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

by Beth Brower

“Forgive my—what was it Agnes called it?—‘appalling familiarity’ by remaining while you slept. I wasn’t certain if you were well.” “Bless Agnes,” I said, rubbing my eyes. To be frank with myself, it is far more intimate than propriety allows. But I cried against the man for half an hour while on a train to London a fortnight ago, so appalling familiarity has already been breached. To say nothing of notes through the wall. Nor time spent in his studio. Dear me. I am a socially loose woman.

“Of course, I’ll help you, Lion. I’m being difficult for my own amusement.” “A pastime you enjoy.” “I do.” “Well, I’m happy for you.” “Don’t pretend you don’t do the same.”

Send me a charming letter. WHEN HAVE I EVER REPRESENTED MYSELF AS CHARMING?

EMMA, I PROMISED YOU A LETTER, SO HERE GOES. TRADITIONAL COUNTRY HOUSE PARTIES BORE INTO MY SKULL LIKE SHRAPNEL FROM A CANNON. IF YOU ARE NOT CHARMED BY THAT, NOTHING CAN HELP YOU.

“Elizabeth!” I exclaimed, turning my unavoidable laugh into a halting sob. “What a beautiful name!” He nodded. “So very stately for a sweet pea.”

He names his plants too lol

Pierce then asked if I would like him to throw the portrait away. I almost said yes, but then I stood and crossed the room, opening the armoire holding boxes of his work. Tipping the lid of the one entitled AFGHANISTAN 1880, I slipped the photograph inside. There has been a price paid, and it would be a shame if the full toll were left unaccounted. It’s not only the faces on the battlefield that tell the story of war.

It is a curious thing to understand, for I had certainly never liked the man, though of late I had begun to pity him, but as soon as I saw that he was dead, I burst into a flood of tears. It was the second death I had known, and the sorrow of the first was still fresh in my heart. Those words shook me—every grief in me, layer after layer. I cried wholeheartedly. I couldn’t seem to help myself. My body would do nothing else. Grief pulled from my toes and my fingers and burned in my chest. These deaths, these unexpected cliffs in my life, falling one after the other. I cried until I was utterly dried up. Empty. Clean, almost. So weary of it all.

But I’ve come away from the sea for a moment, and Lapis Lazuli has wrapped itself around me. As if having found anchor, I’ve set down my heavy sea chest. Foolishness perhaps. Yet comforting. As stories are sometimes meant to be. It looks like Hawkes has managed to find me a ship.

And I think that was the moment I began to suspect that the luck Hawkes spoke of might really only be an awareness, an awareness of grace.

I’ve not only been accused of perversely delighting the neighbourhood, but I’ve acquired a new story. A banner day for Emma M. Lion.

“He said he wished you to be wise, and good, and true to the beatings of your own heart, and hoped that you could be spared the extremes of society, both the very poor and the very rich, so that neither need nor indulgence would spoil the soul he loved more than anything else in the world.”

The memory came to mind just now. And something I’ve not felt for longer than I care to admit began to take shape. That, come sunshine or cloud, I was going to be fine. More than fine. In place, and strong, and anchored in. Tonight, Islington became a stake. And Pierce. And Mary. And Saffronia. And Hawkes. All I can think of is the sound of the rain on the canopy, and everyone still smiling.

“You look every bit as handsome as Emma’s described.” Pierce moved his silver gaze to me. “I’m flattered.” I could think of nothing clever to extricate myself from the corner Mary’s words placed me in, so I decided to carry on with confidence. “You’ve looked in the mirror, Pierce.

“I’d assumed you were with your aunt,” Islington frowned. “I was in Dante’s fifth circle of hell. My aunt lives in the second.”

“No one warns that you can be ripped, joint from bone, simply by staring at a box, simply by holding a bit of earth in your hand. Mother was a great admirer of the Virgin Mary, and I know that phrase always moved her. ‘Yea, a sword shall pierce through thy own soul also.’ It may be blasphemous to say it, but that’s how I felt, standing there. And not only did the sword pierce, but it was twisted before the end.”

“He said goodbye, and I’ve almost become brave enough to say it back. To see a life ahead, even if it’s different from what I’d planned.”

“It takes a great deal to trust the future after one is acquainted with loss.” “It feels impossible, for longer than is comforting. And then too tentative to trust.” “It does. But it seems that sword pierced Christ so that we always have a future. Even one different than planned.” I have been thinking about this ever since he said it. And I confess that the grace my mother would speak of with such feeling took on a greater dimension than the passing interest I’d always given. “So one trusts the future,” I answered. “Despite knowing loss will be had again.” “That seems to be what we are called to do.” “Keep looking for sun on the horizon?” “Keep looking for sun on the horizon.” “Faith in the abstract is more comfortable,” I said. I heard an amused sound, then, “It is. But I begin to suspect that faith made concrete is more comforting.”

“Settle your mind; you’re jolting from here to there,” Hawkes said, as if it were completely normal to assume what anyone was thinking. I complied, taking a deep breath until my shoulders released their tension. “Think about the months and years ahead. See yourself in them. Going about your day. Whatever brings you a smile, whatever it is you want to find there. What do you see?” I drew my eyebrows together, focusing my thoughts on some future that— “Don’t try and force it with your reason,” Hawkes said, interrupting my efforts. Pulling my mouth to the side, I let out a breath, and with whatever tricks my mind was trying to conjure, I simply leaned forward into the future I wanted to find. I was sitting at a table near a window, two or three books at my elbow. I’d a stack of letters ready to post. A cat was curled up on the chair across the room. It wasn’t Tybalt. Early spring, and the window open, but a small fire warming the shadows of the room. No one was with me. I was alone, and happy to be so. But there was a sense of company having been often in the place. I didn’t seem to be living in extravagance. I didn’t seem to be living with worry. I was happy, and home. There were daffodils in a vase. And just when I thought the edges were fading, that I had seen what I’d needed to see, I heard it. Clear as day. Footsteps on the stairs. There were footsteps on the stairs. And I knew they did not belong to Agnes. Nor anyone in my employ. They sounded like someone as at home as...

“I was there,” I exclaimed. “I could see myself, and the fire, the cool from the window, the table was piled with books, and I was writing something. And it was life, my life, and…and there were footsteps on the stairs.” “Whose?” “I don’t know. But he sounded like the other half of home.”

It feels almost mad to write it out, but there was such clarity. As we sat there in silence, something nudged my heart into the attitude of looking forward. Perhaps it was a trick of the mind. But it didn’t feel like one. It felt as real as a prophecy.

The year is fresh and unworn, and I’ve not wanted to look ahead, truly ahead, for so long now that I’m determined to keep hold of the courage to do it. Almost midnight now, my face pressed against the cool glass. I can almost hear them. Footsteps on the stairs.