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

by Beth Brower

“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.”

“Strange is that unexpected moment that stays with you, that makes you think about it again. Strange is memorable, and compelling.”

A perusal of The Dalliance confirmed that there are still books being printed in this world, despite the limited buying power of our heroine.

“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

Miss Lion”—he looked at me— “when my wife writes, I take heed.” “Therein lies wisdom,” I said. More acerbically than I intended.

“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.

Not that I see throwing myself into the Thames as a viable solution to my ills. We have tea for that.

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

To compose oneself—such a strange phrase. As if one were a musical score. If I were, what would I be? Emma M. Lion in D Minor?

“What a perpetual disappointment is actual society…”

He handed me the owed book wrapped in gold paper. I ran my fingers along the euphoric texture of the paper and sighed with contentment. Felicity is the gift of a book.

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.

It was then that Agnes came sweeping in—no tea trolley, thank goodness—with a tray full of beautiful things. Tea, with bread, cheese, fruit, another sauce in a dish, and fresh, steaming, fluffy cake drizzled with caramel. I don’t know how she did it.

“We must be our own before we can be another’s.”

“Of course I’m coming with you. Don’t be daft. My friends do not go to war alone.”

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

“I think I like the autumn best,” I mused aloud. “You should see it in New England,” Pierce said. “The most astonishing display of colour. I’ve never seen anything like it.”