The Passions of Emma (23 page)
All the while she spoke she hadn’t been able to look at Bria, but now she did. Bria’s eyes were so full up with pain they glittered from it, and Emma felt ashamed.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I shouldn’t be speaking to you of such things.”
“Why should you not? Because I’m dying myself ?”
“Oh, no, no—I only meant one doesn’t talk of such things. It isn’t done. At least in my world it isn’t done.”
“It isn’t done much down here on Thames Street either.”
What they shared then wasn’t a smile, for what they spoke of cut too deeply. It was a quiet and profound understanding:
I know
.
I know
.
“Dying.” Bria said it flat out and simply, and Emma thought it was a word she’d been living with for quite some time now. “It’s a journey each of us has to make alone when the time comes, and
sure if that doesn’t scare us silly. Maybe because we’ve just spent all our lives doing everything possible not to be alone. Though it’s strange that we should feel such a way, since it’s what we are from our very first breath—alone.”
sure if that doesn’t scare us silly. Maybe because we’ve just spent all our lives doing everything possible not to be alone. Though it’s strange that we should feel such a way, since it’s what we are from our very first breath—alone.”
“I think there was no one more alone than Willie that day he sailed off into the storm.”
Bria breathed and the sound of it was like a sigh, only deeper. “Most times it’s worse, I think, for us who’re left behind. Left alone to endure life without the one we love above all others.”
For the first time since she had stepped through the door into this kitchen with its flowered wallpaper and smells of baking bread and buttercups, Emma allowed herself to think of him—Bria McKenna’s husband.
That night, that night, that night . . . Waiting for him there on the stairs, she had thought he was going to carry her off to a life of danger and adventure. But what she’d been was carried away by her own wild imaginings.
That night he had walked past her and up the stairs without another word. And she had stayed where she was, caught fast within the hall’s shrouded silence. Her thoughts had been caught fast, as well. Caught up still in those wild imaginings that he had come for her, when instead he had come for . . . come for . . .
She had waited, unmoving. When at last he emerged from the dark upper reaches of the house, Emma had started, as if she would run. But it was too late for that, and she might as well not have been there anyway, for he didn’t seem to see her. His eyes, full of love and anguish, were riveted on the woman he carried in his arms.
But at the bottom of the stairs he had paused and looked up. Bria McKenna’s head stirred against his chest, and his arms tightened their grip around her, although she didn’t waken. His eyes glittered up at Emma like shards of fallen, shattered stars.
“She is my wife,” he had said. “And I’m taking her home.”
That night, that night . . . She had felt like such a fool. She
couldn’t blame him, though, for she’d done it all to herself. She hadn’t even bothered to find out his name, let alone other simple details of his life, such as whether he was married. He had treated her differently than anyone else ever had before. He’d laughed with her and been a little cruel to her. He had treated her as a person, not some fragile figurine to be kept away from life, safe in a bell jar. She had become intrigued by him, and so she’d assumed he’d found her intriguing in turn.
couldn’t blame him, though, for she’d done it all to herself. She hadn’t even bothered to find out his name, let alone other simple details of his life, such as whether he was married. He had treated her differently than anyone else ever had before. He’d laughed with her and been a little cruel to her. He had treated her as a person, not some fragile figurine to be kept away from life, safe in a bell jar. She had become intrigued by him, and so she’d assumed he’d found her intriguing in turn.
And she had wanted him to remain a stranger, because it had been safer that way.
Yet he probably hadn’t thought of her from their one meeting to the next. He’d only wanted to distract her, the way one would a child, perhaps charm her a little, so that he could use her dock for his gunrunning without being arrested for trespassing. And that time in the meadow—that had been merely a whim; he’d said so himself. An opportunity to teach a spoiled little rich girl that foxes had families.
A child. A spoiled little rich girl. That was how he’d seen her, how he’d thought of her, if he’d thought of her at all. And as for what she had ever wanted from him . . . that she couldn’t even formulate into a thought, let alone put into words to describe as something real. What was real was what she’d seen in his face that night when he walked past her down the stairs, carrying Bria McKenna in his arms.
She had seen the look of a man who was watching his beloved wife die before his eyes, slowly, breath by breath.
Emma stood among the cattails and asters in the yard, with the cat Gorgeous curling around her legs. “Thank you for inviting me into your home,” she said to Bria McKenna.
But when she held out her hand, the other woman didn’t take it.
“Those things in your carriage,” Bria said. “I know they were meant for us. You meant to bring them here as charity for us.”
Emma’s hand fell to her side, and a warmth spread up her neck. “I intended no insult, truly. I only thought . . .” Her mouth twisted a little. “I guess I didn’t think.”
Bria searched her face until Emma wanted to look away, although she didn’t. “I’m mindful of your kindness in the offering, you understand,” Bria said.
“You don’t have to explain.” Emma waved her hand, her flush deepening.
“It’s my Shay. It would hurt him so if he thought I don’t trust that he can provide for me and the girls.”
“Of course. I mean, I do understand.”
“But I don’t want you to think it’s all about pride, mine and his. He
does
provide for us. It’s just that money and Shay haven’t always had an easy time of it. Oh, he makes certain to take care of me and the girls when the shillings and pennies are rolling in, but he’s forever giving such a good bit of it away. To the church, and to charities—orphans and widows and pretty much anyone who needs it more than we. And he gives to the cause, of course. Him being such the Irishman and not happy unless he’s dabbling one way or t’other in the rebellion.” She stopped to draw in a breath. “I don’t want you to think ill of him, of my Shay.”
does
provide for us. It’s just that money and Shay haven’t always had an easy time of it. Oh, he makes certain to take care of me and the girls when the shillings and pennies are rolling in, but he’s forever giving such a good bit of it away. To the church, and to charities—orphans and widows and pretty much anyone who needs it more than we. And he gives to the cause, of course. Him being such the Irishman and not happy unless he’s dabbling one way or t’other in the rebellion.” She stopped to draw in a breath. “I don’t want you to think ill of him, of my Shay.”
As she spoke her man’s name, Bria’s mouth softened and a lightness suffused her face, as if a thousand candles had suddenly flared into life behind her eyes. Why, she loves him, Emma thought, she loves him desperately. And she didn’t know why this should startle her so. Had she assumed that a woman who worked in a cotton mill and lived in a clapboard shack wouldn’t know of love?
The shack was on the water side of Thames Street. Behind it stretched the bay, shining flat and silvery like a pewter platter beneath the noon sun. Emma stared at it a moment, and then her gaze shifted back to Bria’s face. “Mrs. McKenna . . . would it be an imposition if I called on you again?”
She saw surprise come into the other woman’s face, and a certain wariness. “You’re welcome to,” Bria said after a moment, although unspoken was the thought:
But why ever should you want to?
But why ever should you want to?
“I do,” Emma said, smiling suddenly without calculation, and without feeling shy about it. “I do and I will.”
And she did. Not waiting until a week later, as was proper, but coming the very next day.
That time she found Bria on her knees at the bottom of the front stoop, stabbing a spade into the dirt. Bria had pulled out the cattails and asters and was now planting violets.
She tilted her head back, squinting against the sun, as Emma came toward her up the path. “I’ve time now to do this,” she said, as if she wasn’t at all surprised to see Miss Emma Tremayne coming to pay another call, and so soon. As if she was glad to see her. “Now that I’m no longer working in the mill and my brother’s idea of housekeeping seems to be to pat me on the head and tell me to go put my feet up.”
That morning Emma wore a dress of pink taffeta and lace, but she didn’t spare it a thought as she knelt beside Bria in the dirt. “What can I do?” she said.
Bria pointed to a clump of fleshy chickweed. Deep laughter lightened her dark eyes. “You could wrap your hands around that big boyo over yonder and give him a good yank. Pull him up by the roots.”
Emma looked at the weed as if she feared it would bite her. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll do it.” But before she did it, she took off her gloves and plunged her hands into the freshly turned flower bed. The feel of it, warm and moist, thrilled her.
The feeling stayed with her well into the afternoon, when she was scrubbing the dirt out from beneath her nails in her private bathroom with its stenciled tile walls and fixtures of sterling silver.
It was almost, she thought, as though she’d done something a little wicked, pushing her naked hands through moist, warm earth.
It was almost, she thought, as though she’d done something a little wicked, pushing her naked hands through moist, warm earth.
When she walked from the bathroom into her bedroom, she was startled to find her mother standing before the lacquered peacock dressing screen. Startled and a little frightened, as though she’d been caught out in her wickedness.
“Where,” her mama said in a drawl that was slow and thick, “have you been?” They were due for tea at Mrs. Hamilton’s in less than an hour, and Bethel was already dressed in a midnight-blue broché satin gown encrusted with thousands of shiny jet bugle beads.
Emma sat on the velvet plush stool before her dressing table. The red silk kimono-style dressing gown she wore gaped open, and she quickly pulled it closed. She felt strangely vulnerable, as if she were about to be stripped naked.
Bethel came up behind her in a rustle of stiff satin, and for a moment Emma’s gaze met her mother’s in the mirror, then veered away.
“You will give me the courtesy of an answer,” Bethel said.
Emma reached for her silver-backed hairbrush, but her hand shook and so she let it fall to her lap. She stared down at the dresser’s linen runner with its tiny embroidered primroses.
“I’ve been calling on a new friend of mine . . . a Mrs. McKenna.”
She wasn’t surprised to hear her mother gasp at that very Irish of names. They were considered a lower form of life, the Irish. Violent drunkards and lazy scalawags. One hired them to scrub one’s floors and to muck out one’s stables. One did not pay them visits and call them friends.
“She’s the woman I cared for here after she fell ill during the Queen of May procession,” Emma hurried on in the face of her mother’s shocked silence. “You know, Sunday last when you were so under the weather yourself and Uncle Stanton was nowhere to be found? I’m sure Carrews must have told you about it.” Carrews
was their butler and he told Mama everything, even though she sometimes pretended not to hear.
was their butler and he told Mama everything, even though she sometimes pretended not to hear.
Bethel waved away this explanation with a flutter of her white-gloved hand. “Are you telling me that you have paid a call on that — that . . .”
“Oh, well!” Emma said on a bright gust of breath. She traced the
E
engraved in the silver of her brush with one clean fingernail. “One sees the same people day after day and it can get to be so tiresome. It’s diverting to pass the time occasionally with someone not of our set.”
E
engraved in the silver of her brush with one clean fingernail. “One sees the same people day after day and it can get to be so tiresome. It’s diverting to pass the time occasionally with someone not of our set.”
Her stomach felt heavy and queasy, as if she’d suddenly taken seasick. She knew that if her mother were to forbid her to pay any more calls on Bria McKenna, she would be defiant and do it anyway.
“We shared a rather pleasant conversation over tea, Mrs. McKenna and I. She was telling me about the weather in Ireland. It rains a lot.” She snatched up the brush and began to pull it through her hair. “Rather dreary, I should think, but at least there are few surprises in it.”
Her mother paced from the peacock screen to the marble fireplace, kicking at her skirts with the satin toes of her slippers. “You can get such strange notions at times, I swear you must be a changeling, for you can’t possibly be a child of mine. A woman faints in the street and you stop to assist her, and that is one thing—although, why . . . But still . . . And yet it is quite another thing to take that same woman up as an acquaintance. You deliver charity baskets to the poor coloreds in Goree every third Sunday, but they would never think to invite you into their homes. It just isn’t done.”
Other books
Acts of faith by Philip Caputo
THE RIDDLE OF RAMSEY HALLS by Pippa Hart
The French Gardener by Santa Montefiore
No Present Like Time by Steph Swainston
Savages by James Cook
Love in Xxchange: Miles to Go by Bailey Bradford
How To Salsa in a Sari by Dona Sarkar
Air Ambulance by Jean S. Macleod
Thai Horse by William Diehl
Dave Barry's Homes and Other Black Holes by Dave Barry
