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

by Beth Brower

I almost didn’t recognise the man, he looked so…free of care. Very unlike a banker. (Ought one to feel embarrassed seeing one’s banker in such a state of financial undress?)

You look nice, but certainly not the height of fashion. Or even some of the lows of fashion, for that matter.”

“Light-minded would suffice. An appearance of pleasing stupidity prepares a woman for marriage. You might study that instead of Latin, Greek, or otherwise. When languages are dead, it is because they deserve to be so. Have I made myself clear?” I did not take the opportunity to tell her that they still spoke Greek in Greece.

I answered by holding up his two letters. “The basket could scarcely contain them. Your warning was warranted.”

“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

It was the most fiscally romantic thing I had ever heard.

“I was expecting you earlier this month!” I answered. “And based said expectations on the Gregorian calendar, which you must no longer abide by. Whatever happened?” “France.” We sat. “France?” “France, Emma. I have a weakness.” And she burst into a rush of French, the only thing of which I could understand was her love of their madness and their food, more worthy than what London offers. Or so I think. My French is rusty. And rusticated. At Fortitude, A Preparatory School for Girls, we studied French with only a stack of farmer’s reports for aid. Were I to find myself stranded in agrarian France, I may not be able to ask for help, but I could ask after the health of their aubergines. And recommend several remedies for keeping pests out of the vineyards.

Each piece of furniture was quality, yet not overdone. The paintings were simply framed. The fabrics elegant but understated. And not a single piece of bric-a-brac to be found. What a marvel.

Let us say nothing of his lips. However, if one were to see fish on the menu, one might remember said lips with startling acuity.

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?

“No. I attempted to make your tea. There are dead cakes strewn about as proof I am no talented cook. I suppose I shall have to keep baker off the list.”

“I expect you want tea, now that you’ve driven my curiosity a country mile and abandoned it on the side of the road?”

I have a fond memory of walking through St. Crispian’s with my father one June when he elbowed me, bent down, and said, “If you ever want a lark, little Emma, watch Mrs. Spires. She takes the Christian virtue of being offended by everyone very seriously.”

My feelings for October are fierce: a sharp love of cool air, a season transforming the landscape towards, and through, death. I’ve always loved it.

Unless one is Hamlet, I’ve always held that talking aloud to oneself is far better suited for a comedy than a tragedy. How maudlin it always seems on the page.