Afternoons with Emily (6 page)

“Crying won’t bring your friend back, Ara, so you’d better sleep. Drink this, and you can rest a little.”

I tried to tell Dr. Jackson why I was crying — but as I drank, he went away in a spiral. When I woke up a day later, I accepted
my loss as fact. Mr. Harnett was gone for good, and the worst of my terrible, desperate grieving was over. But now I was hollow
and empty, like all the days and weeks that lay ahead.

At first, after Mr. Harnett left me, I would get up as usual and try to reenact my mornings with him. I would begin with our
sonnet of incantation, although his voice never came to join mine. Then I used our old models and exercise books, trying to
play both our roles. All the while I felt I was watching someone else do these things from a long, pale distance. So I stopped
and I stayed in bed, reading our old texts but mostly sleeping.

One day Cousin Daisy stopped by for a visit. I could see her distress over my condition, but I didn’t care. Mr. Harnett had
gone away — that was all that mattered to me. I could overhear hushed discussions between her and Father outside my nursery
door but couldn’t muster enough interest to eavesdrop.

After Cousin Daisy left, Father came into the nursery. He seemed angry to find me dozing at two in the afternoon.

“I want you up and out of bed — starting right now. Take a bath and wash your hair; Jenny can help you. Then come to the library.”

I was ashamed at his instructions, having never aroused his disapproval or disappointment in such a way before. I followed
his orders and reached the library a good deal cleaner. He looked me over and handed me a big folder.

“Cousin Daisy feels it may be too soon to have you adjust to a new tutor,” he said. “She seems to think you won’t learn especially
well in your current state. However, she . . . and I . . . both feel you need to have some activity. And perhaps a change
of scenery might do you some good as well.”

I nodded, not especially understanding but knowing some response was expected of me.

“Therefore,” Father continued, “I want you to be my special secretary for children’s letters. I have received several hundred
about
The Great Plays,
and each child deserves a proper reply. You can work right here on this big table. Those are your materials,” he added, nodding
at the folder in my hands.

Then he gave me a small worn book. “And I think you’re ready for the real classics now. Here is Chapman’s translation of
The Iliad.
Please start it here with me, so I can help you on the meter. This is the one Keats liked.
‘Much have I traveled in the realms of gold.’
It’s my favorite too.”

The children’s letters were a good chance for practicing my penmanship — and
The Iliad
was a reunion of the complicated families of my nursery gods. It was unexpectedly vivid to me, as was my father’s presence.
Working daily in his study among his prized possessions, I felt him there too. I was often seated at the table when he arrived
home from Harvard, and as he settled into his own work, we’d chat about the day and our discoveries in ancient times.

One day Father pulled down a large book of Athenian art, and he fingered the pages. His gaze went from a page in the book
to me and back to the book. He studied me more carefully. He seemed to make a decision. “This has given me an idea,” he said.
“I will ask my barber to come and cut your hair this afternoon.”

This was quite unexpected. My father had never taken an interest in my appearance before. And I had been rather vain about
my braids, because Mr. Harnett called them the “Golden Fleece.” Still, my braids seemed unimportant, and it would be a blessing
not to have Jenny yanking at me every morning.

Later that day, Mr. Macrae, the barber, arrived. He wore a white smock; he had an accent like that of Young Lochinvar — or
Nanny Drummond. First he chopped off each braid at my shoulders, making me look like a captured Gaul. Then he took out some
thin pointed scissors and studied a page in one of Father’s art books for a long time.

“Do you think you can do that for us?” Father asked him.

“Why not? The lassie’s hair is as braw as heather.”

As he snipped, I studied the illustration he was copying: a smiling boy, running carefree on a vase. His hair was cut like
a wreath, more or less. I admired his tunic and trousers — they seemed to make running quite a bit easier for the boy in the
picture. The boy looked happy.

“That’s it! Sir, you’re a true artist! That is exactly what we needed.” My delighted father beamed at Mr. Macrae and at my
shorn head in the mirror.

I could not think why either one of us needed short curls, but it did not matter much.

Not long after, a letter arrived: my first letter ever, with my name in Mr. Harnett’s lovely spiked writing, like a row of
tiny teeth.

April 19, 1856

My very dear Ara,

I could not bear to write you sooner, till our parting bled a little less. Soon we will not miss each other as much as we
do now. In all my classes I have been using what you and I learned, and I will write you about the ways we are still working
together.

Your father has made some wonderful plans you will hear soon. Do you remember when we learned how there can be a ship just
below the horizon, still invisible — but heading for you, coming closer every day? Just such a ship is sailing your way. Your
father is not a sentimental man, but he will always care for you and care about you.

Now I want you to read
David Copperfield
and write a character sketch of Dora or Steerforth. Then make a play out of your favorite scene. Make a model of this. Be
sure and show David very small to remind us how young he is. . . . But he ends up the strongest of anyone, and so will you.

Remember that I am always going to be part of your life.

Your friend always,

Alan Harnett

I was quite curious about all that Mr. Harnett had hinted at — but I had another surprise in store. I was reading in Father’s
book of Greek art, the one that inspired my new hairstyle, when Father arrived with Madame Lauré, my mother’s dressmaker.
She used to make my New Year’s velvet dresses and always called me
“La pauvre p’tite”
— so I could not tell her Mr. Harnett and I had been doing French for the last three or so years.

Madame Lauré had tiny black eyes like raisins and talked around a mouthful of pins. While she measured me and made strange
chalk markings, Father told her, “I’m not sure what it is that we want, but we want something other than . . . this.” He gestured
to the dresses hanging in my wardrobe.

I must be about to gain an entirely new wardrobe, I realized, and Father himself is overseeing this procedure rather than
Cousin Daisy. Surely this was somehow part of the plans Mr. Harnett had spoken of in his letter.

“M’sieur, please, one must be somewhat more definite in what one desires. I would hate to displease you.”

“Something more . . . less . . .” Father seemed at a loss for words. This behavior I understood. It would have shocked me
greatly if he had been able to discuss current women’s fashion. It was somewhat reassuring that he wasn’t a complete stranger
to me!

“Father,” I ventured, trying to stay as still as possible as Madame Lauré ran a tape from my ankle to my knee. “If I could
have a new outfit, I would like it to be just like the one on the vase.”

“Zee vase?” Madame Lauré looked perplexed.

I patted my shorn head. “The vase,” I repeated.

A delighted recognition sparkled in my father’s eyes. “Of course! Ara, it is a brilliant solution.” I pointed to where the
book lay on the table. He picked it up and showed it to Madame Lauré.

“Mais . . . mais . . .”
she sputtered around her pins. “Zeese are trousers. Zee young lady —”

“A chiton will be quite suitable,” Father declared, using the Greek name for the garment. He and I smiled at each other. We
were united in sentiment and in shared controversy; it was our first true pact.

“It is decided,” Father told Madame Lauré. “The Lathams are all coming for tea tomorrow,” he then informed me. “They’re all
dying of polite curiosity to hear our plans.”

I was curious to hear myself!

The next afternoon, I joined Father in the double parlors, full of spring flowers brought by Cousin Daisy. I curtsied twenty
times, hearing a buzz of comment about my hair.

“So boyish,” murmured the aunts.

“So . . . odd,” rumbled the uncles. Then they folded their hands around their sherry glasses and waited to be informed.

“You were good to come this afternoon. I wanted you to hear some decisions I’ve made,” said my father. This bold, confident
voice must be his teaching manner. “From now on, my first responsibility must be to my daughter — her health and happiness.”

This made me feel very proud. I had never heard him express much interest in my life, nor had I much evidence in the form
of attention. But I knew my father was a truthful man, so this must be the case.

“I believe you’ve all been aware, over the years, that our medical adviser Dr. Jackson continues to watch Arethusa, fearing
a tendency toward poor Marian’s disease. He and I have decided I should take her to the Windward Islands for a year so that
she may grow stronger in that climate.”

There was one gasp, then many from the assembled Lathams. We surely had their attention now! I only wished that he had not
stated this fear of my “tendency” quite so openly. But the gathered relatives seemed to be far more shocked by the mention
of these islands than by the bold statement of my potential illness.

“I have a classmate in Barbados, a dear friend, Hugh James,” Father continued smoothly. “I have visited him and his sister,
Miss Adelaide James, several times.”

I had not been aware of this; I had not been aware of most of my father’s comings and goings. It did explain some of his absences.

“Their sugar plantation, York Stairs, is one of the handsomest on the island of Barbados. Hugh was a consumptive too, but
he believes it was the clean, warm sea air that cured him. He is a physician and will care for Ara. He and Miss Adelaide expect
us at York Stairs next month.”

Astonishing! We were leaving Boston. We were going to live on a tropical island — straight out of Captain Cook’s reports!
I was truly about to have an adventure.

“So we are following Dr. Jackson’s advice for Ara and seeking a warmer climate and an outdoor life. My arrangements are nearly
complete, but I need your help on a family affair.” He gave his audience a charming smile.

“I have rented number 32 to a colleague, but I find I will require a temporary home for the portraits. I hesitate to rent
out your ancestors, even to a Harvard professor. Would any of you care to board them for a year or so?”

Father must have known this would be the perfect distraction from his startling news — and my short curls.

“I’ll take the Copley: Eliza Cabot in yellow with the parakeet.”

“But your chimney smokes! She’d be far safer in my dining room.”

“I’ll hang both Stuarts. They should stay together.”

“But that’s not fair! Marian would have wanted us to . . .”

No one noticed me leaving. The well-bred haggling followed me up the stairs. I went straight to my father’s library and dragged
his huge atlas over to the pale spring light. I turned to the index: BAC, BAL, BAR. I flipped to a page full of blue. From
the moment of Father’s announcement, I felt a flicker of returning interest. I was starting to be curious again. I found the
island on the map, pressed my finger on it, and held it there a long time.

Madame Lauré returned the next day to fit me in the muslin model of the Greek costume. It was a loose sleeveless tunic with
a pleat at each shoulder, ending just above the knee. There were very short, straight trousers underneath.

“A bit more in the pleats, please, Madame Lauré,” said Father, looking me up and down. “She’ll need plenty of room for running
around.”

I could not imagine myself “running around” — but if I was to become active, this would certainly be the costume for it. I
was pleased with the feeling of freedom the clothing gave me. The boy on the vase seemed to be going somewhere; perhaps I
was too.

My father seemed equally delighted by the Greek object I had become. “We’ll need six of these, Madame Lauré, and six more
in a size larger. Please use the toughest cotton you can find anywhere and the brightest colors — nothing dainty! And make
us two in dark blue, with extra drawers — for the ocean. Ara will be swimming all day long!”

This seemed unlikely, but he knew Barbados better than I did. In all my life, I had never had so much attention and interest
from my father. I would learn — gradually — that he would never fail me on the important things involving foresight and intention.
He skimped only on the daily details of love.

“Now, Ara, show me your favorite dress,” Father instructed.

This was a corded silk from last Christmas, for a cousin’s wedding. I was meant to be the flower girl, but I had bronchitis
instead. Cousin Daisy called the high waist and puffed sleeves “Empire.” To my eyes it was straight out of
Vanity Fair;
I called it my Becky Sharp dress.

“Yes, that looks just right for Barbados,” Father approved. “We’ll need four like this, Madame Lauré — all in white, in different
materials. Please find us something cool for the tropics.”

“Zen I will make zee silk, zee mull, zee linen, and zee dimity. And I will make more décolleté, for zee heat.”

“Splendid, Madame — splendid. And give her big hems, won’t you? She’ll be doing a lot of growing on the islands.”

Preparing to leave in June was easy, since we were taking so little. Father packed his notes and references for the new book
he had started. My chitons and new dresses arrived, looking like costumes for a play. I decided to leave my old doll and my
playthings behind; I had never used them after Mr. Harnett came. Since Father said there were plenty of fine books at York
Stairs, I took only my scissors and my watercolors. Jenny helped me with my trunk.