

Pierce began to move his gaze in my direction but managed to stop himself. “Don’t you have a sermon to give or a widow to cheer, Vicar?” “A book to read,” Hawkes replied.

A man came to sit on my left. I shifted until I was quite close to Pierce, our arms pressed against one another. I have never before considered boxing a romantic thing, but it was the most enlivened I’ve ever felt during a sporting exhibition.

Forgive yourself for having let yourself down, even while you were holding others up.

That seems to be the nature of life, however. Things that ought to come with warnings rarely do.

“Two paths now leading to a love; both true. A different shape of happiness to be found with each. Which path you take? Depends on many things. What you choose. What they choose. A thousand other decisions, or possibly very few. One you would love deeply. One you would love completely. One sharp as a knife. One a game of mirrors. One more difficult. One less free. Both inheritors to the line that refused to die when your first heart was buried.”

have experienced something I can’t quite understand.” Hawkes waited, then, “A state I’ve known.” “What do you do with it?” “I wait on the shore of the mystery to see what the tide will bring.”

“We are all sent trials in this life, Emma. I’ve yet to understand why God placed so many of mine in your singular person.” Not knowing what one ought to say, I answered, “I aim to be singular.”

“Life may tumble and jostle, now and again, but most things iron themselves out.” I paused, “Isn’t that right?”

have taken my insignificance for granted. One’s anonymity is not a thing to give away.

“Gossip and meanness have a way of making one feel beaten down, but they themselves are of small origin. They have no character. So keep yours intact and carry on.”

uncomfortable?” “Not very, no. I had my own thoughts. Why bother companionable silence?” Nice, in theory. However, there are times I prefer information to companionable silence.

“Right, then. I’m off to play cards in the library, while you…” “Avoid my aunt. Oh look, she’s seen us. Go, Islington, while you can. I’ll gallantly cut her off at the pass. She is my relation, after all.” “A mystery how you two could be related.” I turned and bestowed my loveliest smile. “That is the most wonderful thing you have ever said to me.” “Likely, yes.” Then Islington wished me luck and disappeared.

All related thoughts end with the realisation that a good deal of life is watching those we love consider the stupidest of possibilities.

“The London rain is fine enough, Miss, but there is nothing like the storms of home. All sudden-like. Murky colours filling the sky. The rain itself an impatience, like it has rushed for miles and miles only to come crashing at the door.”

“Wealth, cleverness, and praise are not the same as excellence of character, Emma,” my mother used to tell me.

This will be a month of following your own star and you will return to London a new man.” “That would be astonishing.” Islington laughed.

“All things that love the sun are out of doors.”

“Solitude of the deepest kind,” Islington shrugged. “Independence of soul not simply of choice, a natural line of beauty, serendipity.”

“I’ve long developed a habit of not growing accustomed to people, Emma Lion, but I have found the last few days ill-fitting without you.”

One should go away long enough to know the cotton-soft contentment of coming home.