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

by Beth Brower

Pockets do give confidence!

OK YES THANK YOU - someone else who sees it is just the obvious thing to do, to name your plants!

Then once we were up the stairs and Pierce looked back at us both, his smile was a quiet scaffold. “Give me ten seconds, and when you hear a bit of a crash, slip across the room and out the door.” Victoria was watching Pierce intensely, like he would save her from any eventuality. I frowned. “What are you going to—?” But Pierce had stepped out and… Crash. Grunt. Rush of voices. My heart jumped out a window and straight onto the pavement of my stomach. “Good heavens, are you all right?” a man asked. “He just took a terrible fall!” said an older woman. “Isn’t he the fellow with the limp?” Then a muffled apology from one quasi-American photographer. Pierce had fallen on his sword. Closing my eyes, I tightened my arm around Victoria, and we swept across the now distracted Reed and Rite, while everyone’s eyes were on Pierce regaining his footing. I wanted to kiss the man. I wanted to bludgeon the man. I wanted to elope with the man. I kept all wild and half-formed thoughts unspoken.

“I would wager he fell onto his good leg,” I answered. “We have just witnessed a chivalry few men possess. An extra piece of cake for us all.”

“A direct quote from the Society of St. Crispian’s Senior Servants handbook, Miss.” “Heavens, do you have the entire thing memorized?” Her face fell a fraction. “Almost, Miss Lion. But there is a tricky bit in the chapter on Managing the Unmanageable that I’ve still to commit to memory.” “Onward and upward, my dear Agnes. I shall do my best to let you practice the proficiencies outlined in said chapter.” She brightened. “Oh, Miss, you already do that so well!”

“How is it that the moment Emma Lion becomes part of an equation—almost any equation—every ridiculous prospect becomes reality?”

Quarter of an hour later, we left Lapis Lazuli House. He’d changed his clothes, wearing his dark brown suit with a fresh shirt, change of tie, and waistcoat. He’d also run a comb through his hair. “You’re cutting a smart figure,” I said. “I’d like to impress your mother.” “Seeing as she is deceased, I think she’d only be difficult to impress if we were to marry.” It simply flew from my mouth like a barn swallow. And I, experiencing sudden and undulating waves of terror disbelief shock mortification, lifted a hand to my face and strangled out, “I did not intend to say that.” “So I’ve guessed by the expression of blind panic on your face.” Letting my hand drop, I swivelled my gaze to Pierce. “Said panic has nothing, or at least very little to do with your person. Ah. Rather, yourself. Your person is more than— As is yourself!” Calamity. Two men were walking up the lane, and then a woman not far behind them. “Shall we cross the street to finish untangling this conversation?” I half whispered. A nod from Pierce, who seemed perfectly fine waiting for me to dig myself out of the verbal trench in which I’d so haphazardly placed myself. “I am not ready, is all,” I said quietly, as we crossed the cobbles. “We’ve only just begun courting. But when I am, I’m not assuming we— You must— But there are clearly— What I mean to say— A lady doesn’t curse in the street, does she? She doesn’t curse at all. Nor does she accidentally half propose. Perhaps I should start. The swearing, I mean. A...

Emma’s composure later grounds him ❤️

I picked up my butter knife. “I am armed, Islington.” “Someday I’ll fence with you, Emma, but not at the Reed and Rite.” I brightened. “Will you really?” “Certainly.” Islington made eye contact. “We have plenty of foils at Stonecrop.” “Well, wonderful!” I then smiled at Pierce. “Did you hear that? Islington is going to give me a sword.” “I didn’t say that.” Pierce took a sip of his tea. “Implied, I’m afraid.”

“I that do bring the news made not the match.” I sat up straight in my chair. “Pierce.” “Hmm?” he replied, taking a sip of whisky. “You quoted Shakespeare.” “Is that Shakespeare? I read it in the paper last week.” It was almost unbearable, Pierce quoting Shakespeare. The joyful tang of an unexpected pairing. My new aim in life is to do everything possible to ensure it happens again.

I think our boy be reading shakespeare in his spare time!

“You look very put together,” I said. “Is it because you knew you would be under scrutiny?” I expected him to say, “I always look put together.” He said rather, “I’m always under scrutiny.”

“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.

The evening would have been unbearably perfect if Pierce had been present, leaning back in the duality of confidence and disquiet that sometimes marks his company. Exchanging interests with Islington, pronouncing something on Hawkes’s head to see if the latter could be moved from his meditative silence, and glancing towards me as if, just possibly, happiness were a thing to be found.

“As this is Mr. Pierce’s first visit, you’re going to leave the impression we are perfect heathens.” “He’s a rather perfect heathen,” I said mostly to myself—a poor, out-loud habit, developed, I imagine, from too many solitary hours in a garret. Freezing in realisation before looking up and finding everyone’s eyes upon me, I added, “Meaning, I don’t believe he’ll mind anything too unorthodox.” Bother. I’m a perfect heathen.

A full comprehension for us both: that we’d been more than a little homesick for one another’s company. “Emma,” as if he were speaking a pleasant thought aloud. His eyes silver as the spent rain as his gaze canvassed my face. Whatever had prevented him feeling entirely at his ease only moments ago, was lessening. And when he spoke, I could feel the words ordering themselves in a way my mind would ever remember. “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.”

🥹🥹🥹🥹

It may have been the first time we were ever truly alone, and in this aloneness, Pierce kissed me like he had that first evening. And I thought that perhaps, perhaps we… I thought that if Pierce would… If… I found, I suppose, a readiness to cede some of the internal ground I’ve so carefully kept.

Sitting beside her, I gazed longingly out over the lawn. My heart constricted then expanded in an absurd manner. Irrational, perhaps, to feel such conviction that they are mine and I theirs.

I just love this friendship.

I reached my own hand to his forearm, only a moment’s reminder is all. It seemingly triggered a deep breath, and he let it out with caution, turning to face we three. Islington and Hawkes had paused their conversation, waiting. And it was Hawkes who spoke. “Do you need us to wait here, do you need us to head for Stonecrop, or do you need us to come with you?” Pierce started to shake his head, more to himself than anything. He placed his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “I don’t want to inconvenience—” “What do you need from your friends, Pierce?” Hawkes said. “To wait, to go, or to come?”

Friendship <3

I was between them before I realised how. Facing Pierce, my hands on his arms. I’d broken the grip of his right hand, though he was still holding on with his left. “Let go, Niall,” I shouted. “Let him go!” I looked at Pierce’s face, I caught his gaze with mine and held it fast, then threw my arms around him with such force, he could do nothing but stumble backwards. Unbalanced for a moment and then his arms came around me, pulling me against his chest and anchoring himself. Out of breath, half out of his mind. The press of his cheek against mine made me realise I’d been crying. “Pierce,” I whispered, deliberately choosing his father’s surname. “Pierce. It’s time. It’s time to go. It’s time to leave.” His entire body tightened; a storm so strong it felt like holding on to a gale-force wind. He was fighting, fighting. He could not let go. “Niall.” A rip of a breath in response, his frame quaking with anger, and Pierce let his head drop down against my shoulder. “It’s time to leave this room, to go outside,” I whispered. “There is space, there are long roads, your life is elsewhere. It’s time to go.” I don’t understand why I said what I did, but it was as if he were trapped in a corner not of his own making, yet only he could find a way out. He held me tightly, and I could feel his nod against my shoulder. He kissed my cheek, eyes red with tears. “Long roads,” he repeated. “You’re right. We should go.” He released me. And without a glance to his mother or sister, or the man i...

Islington and Hawkes fell into quiet step behind us—the sort of solidarity where nothing is asked but everything is given.

Once we’d dropped down into a hollow, and enough trees flanked our way, once we were out of sight of anyone on the lane or at the parsonage, I pulled back on Pierce’s hand. “Pierce,” I said. He kept walking. “Niall!” Three quick steps and I pulled myself equal to, then ahead of Pierce, turning and forcing him to stop. He let go of my hand. The deep well of his mind released him. He found himself. He saw me. “Are you all right?” he asked, half panicked. His hands came up to the sides of my face. “Are you all right!” “Yes. Niall, yes! I’m fine. Breathe. You’re not…breathing. Islington is here. And Hawkes. We’re all well. I am well.” Pierce truly saw my face. His hands dropped away, silver eyes ascertaining if I was telling the truth—that I was uninjured, unharmed. His chest rose and fell. He took a step back. He looked about, the surrounds terribly familiar, the river we stood alongside likely where he had almost been killed. How familiar, how unsettling. The anger I hoped was dissipating had not. It had been hidden by bewilderment but was now rising. Like the sour smell of smoke burning something that ought not have touched a flame. But he was with friends. Friends who claimed no touch on his previous life. And so Pierce took a breath, then another. He took a step back. “My apologies,” he said, holding up his hand, so taut the veins crossing over the bones on the back were like ropes. The muscles in his neck tightened. His chest rose and fell. “My apologies, truly.” And he ...

The mystery of Islington’s past faded. For a different tragedy, a different broken past had come roaring into the present, consuming everything. Islington, Hawkes, and I had a single task ahead, that of holding Pierce up. Other mysteries were to be held at bay. Other sorrows were to wait.

It soon became clear this was not a fight to win. It was turning into a spar. A joint practice. The brutality of the May Day fight with the strongman was a thousand miles away from this exercise. It was Hawkes giving Pierce a way to release fury, bone deep.

Pierce landed a blow, reclaiming my attention. Then Hawkes answered. One. Two. And another as Pierce tried to feint, turned on his injured leg, and stumbled back a few paces with a pained laugh. I had not realised the grip of fear that had taken hold of my heart until—with the sound of Pierce’s laugh—I felt it loosen.

That was when Islington said, “Lion?” “Yes?” “Exactly how long have you and Pierce held an understanding with one another?” Well. I have had moments of dreaded advent in my life. But none that prepared me for the arrival of Islington’s question. We both kept our gazes on Pierce and Hawkes. “A few months now, since we acknowledged, uh, our feelings,” I answered at length, stepping around the words like they were shattered glass.

“This is the third time this year your face has been bruised by fighting. Eccentric, for my poetry-reading vicar. Absolutely appropriate from the leader of The Reprobates Ten. Are you going to make a habit of pummelling and being pummelled?”

“I don’t know how to apologise to you, Emma. What penance do I pay for catching you in my storm?” I wasn’t prepared for such a question. I opened my mouth, closed it again, trying to discern the root of a growing frustration. Pierce took my pause to mean the penance was more than he could pay. “I’d understand,” he said, carefully, “if it is too much for you. If you wish to end—” “Niall Pierce,” I said, “you are so ready for others to throw you away.” I’d meant to be gentle but could not find a way. I was not waving a flag of truce. I was drawing a weapon. But it was for Pierce, not against him. “Did you think,” I asked, “that I was made of such thin metal that I would snap for the past of it all?” He opened his mouth, but either could not or chose not to say the words. Instead, he looked down and released a breath. He stood, placing his hands in his trouser pockets, looking over the expanse where we four have been ridiculously happy together.

I climbed the worn, narrow staircase all the way to the top of the tower. A far more medieval affair than my own—I liked to think of Hawkes in residence here. (One should have a friend who is able to lend a personal tower when visiting.)

It was the gift of distraction, and we all gained benefit. There was a collection of medieval weaponry on display— Lion: “Is that dried blood!” Islington: “It’s rust, Lion.” Lion: “Are you certain?” Islington: “Unless Hawkes has been poaching.” Hawkes: “I rarely poach on Islington’s estate.” Islington: “Rarely?” —among them being two antique foils. “Those two are not secured in place, if you’d like to spar afterward, Lion.” “Henry,” Mariana said, “Miss Lion is wearing a rather nice evening gown.” “I’ve seen Lion avoiding many a ballroom threat in that very gown. She has enough room to move her feet.” “Feel no pressure, Miss Lion, to be made ridiculous at my brother’s request.” “Oh, I would never pass on the chance to run Islington through, no matter how old the foil or how inconvenient the gown.” Mariana, tired I’m sure, said, “I suppose if you phrase it like so.”

Later, as I lay in bed, I thought about the happiness of we four. How tangibles and intangibles held us together. How palpable the reality of life that something might crash through and change everything forever.

I am too tired to be hunted by a line of poetry.

For I was torn open. All was tenuousness and uncertainty. “We don’t even have a portrait!” I found myself spitting out. As if it made contextual sense. “There is no quiet room in which we will be still together. Don’t you see? The four of us? Alchemy ripped asunder with no proof remaining for anyone to know what it was. Or that it even existed to begin with! Who will know that we— Drat and blast!” I sounded like a lunatic but too much had poured into the verbal river. It was rising over the banks and there was nothing for it. The fields would flood. “Most don’t believe in it anyway, the idea that other substances can be transfigured into gold. But we know!” And I swung my gaze like a scythe to where they both stood—somewhat stunned by my outburst painfully delivered exposition. A moment passed. Then two. “He returns Monday, Lion,” Islington said quietly. “Pierce returns Monday. And we four continue.” And I, chest heaving, stood there feeling like all my seams were inside out and frayed. It was difficult to look Islington in the face and take his comfort. I, who had discovered secrets he’d not shared. Who had acquired three young ghosts, knowing almost nothing about them. Who had thrown myself against the torrent of Pierce’s wrath and pulled him to shore. It is not that I am ignorant of the toll of friendship. I am not. Only I wish I knew better how to carry the balance. And then there is Hawkes, whose irksome mystery now feels like a grace, locking me out of a third expend...

“Why would I be angry at Pierce?” I said, as if I wasn’t convincing myself. “What is more pitiable, what would draw more compassion, than what I saw?” “I never said I was speaking about the tragedy of his childhood.” The words cut across my heart just like the light cut across Hawkes. “I’m not angry at Pierce for— You’ve no idea what we’ve… I’m only worried.” “And.” Strange, how it wasn’t a question. But there were words behind the door Hawkes opened. “And he needn’t tell me everything, but burying it in the manner he does is…difficult.” “And.” “And I wish the both of you hadn’t let him drink himself into oblivion in Lockwell.” “And.” “And what if he does not return on Monday because he’s not coping in London without us?” “He has Chambers.” I may have made a sound of disregard. “A small comfort.” “It should be a great comfort,” Hawkes replied. “He has saved Pierce before.” It wasn’t in censure. But as it was in truth, I felt a sharp edge. The cut stung. And I did not know how to ask if Chambers had saved Pierce on the battlefield, from alcohol, or some other way? “And,” Hawkes added, “I sent Chambers a telegram.” Something fell. How else to describe? Something fell from my shoulders and broke against the hard marble of the checkered hall at my feet. Burden, I suppose, would be the name of it. “You did?” “I did. And I go to St. Crispian’s tomorrow morning to give my sermon. Pierce and I will return together.” It was rather dusty in that hall. The housekeeper should pay more...

I was in my nightgown, lying awake, thoughts edging a small, seemingly insignificant place called Nettle, when I heard a knock on the door. Standing, taking three steps to the door, I undid the lock and turned the knob, expecting Isla. There in the darkness stood Hawkes. His cheeks were wind-red, eyes bright in the lamplight coming from the writing desk. He smelled of dusk and woodland and starlight. “Hawkes, have you been out walking?” I whispered. “I have,” he said, as if he were still out of breath. “I’ve just returned. Cake?” Then he lifted his right hand, which held a plate of fine bone china with a fat, tired slice of cake lying on its side. Thrusting it towards me, Hawkes waited for me to take it before he said, “Open your window. A scented breeze fit for Oberon’s court.” Then, “Don’t worry, Emma Lion.”

She owns a house. She runs her household—though that might be calling it a bit too rich as it is the maddest, most wonderful place you’ve ever seen.

“The four of you, the friendship. I saw intimations when the three of you first arrived—an envious camaraderie. But Mr. Pierce arrived and a key turned, the four of you locking into place. I can’t claim to understand, but I can see what you have, Henry. Unexpected.” “Unexpected,” Islington echoed. “And necessary.” “Necessary,” I whispered to myself.

(The lot of the eavesdropper is a heavy one. And as much as I think I enjoy knowing secrets, I’ve decided there is a limit to how much I actually wish to know.)

“Once I have a wife, neither of you will have the right to utter a single word regarding the decoration of Stonecrop. I should marry just to spite you both.” “Please do!” the sisters said in unison.

I have been sitting atop my tower attempting to distill my many days in this place down to its essence. And am I changed because of it? There is a freedom in my body. It is so very familiar, yet long abandoned for the mandates of adulthood—womanhood, I should say. While I am under no illusions (nor is anyone else of my acquaintance) that I am the ideal execution of what a woman ought to be, I still feel like I’ve tucked my wings against myself too often. Curtailed? Perhaps trimmed? My mother had once said something or other about the necessity of this. But sitting in this high tower, the breeze cooling the sweat on my skin, I have two questions. When is it necessary? When is it not? These long days out of doors feel like coming home to a place to which I’ve always held the key, but was told it should be put away. But, oh! There has been sovereignty of self in this place—of body, of spirit, of the intangible magic which sews the two together. To shout and run. To lie in tall grasses and watch the wind play the sunlight both true and false. To feel the building threat of rain and watch it crash to earth from the tenuous safety beneath a tree rather than from behind a window. I am, I suppose, satiating a long drought. My childhood soul has been left too long abandoned. How do I best find it in London? At times I feel my body has betrayed the girl I was, growing past the lithe limbs hewn in independence. We are to be fit for the purposes of adulthood, I know this. Childhood an...

As for our final evening on the hill, I count myself in nothing else so happy, as in a soul remembering my good friends. And perhaps, Fount, tree and shed are gone, I know not whither, But in one quiet room we three are still together. But on one quiet hill we four are still together.

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

I have spent an hour sitting, staring at nothing—aware that there is a steadiness beneath my feet. Tangible as the desk on which I’ve set my hands. I remember the charred wood, the force of the rain, the never-ending night. And then the impossible: hope. Profound, peaceful hope. Lifting a finger to the crevice in the wall, I knew. I knew that I would give the hope to Pierce, if I could. Every golden coin of it. I’ve taken the folded fortune from the back of my desk drawer and find I’m no longer afraid of what it could mean, or what it mightn’t. I am neither looking for Pierce inside the words, nor am I afraid of finding him there. As for its meaning? I can’t say. Meaning is the question wise men have asked through all the ages.

IT’S PAST THREE IN THE MORNING. Ah, I see I’ve been carried away. DARE I ASK? Shakespeare. With the intoxicant of intangible happiness incompatible with sleep. ONE CAN’T ARGUE WITH INTANGIBLE HAPPINESS. No, indeed. Pierce? “Fast asleep? It is no matter; Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber.”