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

by Beth Brower

Islington. Sharply dressed, staring fixedly ahead. “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.”

“Mr. Goddard,” I finally managed, feeling a dangerous sense of claustrophobia setting in. “I do not intend to marry you. You understand this, yes?” “I do. Your aunt has said we must wait. The scene which I have described cannot take place for another year, maybe two. So we must think on the future quietly in our hearts. Thinking of our children requires an entire afternoon. 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.” He took another long breath. And so did I.

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?

Father always liked fall best. Mother claimed it was his natural melancholy. I don’t agree. One doesn’t have to prefer spring to be a contented soul.

There are only two other travellers in The Frog and Crown this evening, and they took their dinner and went up to bed an hour ago. Pierce and I, tired from a long, silent afternoon of walking, walking, walking, have been settled near the fire. Me with my journal, he with a drink and his thoughts. Bless a man who knows how to keep his own counsel when you can’t bear to speak.

“And Leonidas said—” And Hawkes said something in Greek, which I, of the Fortitude, A Preparatory School for Girls ilk, could not understand.