The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 2

by Beth Brower

One thing that can be said about Lady Eugenia Spencer is that while she will rearrange your life, it is never behind closed doors. You are invited to view the machinations. Even if it is only to gain a perfect knowledge of your own demise. My father would use a term that ran in the pugilistic circles. “You must be fighting fit, Emma, whatever else. Most of life is the ability to be ready for what comes your way.”

Your cousin confesses his sins first, and then he confesses yours—a much longer list—after which he pushes aside the curtain so I might reassess the scar on his forehead.” “He confesses my what?” “Have no fear, Miss Lion”––and Hawkes quirked an eyebrow upward––“you’ve become one of my favourite members of the parish.

Your sins are simply marvellous. Well, a good morning to you.”

“Are you referring to the clothes or my person?” “Both. Burn the clothes and reform the character. Promptly.” To which I couldn’t help but respond, “Ah, but here is some of the progress you so desire, Aunt. In the past, they would have burned the witches and reformed the clothes.” I could almost swear she was trying not to smile when she said, “Drink your tea, eat your scone, and away with you.”

I heard the sound of his chair scrape against the wood, and then something occurred that I wasn’t expecting. Through the two loose boards just to the left of my desk, where the light comes through, came a folded piece of paper. One is not often presented with moments of intrigue. Yet, there it was. I waited a good minute before lifting my hand and pulling it from the wall. The note read, WE

HAVE MICE. I stared at his scrawl. Having never met anyone in this particular way, I was uncertain of proper through-the-wall etiquette. After a moment’s contemplation, I found some writing paper in my desk drawer and tore off a small piece. We do. Not wanting to appear as if I was compliant with the situation, I tore another slip of paper and added, I’ve tried everything.

Folding the missives, I pushed them partially through the crack in the wall and waited. They disappeared, and then I could hear The Tenant scribbling. When another note appeared, I pulled it the rest of the way through the wall. EVERYTHING? To which I replied, Traps, poison, stuffing of holes, and—upon the prompting of my maid—filling a bottle with crumbs in an effort to lure them inside, stuff them fat, and take them to the garden to be smashed.

Our rodents proved too sophisticated for such a scheme. Alas. Folding the note, I slid it back through the wall. After a count of ten, there was a laugh on the other side and another communication. MIGHT I PROVIDE A SURE-FIRE WAY FOR THE HANDLING OF OUR DILEMMA?

Please do. With the exception of burning Lapis Lazuli House to the ground, you may try anything. He did not respond. It was all very Pyramus and Thisbe. Perhaps I won’t be mending the crack after all.

“I will go from being a girl who looks like she needs charity to being a girl who looks like she’s received charity.”

Tea was uninspiring. I refuse to immortalize it in my journal.

“This Season won’t be too tragic an affair, even for you.” I made a sound of disapproval. “I blame your lovely Irish father for your behaviour,” she replied. “I blame him for a great many things,” I sighed. “Dying being one of them.”

“I have a house, Arabella.” “You don’t really. You should send the old man on his way.” “I should,” I said with little conviction, “but my father asked me not to.” “Well, I blame him for that as well.”

“So do I.”

Having seen to my correspondence, I went downstairs to spend some time in thoughtful prayer while attempting to pick the lock to the library. My prayers went up in vain as the door did not budge. Perhaps I ought not to have laughed so much in church.

Men are not the excellent gossips women are. Alas.

Miss Lamb has instituted mandatory evenings in the parlour where our virtues might be honed. I have knitted you two scarfs while listening to The Pilgrim’s Progress. Don’t wear them or you will feel my bored grief in every stitch and purl.”

“If you were any of the other girls I know, I would warn you to be on your guard.” “Oh?” I asked, stopping. “But as I am not?” Then came Roland’s smile. “St. George is not the only one who can slay a dragon, Emma Lion. I’ve seen you wield a sword.” It was, perhaps, the most wonderful compliment I’ve ever been paid. I intend to keep Roland.

“Put everything you earn in this account. Be creative. Be bold. Then we shall see where you stand. It is impossible, but impossible has been done before.”

All the while, Arabella was laughing in the background for my pains. I weep.

FAR BE IT FROM ME TO PRY INTO YOUR PERSONAL BUSINESS, BUT ARE YOU CERTAIN THIS IS A MAN YOU WISH TO IMPRESS? I laughed.

THE VERY LITTLE I KNOW ABOUT YOUR LIFE EXHAUSTS ME.

“Pliny wishes you well,” I replied. “Pliny is too concerned with natural phenomena to care about my evening’s entertainments.”

I sniffed. “Your school taught you a good deal more than needlepoint.” With an answering smile, he left.

Dinner was exclusively stupid.

“You are, I believe, the tallest of my acquaintances save one. Charles Goddard has a good hand on you, but he is gangly and unattractive whereas you are…not. What I mean to say is— Yes, well. The Diagonal is quite crowded today. Are you going home? So am I.”

Why do you reside in the garret? BECAUSE ALL THE OTHER ROOMS ARE THE SIZE OF A POSTAGE STAMP.

ALSO, I ENJOY THE VIEW. As do I.

I am not one for superstition, as is Agnes… That is a lie and I strike it from the record.

His dark hair was more ordered than I had seen it before. And he leaned back, setting his portfolio beside him and letting one arm extend across the back of the sofa while the other rested on the sofa’s arm, his hand lifted so he could just rest his knuckles against his temple. It was all very masculine and laissez-faire.

“Mr. Pierce,” I said, “I have found that on occasions of high absurdity, one either discovers a great friend or someone to never speak with again. Having now experienced a disastrous evening in Lapis Lazuli House, I leave it to you to decide which you would prefer.” Hat in hand, fussing with it as he looked across the street, he took the stairs slowly, and only looked up at me once he was on the pavement. “Friends,” he answered, adding, “if I do not frighten you.” “Friends,” I repeated. “Goodnight. Thank you for the photograph.”

but you are seen more than you believe.” “The moon to Arabella’s sun?” Roland flashed his golden smile. “I like the moonlight.”

Dancing with Roland was like wearing quality silk or eating a creamy confection. Smooth and indulgent. I made him swear he would waltz with me at every ball for the rest of our lives. “Happily. You see me. Not many do.”

“Roland, you goat, everybody sees you. Arabella may be Aphrodite,...

“If my journal ever does find itself in your possession,” I retorted, “you may be certain to encounter yourself referenced in an unflattering light.” “I look forward to the defamation of my character beneath your hand.”

There it was again. Ah. It was not a This is a quality card ah. Nor a Now I know who you are ah. No. It was an I should have known ah. Never trust a man who can say so many things with a single syllable.

“Mary,” I said, lifting the binoculars once again to my eyes, “this specimen before you is called the Duke of Islington, a fellow resident of St. Crispian’s. Do not make the mistake of thinking him a friendly specie, however very English he may be. Duke, I introduce Miss Mary Bairrage, my co-conspirator in all things.”

So you see, Miss Bairrage, Miss Lion and I share every confidence, whether we want to or not.” “The dearest of friends,” I answered in flat humour. “Aren’t you supposed to be in a crypt somewhere, for your sins?” Islington asked in a ducal tone. “They evicted me,” I snapped. “Who?” “The dead.”

“I am not a Jane Eyre,” he answered, showing that he did. And then came his refusal. Or so I had hoped. “I am afraid, Miss Bairrage, that…” He hesitated, glanced my way, and then answered, “I would be most honoured to witness such an occasion, if Miss Lion would second your kind invitation.”

Mary elbowed me, and I—frowning—lifted the binoculars and studied his face through them. “I suppose we might allow an Islington into Lapis Lazuli House. If he gets unruly, we can put him in a cage.”

“If we feed him well, surely he’ll behave,” Mary answered, her words sounding like they were stepping around ...

“Islingtons have very good hearing,” said the duke. He came back down the path, glancing at his pocket watch—the very same which featured in our first meeting—and said with a great deal of dignified challenge, “And we cannot be caged, Miss Lion. Do your worst.” “I thought you believed I already had?” To which he considered me a moment through half-lidded eyes. ...

“Goodness,” I said, glancing at Islington. “Do you often have that effect on women?”

“Only on young Scottish cooks. Apparently.” “Don’t go north, then,” Mary said. “You’ll throw every house into an uproar.”

At one point he looked up and said, “Did you pack the sandwiches, darling?” To which I responded, “Oh, pudding, I thought you were going to treat us to an early luncheon at the Rose and Eagle? I had so set my heart on it.” It was then Jack’s professional glaze showed the faintest crack. His smile flickered on and off his face three times in half a second. He tilted his head forward, looked over his glasses, and said, “Pudding?” To which I answered, “Terms of endearment can be quite particular to the couple, don’t you think?” A Jack gleam flashed in his eye. “They certainly are, my sugar plum fairy.”

It was at this juncture that mariticide was almost committed in the Rose and Eagle.

“Come along, sweetmeat,” he said. “Let’s see if Mrs. Wade is in her rooms.”

“The hound is simply worried that the rabbit might be in danger from a fox?” Islington answered with a different version of his mock smile; one, alas, that betrayed a genuine humour. “You enjoyed my Rabbit Room, then?” “Yes, and no. I don’t like feeling the prey.” “I have had many rabbits in my Rabbit Room, Miss Lion. Alas, you have not been one of them.” And with that, he excused himself and was gone. Well.

Our conversation was very June and very Afternoon, meaning it meandered like a honey bee.