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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.
“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.
I walked the remainder of the way home with a dangerous mixture of wonder and vengeance. If Cousin Archibald weren’t still visiting his sister Matilde, I would add murder to my black tally. Let us see how he would confess anything then. But as he is not presently in London, I will simply think slanderous thoughts.
“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.”
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’m
already cackling.
Upon his return, he uttered something that sounded like a curse but which the wall will neither confirm nor deny.
One is not often presented with moments of intrigue. Yet, there it was.
Tea was uninspiring. I refuse to immortalize it in my journal.
A rule instituted by the previously mentioned lunatic.
am not callous regarding the death of any living thing, but when the vicar delivered me to the house of Lord Braithwaite a week after the death of my mother—only eleven months after the death of my father—he left me a list of instructions rather than condolence, much in the way Aunt Eugenia does. I was to be amiable. I was to be kind. I was to be understanding, as she had experienced a Great Loss. I was not to be sullen. I was not to be a martyr. Finally, to put the very painful nail in the coffin, I was not to wear my black dress because it would make Victoria feel melancholy. Thus, I was
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It so happens I keep with deathbed forgiveness as a rule. Lucky for him.
His response was to smile like a Greek god, an inordinate amount of power for a young man to have.
After she left and I closed the door, I returned my gaze to the creature. “You have lovely eyes,” I said, assuming that flattery was a safe course when engaging with this aristocrat of the animal kingdom. He blinked and looked away like a mythical beast.
I recognise my question as rude and forward, but you must admit the skeleton deserves fleshing out.
Men are not the excellent gossips women are. Alas.
“Mother is doing all the work. She’s finding only men with grand fortunes and more than two houses, whose parents are tolerable. She won’t allow for a drunkard or a family history of insanity, neither will she make him too old unless the probability of his imminent death is quite high. Why should I bother with any more than that?”
What I said aloud was, “I hardly need the woman without a heart to counsel me on how to manage mine.” At this, Arabella’s lips returned to their smile, and she leaned back. “But we are the best ones to do it, Emma. Trust only those not affected by love to judge with clarity.”
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.
“But she is also our cook, Mr. Penury, and is regularly run to the ground. They should at least receive equal pay, and even that strikes me as scandalously unfair.” “Divide it how you will, Miss Lion, but do not exceed thirty and two pounds betwixt the two. Moving on.”
One would think he had been hiding from cannibals, he looked so uncomfortable.
So it was that I became the angel guide for our lost Dante, as Mr. Pierce’s expression looked very much like he was descending into Hell. To be fair, The Keep is all dark wood paneling and dusty windows, though certainly not equal to the realms of the dead.
The relief on his face was like a break in the storm.
The dead aren’t too particular about the company they keep, in any measure.”
His deep voice spread the words out evenly, like jam on a piece of bread.
And the way he adjusted himself in his seat, looking down and then away, he seemed to be apologising for his own existence.
I asked, and curse me if my words didn’t end on a high note and wobble onto the table between us. Emma M. Lion does not wobble in public. And yet, there I was. Losing composure in the corner of the Reed and Rite with a near stranger. I still cannot think of it without wanting to scratch my skin off. So swift a move it was almost unnoticeable, he handed me his handkerchief—in case the unsteady voice led to less desirable things.
laughed. And clouds that I hadn’t realised had darkened the street outside the window parted, spilling sunshine onto the tea things between us. As much as this tea would Not Be Approved Of under polite circumstance, it was such a warm, human moment.
“Was he a brother?” he asked. “A friend,” was my reply, hating how thin the word friend could sound when trying to cover something far more. “It is not something I speak of.” “I don’t speak of most things, but I have found that war should be spoken of. I even say it must be.” “Why?” I challenged. “When it is so painful? So cruel?” “So we may end it.” “Does speaking end anything?”
Today I went to church and heard not a word. I returned home and tried to read, first Isaiah then As You Like It. Between the Bible and Shakespeare one assumes there would be something to catch one’s attention. I could not manage to get beyond the first page of either.
USE THE WORD THEORY IF YOU CAN. MEN WHO THINK THEY KNOW A GREAT DEAL FIND SATISFACTION FROM THE WORD.
I looked up to see a man close the door behind him, pull his pocket watch from his waistcoat, mark the time, then run a hand down his handsome face as if very tired. It was the most graceful show of social weariness I’ve ever been witness to.
The mortification I cause myself. Why I felt the need to explain my situation, I’ll never know.
I did not feel well when I awoke at dawn, and it was difficult to rouse myself and dress for the day. Nevertheless, I prevailed.
When he saw me crossing the street, he waited. And I had the sensation of preparing myself against something I would very much enjoy. Like walking against the wind.
True to form, I vocalized a version of the thought before thinking through to the end, a habit I must break with.
And thus I am schooled in the truth that what one Thinks one might Say.
And with the convenience of the novel having been printed in three volumes to begin with, many girls read simultaneously. There was always the hazard that one would begin on the heels of a Slow Reader, the wait causing immense pain, but as soon as the desired volume was in one’s hand and there was a stub of candle remaining to read by, all was forgiven.
It was an unmitigated thrill—the book, not the smile—to feel the heft of it in my hands. I caressed it lovingly until Roland cried foul. “Open the wrapping, Emma. If you keep making love to it without even knowing what it is, I’m going to kick you off into the street.”
According to Wisdom, one ought to let sleeping dogs lie. When I was a child, I thought this meant not requiring them to tell the truth. And while I do agree that, if one must choose, honest hounds are best, it is actually a reference for leaving matters alone.
He was sharply dressed in a blackest-of-all-black suit with a clean, crisp white shirt. 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. Having never encountered a man like Mr. Pierce at Fortitude, and having never seen a man quite conquer a sofa with such ease during tea at Aunt Eugenia’s, I was duly impressed. Mr. Pierce,
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Mr. Pierce was past me and into the dark room in a moment, and it felt like a force of nature come to battle the demon.
We sat a long while saying nothing. I had given up my forbidden fruit, but Mr. Pierce was slowly enjoying his port, watching the fire, occasionally rubbing his eyes. He is not a gentleman, for he makes himself too comfortable, too able to forge his own attitude. I blame this excessive confidence on the Americans. I also believe I like it.
As I sat there, it was useless to deny that I was thinking of how swiftly he entered the salon. No fear, no trepidation. No pausing to question. Only action.
An awkward request in any setting, enquiring what the local ghost may or may not have said about oneself. I floundered a moment before deciding cowardice was the best course of action.
“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. And last night rather felt like one.
While looking in the mirror, I carried out an assessment. I look young but not ignorant. I look important only to few. Certainly not like the most singular woman someone has ever met. The fact of the matter is, I don’t wish to be.
Aunt Eugenia doesn’t believe in balconies. She thinks they make light of the law of gravity.”
Hearing grown men talk so casually about gambling away a veritable fortune was, well, maddening. It also made me wonder if I ought to marry Roland.
