The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion #1

by Beth Brower

Lapis Lazuli House in the neighbourhood of St. Crispian’s, London.

He’s not only thin in person, he’s thin in humour and spirit and character.

And across the bridge of my nose? A constellation of freckles. “They will fade when you are older,” Mother had said. “I hope not,” Father had called from across the room, bent over an illustration. “‘Twould be a pity for Emma to lose that bit of magic, now wouldn’t it?”

I look in this mirror and recognise myself less now than when I was a child. I suppose that happens when you’ve grown up and still don’t understand your place in the world.

I myself cannot boast personal acquaintance, as I am a stumble or two below their lofty class, but in a place like London, one always knows of the most important people living nearby. You can’t help it. Gossip is as catching as the plague ever was.

A rigid practice in avoidance might be endurable for the present,

In regard to finances that one does not possess but is owed, I believe in being cavalier as a general rule of thumb. Act for one’s own good or be crushed by the uncertainties of the future, is the motto I live by.

This vulgar reality was the trick. He sprang to his feet and informed me the house would be happy to supply the paint, and did I need brushes as well?

It is not that he is a hermit, or narcissistic, or odd—he simply maintains an economy of interaction that is spare in its elegance.

When he came into my room—for I was not invited downstairs—he made certain to sit by the window, with just enough light falling upon his face so that it might be clearly seen. It was very Dutch Painter of him. I almost suggested we hold a séance and call up Vermeer.

“It’s…colourful,” Agnes said. I agreed. “My mother would have approved.”

“No, Agnes, she was not a Turk, but she loved bright colours, and always said it was her inheritance from her Portuguese mother.”

It represents regret and hope, this bookshelf. It is folly and experience.

Five empty shelves staring at you is a daunting thing, so I stood up, took Paradise Lost from the desk, and set it on the left side of the top shelf. Its brown leather spine has a stripe of deep red across it. Milton looks ready and willing and able to occupy the shelf alone until I can find him some companions. I appreciate his generosity. I truly do.

I don’t begrudge the situation. It would be abhorrent to fling someone’s spouse out into the world. But it’s done all the time when it is a woman.

I think tomorrow will be better.

them. I enjoy the midmorning foray. I wake up, read, study, fuss over a few things, and then break out into the weather. It is good. Very good. But my true love is the evening walk, that last hour of daylight that has its way with sunlight, shadow, and soul.

That was the case this evening. The lamps were lit, light coming from the houses, and there walked I, alone, and not upset to be so.

I said, sounding far more educated on the subject than I really am.

Nothing good will come of a cousin named Jack, fictional or otherwise.

It was difficult, when Father died, to see the forest for the trees. I was only thirteen and—with Mother suffering the final stages of consumption—on the cold edge of being an orphan. She followed him to the grave not long after, and there I was, on my own and responsible for my entire life.

Granted, Aunt Eugenia was my guardian, but she was in Vienna with her husband on a diplomatic post and found my mother’s death ill-timed. A thing with which I wholeheartedly agreed.

Lady Eugenia Spencer is a wonder of this world. She is her own Parthenon.

“Do you refer to Lapis Lazuli House or my cousin?” “Upon you mentioning a distinction, I admit to never having considered them separate entities. When he dies, you will have to call an exorcist to separate the two.” I laughed.

“Hmm. Do you realise, Emma, how unflattering your hair is, arranged like so?” “No, Aunt. Thank you for enlightening me.”

It is no surprise with her hair of angel gold, resting like a crown above her fair skin and blue eyes—well, few young men can encounter a goddess and not reserve a place for her in their hearts.

She sniffed, trying to decide what she thought of what I’d just said. Insult or compliment? I watched the decision hang in the balance, but then her right eye narrowed. Good, I thought. Insult. She’s much more tolerable in such conditions. When slighted, Aunt Eugenia blooms.

brought my teacup up to my lips. “So, This Season, is merely This Season. Or rather The Season, no italics.” “Did you capitalize the word This in your mind?” she asked shrewdly. “I did. Capital T and capital S.” Lady Eugenia nodded her head approvingly. She believes one ought always to capitalize the essentials.

“You are to be the Foil, the Cousin, the Spy.” “The spy?” “No. The Spy.” “Capital S?” “Of course,” she snapped. “With italics. This is important, Emma. There’s no sense in dealing in improper nouns without emphasis.”

“Madame Tasset is The Best. Arabella is to be a picture. And you…” “The complementary but unobtrusive picture frame.” A most pleased look crossed her face. “Indeed, Emma.”

She is independent, intelligent, unafraid to speak her mind, and thirty-six years of age—which qualifies her not only to chaperone, but to move about as freely as a widow, only without the bother of having to outlive a husband.

The Reason Being I am doubly cursed. My tongue is quick while my reading is moderate, tempered, erring on the more laborious of paces.

This shook me loose, and I bitterly threw a line of Milton at his face. “So spake the apostate Angel.” It was, looking back, a poor choice of words. “What? What-what?!” shouted he. “Are you comparing me to that infernal fiend of the fiery pit?” Apparently Cousin Archibald has also studied Milton.

Heaven forbid I wear anything considered to be a folly.

It will be elegant but not claim attention, and you will look very thoughtful and intelligent. Let us hope you are. Unless you hope to marry soon. Then let us hope you are not. It takes a courageous man to marry a woman with a mind.”

I replied saying, Cream and gold, Aunt. By any chance could you have a lion embossed on one side? It might aid in the Illusion of Importance. The word choice was particular. Could is a challenge. Would is a favour. One might easily guess which would call Lady Eugenia Spencer to arms.

The Tempest, with an illustration of Prospero and Miranda, Ariel whispering in his ear. This is where I will begin, on an enchanted island free from the worries of this world.

People say they are glad they never knew their last moment together. Oh, but I wish I’d known it then.

While there are many things beyond our control, I’ve always thought the cruellest is that we mortals are not told when our last glance is just that.

I almost went to sleep without lighting a candle for Father, the letter heavy on my mind. But just before bed I remembered, and am now curled up on the window seat with my burning candle, the window open to the spring night, believing there must be worse sorrows than losing my mother and my father, and the only boy who ever made up a beating part of my heart. Only I can’t think of any.

I sounded more confident than I felt; one of the great secrets to life.

Perhaps that is what I feel about my precarious place in life. Be patient, says every voice of reason. When the sea is! I wish to yell back. Until my world feels solid beneath my feet, my life feels attacked by the rush and tumble of every uncertain wave.

My gallant knight, off to fight the dragon so as to ensure he wouldn’t end up on the street. It’s inspiring to see how much concern he has for recovering my owed money when he needs it to live on.

heard a voice ask, “Can I help you?” just as Agnes closed her eyes and thrust the plate towards him. “I made extra biscuits and we brought you some because you must be a nice kind of man no matter what The Roman said so I hope you enjoy them and I’ll see you again but not tomorrow because I’m going to Piccadilly Circus.” Then she finally took a breath.

It was against human capacity not to laugh at such a display. It burst from me and rang off the building against the street.

“The seaside,” she sighed. “Sounds lovely. Could have taken us all.” Then she looked over at me and said, “Miss Lion, your eyes are like the seaside. Sea green and lovely as the day. I’ve never seen them on anyone else, your father excepting. I wonder where he got them.” “A shop in Dublin, most likely.” “Cheeky girl.”