The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 5

by Beth Brower

“Pardon my intrusion, Miss Agnes,” Islington said, lifting the glass he’d brought from Pierce’s studio. “I hope you don’t mind my taking a few moments to celebrate with the loveliest cook in St. Crispian’s.”

I like him. ❤️

I ought to include Tyrannis, because one never knows when Tyrant in Latin would prove needful, if not absolutely necessary. (Islington is in my life, after all.)

Cousin Archibald had returned. Bath could no longer hold him. I’m worried Hell won’t be able to either.

😂 He IS horrid.

I’ve never used the word seemeth in my life, but it biblically rushed forth, regardless.

I’d not realised I’d been smiling. “Don’t be so fustian, Islington.” “Fustian?” “Yes.” “Do you know what that word means?” “Something to do with you?” “It is a coarse cloth.” Of course it was. I’d thought it meant something else. Dukes and their lofty educations, waving their knowledge over the rest of us like a banner.

I snorted and then quickly covered it with a false wail of grief, pretending to be overcome with emotion, I leaned on Islington for support.

I’ve always enjoyed the small turn that happens when one month folds into another. The exchange of the many for the one, the end for the beginning, over and over and over. My mother would say to look for bright things at a new month—“First day, Emma. What do you see gleaming?”

This is how I am now greeting all of my favourite acquaintances: “What good wind brings you here?”

There, coming out of the corner behind the door, was Mrs. Penury, looking as pleased as if it was Christmas Day. I had forgotten she was there.

“What a novel modus operandi, Mrs. Penury. Is your husband still living?” He asked his bizarre question in such a likable manner it did not strike one as inappropriate. How very vexing he is. Tilting her head in a subtle nod, Mrs. Penury confirmed Mr. Penury was still living. “Pity,” Islington smiled. “I would marry you myself if it would save me half the prattle Miss Lion puts me through.”

He could get away with anything. And then the smile faded. His expression went to blank, then to baffled. Shoulders tensed as he drew his head back. He had been struck dumb. Before I could ask if everything was all right, I followed his gaze. The wall. Just above the kitchen table. Islington was staring at the portrait of himself. Pressing a hand to my face, I muttered, “Take me now, Lord.” I had forgotten the daisy chains Agnes had hung devotedly over the frame, dried but still recognisable. It looked rather like a shrine. Deciding that prayer alone wasn’t going to resolve the situation, I began, “Islington”—he didn’t take his eyes away from the portrait—“that isn’t what it looks like.” I stalled, not knowing how to explain without embarrassing either Agnes, Islington, or myself. From the expression on Mrs. Penury’s face, she was living the life she’d always hoped for.

Mortifying! I would die of embarrassment but I’m also laughing so hard! Mrs. Penury is living her best life.

With a resigned expression, I turned to face Mrs. Penury and sighed. “I wish I could say this was entirely abnormal.” To which my dear lady began to laugh.

“Do me a favour, Emma, and kiss that man on the cheek. Promise me.” It was not the most unappealing request. “Why in heaven’s name would I do that?” “Because I saw Evelyn at dinner last week, and his nose is crooked. It gave pleasure.”

And then I realised two horrible things simultaneously, and everything in the world slowed to absorb the shock. I was standing beneath the sprig of mistletoe, and the man with whom I’d collided was none other than Cousin Archibald. I screamed. He started and cried out, “What, what!” And he followed my gaze. I backed away, and he, realising the danger, went pale as he began to hop around, his cane swinging. “What, what, what, I say!” I slipped past and ran for the safety of King Henry’s Road, Ben Chambers laughing so loud I swear I could hear him halfway home.

DYING!

As a child, I always thought the shadows cast at Christmastide held something of magic in them. That if you pried up the edges, light would come spilling out from the nooks and crannies of the day.

A thick hoarfrost has covered all of St. Crispian’s, and as I sit on my window seat, a cup of warm chocolate in my hands, I’m gazing at a thousand refracting crystals hanging from every branch, stringing every roofline.