The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 4

by Beth Brower

A wonderful doctor, Fairchild. But I do feel that he’s released something horrible into the world.

“You could never do such a thing, Emma,” proclaimed Mary. “And neither could I. We’re both far too committed to hearing our own opinions.”

“Is he as you imagined?” “A good deal more.” She smiled, then let the curtain drop and looked at me. “I approve. I could be happy staring at such a husband. You should marry him. We can spend our shooting weekends staring at your husband while mine pays the bill.” “That is a terrible thing to say, Arabella.” “Terrible? Here I was thinking it was rather practical.”

Sometimes clients. Sometimes potential clients.” His sharp smile was like the edge of a broken bottle. “Sometimes Emma Lion, strange one that she is.” “Strange!” “It’s a compliment.” “Is it?” “Yes,” he insisted evenly. “How?” I challenged. “Strange is nice.” “Is it?” I repeated. Pierce gave his head a single shake. “Strange is that unexpected moment that stays with you, that makes you think about it again. Strange is memorable, and compelling.” I lifted an eyebrow. “Strange means odd, or bizarre.”

“Perhaps we have different internal dictionaries.” “Most certainly.” He laughed. And then so did I. Yes. September will do nicely.

I heard a woman mutter a prayer afterward that asked heaven to cause whatever calamity necessary to keep Young Hawkes at our parish, to which I bowed my head and whispered, “Amen.”

Cousin Archibald’s leg is bothering him. He sits on the stairs in the hall and rails against humanity. It makes me like humanity all the more. And Cousin Archibald less.

“You’re not half so bad once you get dolled up a bit, love.” Clearly the epitaph on my future gravestone. Emma M. Lion RIP Not Half So Bad Once Dolled Up

“Excuse me, governor?” It was, without a doubt, the most humiliating moment of my life.

“My apologies,” he said. “The fault is mine,” I replied. And then he turned around. Our eyes met. His widened. “What in the name of—” I had run directly into the Duke of Islington.

“This is not what it appears to be.” We sounded like school children caught out. Hawkes switched his book from beneath one arm to the other. Then, with his hands restored to his pockets, he leaned his shoulders forward against some invisible wind. “It appears Miss Lion has been participating in some dancing performance of one sort or another and that Islington is not pleased with the idea.” He then considered both of us with a solemn expression. “Have I read the situation correctly?” I snorted, and Islington glared at me.

Young Hawkes was unfazed. “We all find ourselves in unusual circumstances from time to time.” “Yes, well, Miss Lion has outdone herself tonight, as you can see.” “I am not a child under your censure, Islington.” “Your behaviour might suggest otherwise.” “Manhandling me right out of The Drunken Duck doesn’t bode well for your own maturity.” Hawkes blinked. “Islington has appointed himself my guardian angel,” I told Young Hawkes. “Which certainly means misery for us all.”

Hawkes looked at me directly, then said with no discoverable humour, “I like the birds.” I took a deep breath. “Thank you!”

“I don’t recall having seen you here before,” I asked accused in greeting. “Are you a church-going man?”

“I am as it suits,” he answered. “Usually I listen from Hawkes’s study. Are you a church-going woman?” “Nearly every Sunday.” I spoke in the most holy tone I could manage. “Still waiting for it to take effect, I see.” I very nearly pinched him.

“And what do we find? The Christ draws his finger through the dust of the street and then invites any who has no sin to cast the first stone. There is silence, uncomfortable and unexpected. One by one, those standing in accusation leave the woman to address her Lord in private. He will settle accounts with her. He will speak on matters referring to The Drunken Duck. “But for our purposes today, we will not stay with Lord Jesus and the dancer. I trust he will sort her out and offer the needed counsel, as recorded in John chapter eight. Let us instead look at the man of influence. He who

was given leave to stone our dancer—be that literally or symbolically—only if he himself carried no sin. Let us follow this man away from the dusty Jerusalem square, down the side streets leading to his comfortable home, his privileged situation. The Christ did not appoint this man to be our dancer’s judge. No, he asked the man to look inward at his own heart. This duke who wished to cry foul at the mote in the eye of another has failed to see the beam in his own. This man is all of us. “In an effort to aid our own spiritual progression, I have selected fifty-three verses of scripture we, the proverbial duke, might take to heart; a way

Shall we begin?” And begin he did. Young Hawkes marched through fifty-three verses on everything from the hypocrisy of the whited tomb to the Old Testament assurance that the Lord looketh on the heart, and he did not stop until he had discussed each and every one in between. I sat agog, my smile widening with each remark. Islington was silent as the mute statues on Mars Hill. And when it was all over, the hymn sung, the meeting dismissed, I looked over at Islington—sitting stif...

myself for a second verbal assault—began to laugh so loudly everyone remaining in th...

After we left the chapel, he offered apology. A full one. No half job of it. He said the actual words. “I apologise, Miss Lion.” “Well done, you,” I replied. “I overstepped my bounds.” “You did. With more leaps than steps, I’m afraid.”

Dukes do not need three desserts, no matter how graced they are.” Mr. Penury drew his eyebrows together. “Are you being courted by a duke?” I laughed. “Oh no, Mr. Penury! No, not courted. Hounded? Quite. Harangued? Yes. Hassled? Most certainly.”

“You are wise in this thing. However, if the right man should come along, and money looks more like love than one would initially suppose, don’t turn your back on a chance for happiness merely because he has the means to save you.”

It was the most fiscally romantic thing I had ever heard. “Agreed,” I answered.

Miss Lion, Foolish men have been wasting women’s money for years. And our financial system so often gives them the right to do so. I hope you enjoyed the tea, and that Mr. Penury was helpful. Rebecca Penury

Seventeen letters for Pierce today. Shamefully I admit they were placed in the basket.

All this to say that, yes, I insisted on remaining in the dining room for dinner. As did he. I prayed most fervently that our meal would be silent. Aloud. I prayed aloud.

“I see you take after your father in your manner of dressing for dinner,” stated he with a sniff. “My father worked hard, while you did nothing. Are you certain this is the course you wish our conversation to take?”

It bought me three more minutes. And then, “You’ve curdled my entire meal.” “What is there to curdle, Cousin?” “My peas.” “Can one curdle peas? If there was a cream sauce, certainly, but as they are simply paired with unoffending carrots?” “To be curdled is a state of the soul,” answered he. “Do you refer to the permanent state of yours?” quipped I. He threw his spoon at me. I ducked below the table.

It was then decided he would take his dinner at half past seven; I wou...

Then Monday you’ll be home again to your beloved Lapis Lazuli. Or should I say, your lovely Tenant?

Watching him attempting good manners was delightful.

Damian is…not. Really, he’s nothing of the kind. His brown eyes are the uninspired colour of boot leather. His hair a darker version of the same, with the propensity to grow in a flop over his left eye. His face is neither displeasing nor handsome. It simply hovers in an unremarkable place in between. All this until he smiles. Dear me. When Damian Spencer smiles, something only explicable as sorcery happens. He looks like Puck having a merry dance with us mortals; his eyes catch a spark, his hair rebels in a fetching manner, and two mischievous dimples grace his cheeks.

Which is why Damian decided early in his career as a human being that the life of frivoli...

“Duck, Damian?” “The Drunken Duck. Saturday night. Out. Dancing with a”—he moved his hand above his head in a poor imitation of a woman’s coiffure—“a bird’s nest in your hair?” “Imagine my being at The Drunken Duck with a nest in my hair? What would your mother say?” “Are you quite sure? She was so like you. So very like you. I’ve never seen anyone else with just your colour of eyes. And your voice.”

“You’re certain, Emma? About The Duck?” I laughed. He laughed too, but his eyes. They didn’t quite believe me.

Only after I saw Damian out did I notice that Agnes had arranged the nest and their respective birds on the sideboard in the hall. Leading to the question of whether Damian also noticed? I put my hands on my hips, let my head fall in dejection, and whispered several choice things about my luck. Or the lack thereof.

Rain this morning. It smells of Heaven. Or how Heaven would smell, were I in charge.

That doesn’t feel blasphemous, but it sounds as if it might be. Reminder to self: Enquire of Hawkes. Come to think of it, I’ve never looked into the theological record of what canonical scripture supposes the scent of Heaven to be.

Wet earth? Fresh grass? Both of which make up the transcendent aroma of...

Farmyard French. Perhaps I could go work on a farm in Normandy. We (the farmer and myself) would not like one another at first, he being silent and gruff and beautiful. I would toil so that my hands would blister until raw. One day a horrible accident would befall the farmer. I would nurse him back to health and protect his courgettes from the early frost.

Grudgingly, I would earn his respect, which would lead to love just as I had earned enough money to return to London and save Lapis Lazuli. It would break our hearts. But he would send me vegetables every year. And I would send him very bad poetry.

That is, if you still attend?” “Almost every Sunday. You weren’t by chance planning on attending?” I asked, despite knowing she is of a different denomination altogether. Miss March raised an eyebrow. “Having been in Italy, I’m feeling far too Catholic for an Anglican service. Even from Young Hawkes. How is he, by the way? Still alluring as ever?” “Alluring?” “Emma, yes!” I laughed.

Madame Tasset: “Let us begin.” Emma M. Lion: “The corn is ripe in the field.” Madame Tasset: “What?”

breakfast all the time. You sitting beside me, in virginal white—(This was spoken. I lie not. I lie not. I lie not.)—and

Roland and I spent the better part of an hour besting one another in archery this afternoon. It was the one thing we would do together as children that did not end in injury. The same cannot be said for insult. “Would you care to place a wager on this final round?” he asked as we were nearing an end. “What?” “If I win, you have to tell me everything Charles Goddard said to you.” “Ha!”

“And if you win?” “I want a book,” I said, shamelessly setting my stake. Roland toyed with the arrow in his hands. “We’ve been over this Emma. Books carry more value than a simple conversation.” I narrowed my eyes and set my arrow on the nock. “The details of my future wedding breakfast spoke volumes, Roland. The word virginal was used. Twice.” Roland agreed. We shot. I won.

“You’re really going to deny me the details of your wedding breakfast?”

“Roland, I am. Do you wish to know why? Because I cannot remember it after having given birth to a boy, then a boy, then a girl, then a boy, then a girl, then a boy, then a girl, then a girl, then a boy. Then another boy!” “He wants you to have ten children?” “It’s written in the stars, apparently.” “You’ll be exhausted.” “I didn’t say they were my stars, Roland.” He then thwacked me with an arrow and I gave chase.

Dear Lord, Bless Young Hawkes. And keep him. In St. Crispian’s. Forever. Amen.

Meanwhile, I had escaped over a creek, through two miles of woods, and was lying in a field of long grass, reading Emerson. “What a perpetual disappointment is actual society…” To which I can only say, Mr. Emerson, I couldn’t agree more.