The Land of Summer (15 page)

But she had no one, no one at all, and so desperate had she become that as dawn began to break over Bamford, and trade carts could be heard in the distance, she wondered if she could at least make a friend of Mrs Graham.

All of a sudden it seemed that this could be a solution. If she made a friend of Mrs Graham, she would have an ally in her own household. It would be a way out of her loneliness, her homesickness. After all, Mrs Graham was her housekeeper, and better than that she was a married woman. She might be able to help
Emmaline
understand not just English life, but married life. Besides, she seemed such a kindly soul, always smiling and happy, with an encouraging word for everyone.

Emmaline climbed back into bed and snuffed out her candle. It was a solution. More than that, it was a happy solution. She was dropping off into a thankful sleep, convinced that she had at last stumbled on an answer to her problems, when a thought struck her. She remembered reading in an English novel that housekeepers always assumed the title of
Mrs
in order to give themselves some authority over the rest of the servants, but that generally speaking they were, like cooks, nearly always single women who had worked their way up through the household ranks until they had enough experience to seek a superior position elsewhere.

Which means I can’t possibly ask her for advice about marriage. If she knew how to help me she would gain a bad reputation for herself, and if she did not know it would be sure to get out that I had asked her and I would become a figure of fun, and, what is worse, remain as ignorant as ever
.

Emmaline turned on to her front and groaned into her pillow, realising just how foolish her tortured thoughts had been, up what a blind alleyway they had led her. She would have to give up the battle and return home. Never mind that she would become an object of pity, never mind that her three sisters would hate her for the rest of her life for throwing their chances of
marriage
into disarray, she could not, would not, go on as she had.

She sat up and yet again lit the bedstick beside her, but as she did so a new thought came to her, and the moment she realised its potential she was able to blow out the candle, and finally, at last, fall asleep.

Chapter Seven

WHEN EMMALINE WENT
into the town she always took Agnes along with her, more for companionship than anything else. She had quickly grown fond of her awkward young maid – whom she now called Aggie – for in the warmth of Emmaline’s kindness and good humour the girl had soon become much more confident, eager to learn and to help, so that she now served her mistress well. However, on this particular day, having planned her visit some days in advance, Emmaline knew her task would be made much easier if she went alone.

Agnes looked aghast.

‘You can’t go into town on your own, Mrs Aubrey, truly you can’t. It’s more than my life’s worth to let you even think of doing so, truly it is. Why, Mrs Graham would dismiss me on the spot if she ever caught wind of it, and as for Mr Aubrey, he would cut off my head, so he would. Besides, what about my reputation? You go parading about without your maid, without your Aggie, my reputation as a lady’s maid is going to end up
in
rags and tatters, so it is. You won’t be going into town on your own, so you won’t, begging your pardon, Miss Emmaline, sorry, Mrs Aubrey, you will stay here, or else we will go together.’

Agnes stopped, her face quite flushed with the effort of trying to get across to her young mistress just how disastrous her plan could turn out to be.

Emmaline smiled. ‘Why, Aggie, I do believe you are cross with me. Very well, you and I will go into town together, but there are some things that I must accomplish, even so, on my own. I will leave you in the carriage for a few minutes, somewhere quite central, and then re-join you, after which we will return to the house.’

Agnes knew better than to enquire into the nature of her mistress’s business, and although she considered Mrs Aubrey to be above suspicion she was none the less curious as to the reason for the change in their routine. Nothing was said on their carriage ride into town to indicate that this outing was any different from any previous one, until they had finished some light shopping. After a call at the dressmaker’s, Emmaline instructed Agnes to get back into the carriage to wait for her, then turned away and walked quickly up the High Street.

From the window in the carriage Agnes watched her mistress for as along as she was able, until eventually Emmaline turned down a side street and disappeared from view.

For a moment Agnes was tempted to step down
out
of the carriage and follow her, not because she was worried but because she was curious, having already guessed from Emmaline’s demeanour on the ride into town that whatever it was she had chosen to do was making her unusually fretful, or perhaps excited. But she knew she had to resist the temptation. It was none of her business, and prying would get her nowhere. She would just have to possess her soul in patience and wait in the carriage, watching what seemed like the whole of Bamford on their way to the shops.

Besides, as George the under footman was forever reminding them, as they sat eating their meal round the table below stairs,
You may make what you like of ’em, but in the end there’s no telling. They’re them, and we’s us, and there’s a world of difference between being them and being us, but sometimes we have to draw a line, especially when they forget that they are them and try to become like us
.

So Agnes remained sitting, more than somewhat impatiently, in the carriage while Emmaline hurried to her destination, namely the shop owned by Mr Arthur Hunt, bookseller.

When she arrived outside the tidy, freshly painted frontage of the bookseller’s premises, she found that there was a cluster of carriages waiting nearby, and a general air of something that was more than just a shop, more of a meeting place, perhaps, where like minds, and like souls, congregated.

And so it proved when she pushed in through the door to the interior. There were
even
more people in the shop than could have been anticipated from the horses and carriages standing outside. Emmaline had never had the pleasure of visiting the bookshop before, but since it was still early in the day, not to mention the beginning of the week, she had hoped for fewer people, with luck no more than two or three other customers. But she soon came to realise that a crowd could be in her favour, since the staff would be preoccupied and most likely would hardly notice her, or pay much attention to her request.

‘Might I help you?’ a soft male voice with a distinct Scottish accent said from behind her, startling Emmaline, who had, with a purposefully casual air, begun to browse through the shelves in the hope of being able to find what she wanted without actually having to seek any advice.

The owner of the voice held out his hand – a slim, elegant hand used more to turning pages than to smoking cigars or riding horses.

‘I am Arthur Hunt, and I don’t think I recall seeing you in here before, madam.’

Emmaline looked at the owner of the voice, who must also be, she imagined, the owner of the shop. Mr Hunt was a tall, well-built and handsome, if red-faced, man, already in late middle age, who looked to all intents and purposes to be both very prosperous and very serious, until you noticed his twinkling blue eyes, which betrayed a good deal of humour.

‘Is it fiction you might be after, madam?’ Mr
Hunt
enquired. ‘Some poetry, maybe? Or perhaps something a wee bit more – more
earnest
?’

‘Oddly enough, sir …’ Emmaline began, only to be promptly interrupted.

‘Oddly enough?’

‘Yes, oddly enough,’ Emmaline said, stalling.

‘I am at a loss, an embarrassing loss, madam. May I know who you are?’

‘Mrs Swallow,’ Emmaline announced, her head on one side.

‘Mrs Swallow.’ Mr Hunt smiled and nodded. ‘Well, let us hope you do not take your custom elsewhere in wintertime.’

Emmaline stared at him, not picking up on the rather laboured joke until he began to explain it, when she held up a hand, laughing.

‘Of course, of course, I do see, yes. English swallows do not stay here in wintertime. Yes, I do see.’

‘Forgive me, Mrs Swallow,’ Mr Hunt said, cleaning his spectacles carefully on a spotless white handkerchief. ‘A weakness of mine, alas – the making of dreadful jokes. So what guidance might I give you, Mrs Swallow?’

‘Do you have a – a …? What I am looking for is something – something scientific.’

‘The scientific books are over here,’ Mr Hunt said, leading Emmaline round several large shelves towards the back of the shop. ‘In what particular field of science might your interest lie, Mrs Swallow?’

Behind Mr Hunt’s back Emmaline hesitated,
despite
knowing that to do so might mean she was lost.

‘Biology,’ she said in what she hoped was a firm voice but soon realised was coming out as a whisper.

‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Swallow?’

‘Biology,’ she repeated, this time too loudly as several customers, both men and women, glanced sharply at her when she spoke. ‘I am interested in books written on biological subjects.’

‘Biological,’ Mr Hunt repeated calmly. ‘You do mean biological and not botanical, now?’

‘Biological is what I mean, Mr Hunt.’

‘Good. Then we must look along this shelf here. Would it be physical biology, I wonder? Anatomical biology perhaps? Natural biology – or simply general biology?’

‘If I might have time to peruse your shelves, Mr Hunt,’ Emmaline replied, making a great effort to sound calm, ‘I think I shall find what I’m looking for.’

‘Of course, Mrs Swallow,’ Mr Hunt said with a nod. ‘But if you need any further guidance, please do not hesitate to seek me out. I shall be behind my desk over there. In the meantime, if I might suggest this volume?’ He took a book from the shelf and handed it to Emmaline. ‘We find it to be particularly well written and most educative.’

The book was titled
Haynes General Biology – a basic textbook, fully illustrated
. Emmaline was about to open it when she became aware of someone standing at her shoulder, so at once she shut the
book
and pretended to survey the shelves in front of her.

‘What are you doing here, Emma?’

‘Julius!’ Emmaline jumped, trying her best to look pleasantly surprised. ‘What brings you here?’ Once again she strove to keep her voice normal, even as she realised that the colour was draining from her face.

‘Nothing.’ Julius shrugged, trying to see what Emmaline was holding. ‘I saw the carriage in the main street, with your maid sitting in it alone—’

‘I told her to wait for me,’ Emmaline interrupted, anxious to establish an alibi of sorts. ‘She had an errand to run so I told her to wait in the carriage. Besides, I didn’t want Mr Hunt’s shop to be crowded out with people who were not customers. It is perfectly safe to be alone in a bookshop.’

‘Yes, of course. I only called in, not knowing you would be here. I was on my way back to the offices, which as you know lie at the end of this street.’

‘Of course.’ Emmaline smiled fixedly, having quite forgotten the proximity of Julius Aubrey Ltd. ‘It’s all right, Julius. I wasn’t going to call on you, you need not be concerned.’

‘So, what is the reason for your being here, Emma? I would imagine you still have plenty to read at home, surely?’

‘I …’ Emmaline began, trying to think as quickly as she could. ‘I read in your newspaper about a – about a new anthology of Alfred Lord Tennyson’s poems—’

‘You will hardly find them on the scientific shelves, I would have thought,’ Julius cut in, staring at the titles in front of him. ‘Might I see what you have selected?’

He put out his hand for the volume that Emmaline was still hugging to her chest just as Mr Hunt arrived back on the scene with an armful of books. If he had been the Archangel Gabriel himself he could not have been more welcome.

‘Ah, good morning, sir,’ he said to Julius, giving him a warm smile. ‘How delightful to see you here, and in such pretty company!’

‘Mr Hunt. Good day to you.’

‘Ah, I gather you two know each other, Mr Aubrey,’ Mr Hunt continued with a nod in Emmaline’s direction.

‘Yes, we have met,’ his handsome customer replied, laughing. ‘We are indeed known to each other, since this lady is my wife!’

‘Then you will be aware that she is a lady of impeccable taste,’ Mr Hunt said, a little too slowly, as Emmaline gave him a look that reminded him of a frightened animal caught in some hideous trap. ‘I have been helping her with a selection of books. Allow me, madam – that volume you are holding is not the anthology you were after at all. How silly of me. Here …’

The bookseller, having deftly removed the biology text book from Emmaline’s hands, tucked it under one of his arms and handed her a red and gold leather-bound volume in its stead. ‘I
will
fetch you the Tennyson anthology as well,’ he added, having obviously overheard the end of their conversation. ‘But if you have not read Robert Browning, I would very much recommend this volume.’

‘Thank you, Mr Hunt, you are too kind,’ Emmaline said, doing her best to hold out a steady gloved hand to take the book and giving him a tremulous smile. ‘I am sure everything will be much easier once I know my way around your fine shop.’

‘I too am sure it will be.’ Mr Hunt smiled back at her. ‘But just remember, if you need anything, I am at your service – Mr Aubrey?’

He bowed at Julius, who returned the compliment. ‘Mr Hunt.’

The bookseller departed, leaving Julius alone with Emmaline. He took the slim volume out of her hand and examined the spine. ‘
The Ring and the Book
. Good. That is one I have not read so far either, so if I may? After you have finished, of course.’

‘Of course you may, Julius,’ Emmaline replied. ‘I had not realised you were an admirer of Mr Browning.’

‘I vastly prefer him to Tennyson, I assure you. Tennyson is a fine epic poet, no doubt about that. But Robert Browning has much greater profundity. Have you finished here now?’