The Land of Summer (39 page)

Bray sighed long and hard. ‘Must I become a carriage horse? Must I draw the carriage for the rest of my life? Must I give up my muses?’

Emmaline stared at him. ‘Yes, Bray, I am afraid you must.’ She picked up the book of poetry and flung it into the fire. ‘What is this compared to human life? Nothing!’

To say that Bray looked as if he had been hit would be to say the least of it, but very shortly afterwards he became Arabella’s husband in a short service in a little nearby chapel, and, the union having been blessed, Mrs Carew, Agnes and Emmaline held a small wedding feast for them back at Gorran Lodge. It was a happy occasion, made a great deal happier not long afterwards by the safe delivery of a baby boy, brought into the world by the now sober doctor who had so reluctantly attended Julius’s unmourned dead brother.

Every morning and every evening Julius looked at Wilkinson with the same pretence of not caring whether or not there was any post from Cornwall, and every evening and every morning Wilkinson looked back at him with the expression of someone who was as bad at hiding that he had bad news for his master.

‘Nothing from Cornwall, I don’t suppose, Wilkinson?’

‘Nothing from Cornwall, no, sir. But there is a letter from Canada.’

Julius nodded. His sister. She wrote to him sometimes. It was always the same letter. The weather. The children. Her husband. Or, sometimes, her husband, the children, and the weather. She had not been able to travel to France for any of the family funerals, so now it seemed she was overcome with guilt, and felt that Julius needed cheering up, which he did, but not for the reasons that she imagined.

Dining alone, night after night, having to appreciate Cook’s efforts, going to his club some nights, drinking more than was good for him. It had been the same for weeks now. At least the weather was getting better. He stared out of the window. And Ralph was more than happy with the orders coming in from America, and the Parhams were more than happy with the state visit of the Queen, and she had been more than gracious about the improvements to Hartley. All in all, he should have been a happy man, but a lovesick lonely man was not a happy man, and he was all of that, and everyone around him knew it.

If only she would write to him, let him know something of how she was feeling, how she was going on, but he heard only from Mrs Carew, and her letters were about as illuminating as those of his sister.

Mrs Aubrey was going along very well. The spring weather was warm. Agnes was going along very well. She had made a cake for Easter, which being that it was so early this year they had
celebrated
with spring lamb, and all the daffodils were out.

Julius found he was treasuring Mrs Carew’s letters with the same assiduousness with which he might have cherished the letters of his beloved Emma, if she had written to him.

How the days dragged, when he was not at business, and the nights when he was not at his club. He occupied himself at these times with reorganising the house, banishing all the paintings that had been his father’s, repainting the drawing room in Emmaline’s chosen apricot, watching the eight coats of paint being put on, as if he was a little boy again and fascinated by workmen, talking to the painter all the time as he watched him, as lonely people do.

‘It will take time, sir,’ Mrs Graham told him, once or twice, and they both knew what she was referring to. ‘Time is the great healer.’

But time had not healed Julius of his love for his Emma, so why, he wondered, should it bring her back to him?

And then one day just as he had returned to Park Lodge resolved to sell the place, to start all over again in some out-of-town country house where he would have no memory of anything except the present, Wilkinson presented him with a letter, and it was from Cornwall.

Wilkinson immediately plunged down to the basement with the news.

‘Well, thank the Lord for that,’ Mrs Graham exclaimed as she sat at the top of the servants’
table
serving soup, and Mr Wilkinson took his place at the bottom of the table opposite her. ‘Any more misery upstairs and I was about to hand in my notice.’

She had hardly finished speaking when a voice bellowed downstairs.

‘Wilkinson! Wilkinson! Come up here at once!’

Wilkinson stood up, reluctantly, his napkin tucked into his collar, and ran up the servants’ stairs to the hall.

Julius was standing in the hall. His face was alight with emotion.

‘Wilkinson, she is coming home! She is coming back, for her birthday! June,’ he said distractedly. ‘Her birthday is in June. The roses will be out. We must start at once, to make everything as beautiful as is perfectly possible for her!’

Wilkinson was at pains not to look moved by the news.

‘Very well, sir, but might I first finish my soup?’

Everything that was ever known to be a favourite of Emmaline’s now came into play. Her favourite colours for the bedroom. (Her favourite colour in the drawing room was already present.) Her favourite scents, her favourite flowers – white roses – her favourite books of poetry, sent in by Mr Hunt of course. Miss Lamb, no longer a muse to poets, but a publisher’s wife, brought the books in specially, and set them about
Emmaline
’s bedroom with a reverence that was most speaking.

‘This is particularly her favourite,’ she told an attentive Julius.

Julius opened the slim volume by a Lady, and then quickly shut it. He knew those verses all too well.

‘I will put that downstairs,’ he said. ‘On the centre table in the drawing room. They are very beautiful, too beautiful to leave up here.’

The new Mrs Tully nodded. ‘I am so glad you think that,’ she told him. ‘I have learned some of them by heart. They speak so movingly of the human condition.’

Julius moved quickly away. There was still so much to do. The musicians to be hired, her favourite music to be played, the drawing-room furniture to be set about in such a way that dancing could happen quite naturally after a splendid dinner set about with her favourite dishes.

And then there was the new worry. Would her carriage arrive on time? Would the train bringing her from Cornwall crash? Would she be quite well?

‘Dresses! What dresses does she like?’

He stared distractedly at Mrs Graham, who was trying not to look tired out with his endless flustering.

‘Leave that to me, sir. Mrs Shannon helped her with everything before the wedding. I am sure she will be of a great assistance now.’

* * *

Mrs Shannon could not wait to be of assistance. Together with Mrs Graham, she sent for the top dressmakers and their models, and for several afternoons the good ladies were shown the most fashionable day gowns and evening gowns of the season, the most delicious-looking confections produced for their delectation. Gowns of silk and lace, the cut of which were positively faint-inducing.

‘I don’t know what it is but I have only to see such beautiful gowns and I feel in need of sal volatile,’ Mrs Shannon confessed.

‘Yes, indeed,’ Mrs Graham agreed, and having made a list of the chosen gowns, and their prices, she presented them to her master.

Julius gave the list a peremptory glance, hardly taking in anything, so distracted was he by choosing Emmaline’s favourite music with the leading musician.

‘Yes, yes, of course, have them all sent up.’

‘All, sir?’ Mrs Graham asked, astonished.

‘Yes, of course, all of them.’

There was a short pause.

‘But is there room upstairs, sir?’

Julius looked at her. ‘Well, if not, we will just have to make room, Mrs Graham. Mrs Aubrey must have everything. Everything!’

He went back to choosing music with the musician, and having done so he hurried out to the telephone room to telephone through to the jeweller that Ralph had recommended. And so
to
Park House came the jeweller with his large leather boxes, and Julius who had impeccable taste chose a sapphire and diamond set to go with Emmaline’s eyes, and that was all before he ordered her a new carriage and a matching pair of greys to pull it.

‘It will be a motorised vehicle soon, mark my words,’ Wilkinson opined, trying to look disapproving, while all around him flew in every direction to make ready for the great arrival.

Emmaline was now not just healthy, she was blooming. The Cornish spring coming early as it did, as early as the weather in the south of France, and quite as clement, had meant that her skin had taken on the colour of a peach, and her figure had filled out most becomingly – a fact which in view of all the new gowns gave Mrs Graham a momentary attack of nerves, which fortunately proved to be unnecessary, for as it transpired she had only regained her weight.

‘Julius.’

Emmaline looked round at all the smiling faces. It had been a long journey, broken by an overnight stay, arranged by Julius, so that she could arrive as he called it ‘bandbox fresh’.

‘Emma.’

Now it was Julius who was the pale one as he showed her round all the alterations, and took her upstairs to see all that he had accomplished there, before leaving her to choose a dress to go with the birthday necklace, which he presented to her
with
a shy bow, and for which he received a long and quite public kiss.

Julius tore himself away from her to make sure of all the arrangements, and then leapt up the stairs to his dressing room, no longer the gloomy place it had once been, with Wilkinson in attendance to help him do up his white tie, and pull on his tail coat, for his nerves were such that he could hardly brush his hair with his silver brushes, his hands were trembling so much. Eventually he emerged, thankfully before Emmaline, only to rush downstairs again so that he and Wilkinson could make sure that everything was as it should be.

Emmaline had been truly shocked by the changes in the house, so much so that it was a few minutes before she could say what she felt, which was that everything was more beautiful than ever. Agnes finished dressing her hair, did up the sapphire necklace and stood back to admire the deep blue and silver of her evening gown, which with its back interest and its flounces showed off Emmaline’s graceful figure.

‘You have never looked lovelier, Mrs Aubrey,’ Agnes told her, sighing.

It was no good pretending, as they both stood looking at her reflection in the cheval mirror, that there weren’t tears in their eyes, for both mistress and maid were all too aware that they had come on a long journey together.

Julius was standing at the bottom of the stairs
waiting
for Emmaline, with the servants behind him, as he had requested. They all clapped their hands as their mistress descended the stairs, and the musicians struck up the first of many of Emmaline’s favourite songs. It was a magical moment and they all knew it, but there was something more to come, something which Emmaline herself had requested in the letter to her
dearest Julius
in which she asked not only that they put the past behind them, but that they came into the present together.

Emmaline went into the drawing room and sat down on a gilt chair, as the music played on.

After a moment Julius came up to her.

‘Good evening, Miss Nesbitt. May I say how beautiful you are looking this evening?’

‘Yes, you may,’ Emmaline returned, fanning herself and looking round at the rest of the company for appreciation of her performance. ‘And who may you be, sir?’

‘I am Mr
Julius
Aubrey, and I would very much like the pleasure of your company all evening, and every evening, for the rest of our lives.’

‘You may have it, Mr Aubrey. You may have it.’

She reached up to Julius, and not caring one jot about the servants, the musicians, or the arriving guests, she kissed him very prettily, after which she stood back and said thoughtfully, ‘Yes, you see, how silly of me not to have known all along, it
is
all in the kiss!’

Postscript

To say that Mr and Mrs Julius Aubrey lived long and happy lives would be to say the least of it. They prospered as people who love each other and have learned from their past mistakes so often do. What they could not forget, and did not want to forget, was that each had come to know the other with a knowledge and admiration that perhaps only living through much suffering and many vicissitudes can bring. The strange outcome of such contentment was that Emmaline’s poetic inspiration left her, and no amount of encouragement from her husband would bring it back. Emmaline herself harboured no regrets, seeing her verses as a part of her past that she no longer wished to visit, and recognising that however beautiful a description of a waving daffodil might be, it could never really better the flower itself.

THE END

About the Author

Charlotte Bingham comes from a literary family – her father sold a story to H.G Wells when he was only seventeen – and Charlotte wrote her autobiography,
Coronet Among the Weeds
, at the age of nineteen. Since then, she has written comedy and drama series, films and plays for both England and America with her husband, the actor and playwright Terence Brady. Her most recent novels include the highly acclaimed
The White Marriage
,
Goodnight Sweetheart
and
The Enchanted
.

For more information on Charlotte Bingham and her books, see her website at
www.charlottebingham.com

Also by Charlotte Bingham

CORONET AMONG THE WEEDS

LUCINDA

CORONET AMONG THE GRASS

BELGRAVIA

COUNTRY LIFE

AT HOME

BY INVITATION

TO HEAR A NIGHTINGALE

THE BUSINESS

IN SUNSHINE OR IN SHADOW

STARDUST

NANNY

CHANGE OF HEART

DEBUTANTES

THE NIGHTINGALE SINGS

GRAND AFFAIR

LOVE SONG

THE KISSING GARDEN

THE LOVE KNOT

THE BLUE NOTE

THE SEASON

SUMMERTIME

DISTANT MUSIC

THE CHESTNUT TREE

THE WIND OFF THE SEA

THE MOON AT MIDNIGHT

DAUGHTERS OF EDEN