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

by Beth Brower

“Miss Lion, I take this opportunity to tell you that I know somewhat of your situation. Your cousin—” “Archibald?” “Yes. He does not often come to Sunday service, but for some reason, he believes the Anglican church has a confession.” “How very Catholic of him.” Hawkes’s smile was like the flicker of a candle. “Yes. And I honour it. I’ve even set up a booth in a back office for his use.”

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.

I was rereading act three from The Tempest, sitting at my desk with a cup of tea, my windows flung open, when I heard The Tenant enter his garret. He walked through the room, opening drawers, fussing—as if looking for a particular item—then the sound of his footsteps led to the west garret. Upon his return, he uttered something that sounded like a curse but which the wall will neither confirm nor deny. Afterward, he sat down at his desk, which is, from what I can deduce, on the exact opposite side of the wall from mine. What a pair of tragic souls are we, scribbling away in our respective garrets. 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.

Then Roland laughed. He sounded quite abominably human. “It is good to see you, Emma. Here you are glaring at me with those very same green eyes, but no longer a child’s face. I find you’ve become quite lovely, with your dimpled chin. And your voice I adore. When did you stop sounding like a mouse and rather like Athena?” “Roland, you goat. You might simply say, ‘It’s nice to see you, Emma. We survived many a summer together despite our efforts to kill each other off.’ There. You may skip the insincere flatteries.”

I loathe Roland Sutherland. But I worry I might come to tolerate him.

Having seen to my correspondence, I went downstairs to spend some time in thoughtful prayer while attempting to pick the lock to the library.

“Divide it how you will, Miss Lion, but do not exceed thirty and two pounds betwixt the two. Moving on.” And moving on we did. But not before I smiled at hearing the word betwixt spoken aloud. Betwixt. Betwixt. I digress.

“That is amusing, what you said about the cobbler,” he said after our pot had been refilled. His deep voice spread the words out evenly, like jam on a piece of bread. “I feel as if I have moved into a story book.” “I could not have said it better. The perfect description of St. Crispian’s.”

“You will think me devoid of all manners, talking of such things. I admit to running counter to most social graces, but I do not make public emotional displays, at least not those found in tears. I have been accused of throwing a teapot before, as you will no doubt hear before too long.” He shifted, leaning his elbow on the arm of the chair and resting his chin in the palm of his hand in the same movement. He did not look old, but he looked worn. “I thought you devoid of all manners when you replied to my note through the wall. It doesn’t follow I disapproved.”

The music was very good. Not that it was noticed. Balls are amusing for this very reason. Everyone comments on the gowns, the crush, the ladies, the gentlemen. Nobody ever mentions the music. Well, I enjoy the music. I am fond of finding a corner concealed by a palm and listening to the musicians play a beautiful waltz. And when one’s hiding place has been discovered by a tall giraffe of extreme proportions, there is always a library with which to keep company. As was the case last night. I found myself, with the help of an obliging footman, hiding from Charles Goddard in the library, opening the first book I could pull from the shelf. Pliny. The Elder, not the Younger. Having read neither, I decided that the Elder was a prudent place to start.

The lines around his eyes creased as he considered the open book, as if to enquire what I could possibly be reading at this hour of the night. “Pliny,” I stated aloud. There was a faint register of surprise on his face, which must have been the catalyst for me expounding. “Pliny the Elder, that is, friend of the emperor Vespasian.” “I would not have thought one would be ensconced in a library during a ball for Pliny the Younger,” he answered.

“I am glad to hear it,” said I. “Now, Cousin, we need to speak regarding Parian’s wages.” Archibald’s lips formed the habitual sneer, but I steeled my expression. “If he is to remain here, his wages must be reduced so Agnes can be paid for all the work she does.” “Parian is an invaluable asset to Lapis Lazuli House!” Unfortunately, Parian chose that auspicious moment to enter the drawing room with a half-eaten custard tart—custard dribbling down his chin—and an opened bottle of wine. Upon seeing us, his eyes widened. The retreat was swift.

I enjoy company, but I enjoy solitude, with space to walk and think and read—however slack my self-education at present. I enjoy freedom, I suppose. And St. Crispian’s offers this. Both with familiarity and anonymity.

“Mr. Pierce,” I said. Beside him, I felt smaller than I do with most people. True to form, I vocalized a version of the thought before thinking through to the end, a habit I must break with. “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.”

I felt the guilt of having slandered Cousin Archibald through insinuation and realised it would take more of an explanation. If one is to be slandered, it should be in the broad daylight of more than one sentence. “My father’s aunt, whose namesake I am, was Mr. Flat’s fiancée. She died three weeks after their marriage.” “Tragic.” “Is it? I mean, yes. Yes, it is. Of course. Unless one’s intended is an absolute fool.”

“You are the most singular woman I have ever met, and I have met quite a few.” I could feel the flush in my cheeks and took a swallow of port, only to find myself coughing a great deal. I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so strong. Aunt Eugenia only lets me drink the aforementioned sloe gin. “I don’t understand why,” I finally answered. “I’m the most normal person in this house.”

“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.”

Emma M. Lion may enjoy the unexpected, but Emma M. Lion does not participate in episodes.

I wore my deep green gown, a brilliant maneuver, for her long drapes flanking the windows were a similar shade. I could retreat into perfect obscurity whenever I wished.

“I’ll meet you on the balcony. It’s the safest place. Aunt Eugenia doesn’t believe in balconies. She thinks they make light of the law of gravity.”

“Please tell me you are having great internal sport at my expense just now.” “I am, Miss Lion,” he answered serenely. “More than I could appropriately convey, being a man of the cloth.”

I believe it is now I who must go see Young Hawkes to confess a sin. My sin being that I was up nearly the entire night reading.

“Forgive me, Young Hawkes, for I have sinned.” “We’re not really Catholic, Miss Lion.” “Yes. But for the sake of relieving my guilt, let’s say we are.” Sigh. “What have you done now?”

I know who wrote the journal. It was such an appalling discovery that I covered my mirror with crepe so as not to come face to face with myself. Emma M. Lion, you are a scoundrel of the first order, and every order after.

Having neither seen nor spoken with Mr. Pierce since The Great Debacle, I was beginning to worry that when we promised we would be friends, it meant he would try not to commit us all to the madhouse.

“If I cannot worship in a majestic building, I have no interest in the practice,” she snipped. Which I assume is not a direct quote from the New Testament.

“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.” To which I answered, “Do. For every other entry is a fairly robust defamation of mine.” And unbelievably, the cool exterior cracked. He almost smiled, I swear it.

I hit him. I took one of the volumes and hit him soundly on the head. (That makes the third man in fewer months I have assaulted with a book.)

“That was the maddest thing I’ve ever witnessed,” I told him as we were crossing through a field. “You do realise I can never show myself to that woman again?” “Once she’s had her tea, everything will be fine.” “Jack, as much as I admire your English belief that tea really can solve anything, I don’t think it will counter what we’ve just put her through.” “The tea? Of course not. But while we were there, I slipped a dash of powder into her teapot which causes mild hallucinations.

That degenerated quickly 😂

I was just about to go into the back garden, sit in the shade, and eat a tremendous amount of pastries with a late afternoon tea. If you squint, the weeds look like flowers.

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