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

by Beth Brower

Though the image of Emma M. Lion with a gun in her hands does inspire.

Which makes me think of what Pierce said about Islington’s sister that night by the fountain, that she could shoot through a playing card while riding a horse or something? Dear me. What a boring soul am I.

I love coming home.

WELCOME HOME. Thank you. HOW WAS THE COUNTRY? Dangerous. Very, very dangerous. DANGER FROM MAN, FOWL, OR BEAST?

Man. Although I believe he could be quantified as a fowl. Far too frail for a beast. CONSIDERING HIS ALTERNATE CLASSIFICATION, I ASSUME HE WAS EASILY HANDLED? So I had believed. If one solid stomp on a man’s foot doesn’t dissuade him from trying to clasp a girl’s hand in church, what recourses does she have? HE TRIED TO CLAIM YOUR HAND DURING A CHURCH SERVICE? I fled. With Emerson. We communed in a field of green grass until danger was passed.

WHAT A PROPER TRANSCENDENTALIST YOU’RE PROVING TO BE. What’s a transcende...

“I was hoping to get you something new.” Then an expression of ill wish crept onto his face. “I suppose if you’re going to have all those children, you’ll need something to read on those long nights.

Might as well have a spare copy lying around.”

Is it immoral to marry a man solely to gain a library? And if that man happens to be tremendously good looking, is it more or less of a sin?

Standing on Corner Making Clever Comments to Passersby: My true strength.

Treasurer for a Ladies Aid Society: Embezzlement being the aim.

Marry Roland Sutherland: Looking more acceptable by the day. We both deserve better than a marriage of inconvenience. However, books!

“Have it your way. I expect you to call me Your Grace without exception. It will humble you.” “Islington, don’t be so formal.”

“What did Hawkes speak of today?” I enquired. “The Aeneid.” I bit my lip. Feeling for a moment as if I might cry. Dratted cake.

Islington looked on the verge of laughing. Or at least his eyes did. “Are you teasing me?” I demanded. “I am. He spoke of the ten virgins.” “Ah.” I relaxed back into my chair. “And how did they end?” “The usual. Half in, half out.” “They do seem to repeat the pattern.” “They do.” “No poetry?” “Poetry, yes. But all of Hawkes’s doing. The man’s an oratory marvel.” “He is.”

“I think that only counts in your favour if you were at church.” Lion: “You were my reason for missing! And you hardly ever attend as it is. I’m there nearly every week.” Pierce: “Every week?” Islington: “Don’t worry. It’s done little to improve her character.” Lion (dryly): “Ha ha ha.”

Pierce: “Sorry, I was nodding off.” Lion: “You must be tired.” Pierce: “I didn’t sleep well last night.” Islington: “It’s late. I should be going.” Lion: “You should eat this last piece of cake. It would send Agnes over the moon.”

Islington: “Death by cake. I’m not certain I trust your motives.” Lion: “Virtuous, as very nearly always.” Islington: Opens his mouth, most likely to make some comment regarding The Drunken Duck, looks at Pierce, says nothing. Pierce: “Oh, Emma, er, Miss Lion—” Lion: “I don’t think you need to worry about shocking Islington. There is a dangerous first name basis at Lapis Lazuli House. Beware.” Islington: Lifts an eyebrow. Pierce: “Yes, well, Emma, I d...

Lion: “Oh, yes!” Pierce: “I’ll bring them over. Or slip one through the wall.” Islington: Flicks his eyes from me to Pierce. Lion: “Tybalt has been unwell in the garret twice. Did he eat something?” Islington: Opens his mouth, thinks better of it, says nothing. Pierce: “Not that I know of.” Turning to Islington, “We share the joint venture of a cat. Temporarily.” Islington: “Ah. Tybalt, King of Cats?” Lion: “I’ve long suspected.” Pierce: “To...

Islington: “Do you wish me to finish this cake or not?” Lion: Presses lips toge...

“I see you’ve brought protection, Pierce. Miss Lion, welcome.” Pierce and Islington shook hands. “A good man once spoke of the better angels of our nature. Miss Lion is mine.”

I, uncertain how to apologise for my uninvited appearance, answered archly, “For the amount of history we have, Islington, you are shockingly rude.”

Divine authority of St. Crispian’s. Islington was all smooth manner despite the informality. “I know by the state of your soul, Miss Lion, that you are personally acquainted with Young Hawkes.” Oh, Islington. Such a wit. “I do. Yes, er, I am.” Getting hold of myself, I said, “Hello, Hawkes.”

Hawkes did not look surprised to see me, but he did look curious. “Good evening, Miss Lion.” “Good evening.” “I am pleasantly surprised to see you here.” He then smiled. “I was shanghaied.” “Sounds dramatic.” “It is proving to be so.”

“Shanghaied, Miss Lion?” the duke reproved. “That definition is excessive, is it not?” “I told her she was invited and forced her to quit her previous engagement.” Pierce announced his sin with a shameless amount of ease. “We men will make the best ...

But Young Hawkes said quietly, “I believe they are having fun at your expense, Miss Lion.”

“Now I know you think me a philistine,” added Pierce, “if you believed I’d invite you to another man’s table.” “You are a philistine,” I glowered. “Speaking of philistines”—Islington motioned towards Pierce—“Hawkes, have you met—” “Niall Pierce,” Young Hawkes said, extending his hand. “A pleasure.”

Knowing I was as welcome as any other did a great deal for the settling of my nerves, and I soon relaxed. Nor was I troubled by the fact that I was eating dinner alone with three men, three unmarried men, and how significantly problematic it would prove if the fact ever came to light in polite society. No, not troubled at all. That is not true. I felt scandalous.

How can I say what I mean? Islington, a long-standing friendship with Hawkes and comfortable acquaintance with Pierce, seemed to have decided I, too, had a place inside whatever circles make up his life. Hawkes was…well, Hawkes. Purveyor of his own quiet kingdom. But there was less mystery about him than usual, and more amusement at its leisure. Pierce—whom I’ve seen perform with spectacular ease in public—was more grounded in his comfort. No pretence, no presentation. He allowed a good deal of humour in the remembrances he shared.

“Pierce, Islington, Hawkes,”—he looked at me—“Lion.” I blinked. “Do you want congratulations for having remembered four names after nearly three hours in our company?”

It did. It does. Only, Maxwell was the original owner of its use.

“My aunt is a writer,” Islington answered. “Mad as a hare. She has accepted a tray in the library and is busy scribbling away on her latest novel. When I asked if she wished to join us, she said, ‘Not if the very hounds of hell were after me. I have to finish chapter thirteen.’”

“Does the gift run through your entire family? It’s hard to imagine her writing could be finer than yours.” Islington narrowed his eyes.

“Too much for you?” Islington asked. “I’ve seen Miss Lion put down The Cleopatra in one swallow,” Hawkes remarked quietly, sitting back in his chair, fingers absently tapping the table. Pierce did not understand the significance, but Islington did. His face closed.

“What in heaven’s name were you doing there, drinking that!” “And with the vicar?” Pierce added under his breath. I piously made a motion to push an invisible nest back atop my head and requested coffee.

Young Hawkes, having returned to his book, said without looking up, “I enjoyed The Rookery Curse.”

Any man who can say, “All things swim and glitter” is a rare breed.

PIRACY IS ILLEGAL. THE MORAL RAMIFICATIONS DEPEND UPON YOUR MORALS. My morals? ONE’S MORALS. Sigh. I suppose I ought not consider the option. I WOULD VISIT YOU AT THE GAOL. Don’t they hang pirates? POSSIBLY.

Bring Hawkes then, to read my last rites. But don’t bring Islington. He would smirk. AT YOUR HANGING? SURELY NOT. Hmmm. You may remain in your blessed ignorance. I’m not saying the man doesn’t have a heart. He would shed a tear before the end. DO YOU HAVE THE ENTIRE SCENE ALL WORKED OUT? No. Though perhaps I should. You will wear black, of course. And spend a year sending notes through the wall. All to go unanswered.

Don’t worry, Pierce. You’ll get through the grief. I’...

“You would do that for me?” “Hand you a handkerchief?” He smiled. “Of course.” “Don’t jest.” “Sorry.” “You would come with me?” “Of course I’m coming with you. Don’t be daft. My friends do not go to war alone.”

your day dresses would Maxwell have liked the most?” “I should wear the purple. It’s half mourning at least,” I sniffed. “Maxwell, however, would have loved the green.” “Wear the green.” “His father—” “—can throw himself in the lake.”

“You saw it.” “By chance!” “By chance, by accident, Maxwell wanting you there. Who’s to say?” “But—” “Perhaps Maxwell sorted it. I don’t know how the hell it works, but maybe he got the information to you.” For a man who despises the church, it was a show of faith I wasn’t expecting. “You think he cares?” I asked. “How could he not?”

She will disapprove. Be difficult. As for seeing you with me… IF SHE’S THERE, I’LL BE NOTHING MORE THAN A FRIEND OF MAXWELL’S FROM AFGHANISTAN. WE MET ON THE ROAD. SOMETHING OF THE SORT. I’LL DO NOTHING TO MAKE IT MORE DIFFICULT FOR YOU. YOU SHOULD SLEEP.

“Dreams, life, figuring out what one does next after dying in the desert…” “Was it a figuring out for you?” “In its own way.” He paused. “There is help, of course.” “One would imagine.” “I’m off, Lion. And you’re not. Your life moves beyond the point where I left. As it should.” “Should it?” “Yes.”

“Agree to consider it a disagreement?” He laughed. “Agree to give you time to believe such a thing until you see I am right. Until you are ready.” “One is never ready.”

And my own voice rang in my ears and I was back. In the graveyard. Alone. Standing in the end of October, with birdcall and grey clouds, aware of a man leaning against the shaded wall of the church, shovel at his side, ready to bury Maxwell’s body...

How clearly it seemed I could hear his voice. That voice. The one that had been the only.

Bless a man who knows how to keep his own counsel when you can’t bear to speak.

“I see why you have so many friends,” I said. “Oh?” he said in a dismissive way. “You are loyal, Pierce. True friendship, and all that.” He looked back at his letter. “If anything, it’s self-serving. I like good people. They remind me of what I used to be myself.”