The Passions of Emma (46 page)
He could hear Emma in the bedroom, saying sweet words of comfort to his daughter. She hadn’t wanted anything to do with him, had Merry. And Noreen had gone next door to Mrs. Hale’s, to fetch the baby, and there she’d stayed. Apparently, she didn’t want to have anything to do with him either. Not that he could blame them. He hadn’t been around much to give his girls any comfort lately. Mother of God, he hadn’t been able to comfort himself.
Emma came to stand just inside the door, with one hand on the jamb. “She’s sleeping,” she said. “I put a hot water bottle on her feet so she wouldn’t take a chill.”
He tried to smile at her, but he couldn’t manage it. “You’re a wonder with her. A wonder with both girls, and the baby, too, and I know I haven’t thanked you properly. Sweet saints, I haven’t thanked you at all.”
He’d never known someone like her for being able to make her whole self look pleased whenever she was given the smallest compliment. He could see her pleasure pass over her face, like a flash under the skin, and spill out of her eyes.
It was only when you first saw her, he thought, that she seemed so haughty and unapproachable. Now he knew that was only a way she had of protecting herself from revealing how vulnerable she was. And every time he got another glimpse of the fragility in her,
he felt a frightening sensation of discovery. As though he was the first man to have seen this in her.
he felt a frightening sensation of discovery. As though he was the first man to have seen this in her.
She was showing that vulnerability now, looking around his kitchen, unable to meet his eyes.
“You’ve made coffee,” she said. “But you haven’t poured it.”
He sat at the table and watched her go to the stove. He watched her lift the blue-enameled coffeepot off the fire, watched the muscles tighten in her pale, slender arm. Her hair had dried, but strands of it had come loose to feather her neck. Freckles of rain pelted the windowpane, casting speckled shadows on her face.
She brought the pot over to the table, and he watched the way the curve of her breast pressed against her silk shirtwaist as she poured the coffee into a pair of tin mugs. Her head bowed, revealing the small bone at the nape of her neck. He wanted to touch the skin there at the back of her neck. To feel that bone and the softness of her skin beneath his fingers.
His hand clenched into a fist on the oilcloth. He pulled it down off the table and into his lap. He felt his own heart beating in slow, dragging thuds.
He’d never known this about desire. No—he’d known it once, long ago, but he’d forgotten it. That the hunger and the wanting can live in you, hiding, and then come out when you least expect it. When you don’t want it.
She set down the coffeepot and picked up the book he’d left lying on the table. The book he’d read throughout the long hours of the past night. He hadn’t been sleeping much lately. He’d slept so many years with Bria beside him, and now he couldn’t seem to do it without her.
He’d been a steady patron, surely, of the Roger’s Free Library these past weeks.
She turned the book over in her hands and read the spine aloud, “
Anna Karenina
. . . That one will make you cry,” she said, and then he watched the blush of memory spread like a stain over her
cheekbones, saw the pulse beating in her throat and her mouth part open on a shock of breath. He almost smiled.
Anna Karenina
. . . That one will make you cry,” she said, and then he watched the blush of memory spread like a stain over her
cheekbones, saw the pulse beating in her throat and her mouth part open on a shock of breath. He almost smiled.
“Not a big tough boyo like myself, surely. Might be it will make my eyes go just a wee bit soft, though.”
She blushed brighter, then she laughed, softly and shyly.
She turned away and sat down in the chair across from him. She picked up her coffee, but then set it down without drinking, and he saw a teasing light come into her eyes.
“Did you ever notice,” she said, “how inside the Roger’s Free Library, the books by male and female authors are kept segregated on the shelves?”
He watched the dimple deepen at the corner of her mouth, and he waited for what she would say next, knowing it would surprise him.
“It makes you wonder, doesn’t it,” she went on, “what those books get up to once the lights are put out and the doors are locked, and there’s no chaperon to be had for a song.”
He surprised himself by laughing. For so long he’d been thinking that he would never laugh again.
Smiling, she drew the mug in front of her and rubbed her finger around the rim. Her gaze flashed up to his, then down again to the table, engrossed in watching her own finger move around and around. “There’s another thing I’ve been meaning to speak with you about, Mr. McKenna.”
Don’t
, he wanted to say to her.
Don’t share any more of yourself with me, because it scares me. It pulls me into a place where I don’t want to be.
, he wanted to say to her.
Don’t share any more of yourself with me, because it scares me. It pulls me into a place where I don’t want to be.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, “about the problem of schooling for the mill children here in Bristol. Obviously, they can’t be attending any sort of lessons after their shifts, for they would be toppling over asleep at their desks after the long grind of the day. But I was thinking perhaps we could establish a kind of scholarship school that would pay the children to attend. That way their families could continue to have their income, yet the children
would get the education they will need to elevate their stations in life.”
would get the education they will need to elevate their stations in life.”
She looked up at him, and her vulnerability, her need to please him, was almost painful to see.
And it scared him. Mother of Jesus, it scared him. So that he couldn’t seem to keep the words from coming out of his mouth. “A scholarship school we could establish . . . And just who is this
we
, Miss Tremayne? Or are you meaning yourself ? You with your million-dollar trust fund fairly burnin’ a hole in your pocket. Are you thinking maybe you’ve found a way, then, to buy your way into our lives?”
we
, Miss Tremayne? Or are you meaning yourself ? You with your million-dollar trust fund fairly burnin’ a hole in your pocket. Are you thinking maybe you’ve found a way, then, to buy your way into our lives?”
“What a snobbish thing to say,” she exclaimed, her voice breaking. She averted her face, blinking hard, and he knew she was fighting tears.
“Aye,” he said. He felt his own face hardening and he wanted to stop, but he couldn’t. “I admit it.”
She had stood up and turned away from him, and he knew she would leave him now. He had hurt her, and he didn’t like knowing he could do that. That he could hurt her, and so easily.
But he wasn’t going to stop her from leaving.
He wished Bria hadn’t put the thought into his head: that Miss Emma Tremayne, one of the high and mighty Great Folk of Bristol, Rhode Island, fancied herself in love with the likes of him.
Because you can’t be told that someone is in love with you without it changing how you look at that person. You can’t help wondering what it would be like just the once to . . .
Maybe a man couldn’t stop the hunger, he thought. Maybe he couldn’t stop the wanting from coming, but he sure as bloody hell didn’t need to act upon those feelings. And if that meant not looking at her, if that meant staying away from her, he would do those things. If that meant not thinking about her, then fine, he could do that, too.
But he wasn’t going to let it happen . . . whatever it was.
The summer storm that had soaked Bristol’s first exhibition baseball game blew away during the night. Now the sky was duck’s-egg blue, with white, fleeting clouds, and the breeze wafted light and soft as feathers. But then, it would never dare to rain on an Alcott garden party.
The Alcotts hosted a garden party at their Hope Street mansion twice a year, on the first day of June and the last day of August. The tradition had begun in 1792, and every Alcott thereafter had carried on with it, each in grander style than the last.
It was one Great Folk tradition Emma had always enjoyed, and the Alcott gardeners had outdone themselves this year, creating a kaleidoscope of blossoms that seemed to twirl and change colorful patterns with the breeze. Emma walked the path that circled the marble fountain of cavorting cupids. She breathed deeply of the flowered air, which had just a hint of salt bay water underneath it to give it a tang. She lowered her parasol and let her head fall back, soaking in the sunshine like oil.
The parasol was plucked out of her hands and put back where it belonged, shading her from those disastrously browning rays. “Merciful heavens, child!” Bethel exclaimed. “What are you doing? I declare, you have positively
ruined
your complexion this summer. But there’s no need to add insult to injury now. And
here
, of all places.”
ruined
your complexion this summer. But there’s no need to add insult to injury now. And
here
, of all places.”
Emma resumed control of her parasol, resting it lightly on her lilac tulle-and-lace-clad shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mama. I shall endeavor to be more careful.”
Her mother gave her a dubious look and sighed. “You are a trial to me, Emma. All my children have always been such trials to me.”
The fountain tinkled like silver bells, harmonizing with the strains of “Claire de Lune” coming from the string quartet housed in the gazebo. Later, there would be tennis and archery, but for now
the guests were content to stroll the gardens and partake of the delicacies displayed on the damask-clothed tables sheltered by a blue-striped tent.
the guests were content to stroll the gardens and partake of the delicacies displayed on the damask-clothed tables sheltered by a blue-striped tent.
As they passed within sight and smell of the tent, Bethel gazed at it with a blend of yearning and aversion pulling at her face. As though the pâté de foie gras, the chilled oysters on the half shell, and the meringues with strawberries and whipped cream were all cruel lovers she both longed for and feared.
Emma thought her mother did look exceptionally young and pretty that sun-stippled day, in her pale beige satin summer gown draped with yards of creamy lace. But there was a languid, trembling air about her, as if she were on the verge of fainting.
“Mama,” Emma said. “Why don’t you allow me to bring you a little plate of something? Some lobster salad, perhaps?”
Her mother rejected the offer with a shudder. “I swear, Emma, sometimes I think you enjoy tormenting me. You know that if I get within so much as ten feet of that dreadful tent, I shan’t be able to squeeze into my unmentionables tomorrow without Jewell positively having to use a
crank
on the laces. And now that we know for certain your father is coming to the wedding, I don’t want to disappoint him. He should feel proud to display me on his arm.”
crank
on the laces. And now that we know for certain your father is coming to the wedding, I don’t want to disappoint him. He should feel proud to display me on his arm.”
Emma linked arms with her mother and leaned against her, which was the closest she dared to an embrace. “He will be proud, Mama, I’m sure of it.” Yet, she felt a tightness inside her as she said so. She believed her father would come, but she also believed he would go away again. What happens, she wondered, when you live solely for a moment that comes and goes, and you find afterward that nothing has changed?
She gave her mother’s arm a gentle squeeze. “But the wedding’s so long off yet, and in the meantime you are wasting away to nothing.”
“Nonsense. You are being melodramatic, as usual. Look, here is Mr. Alcott coming to fetch you. So that you may pay your respects to his grandmother, I don’t doubt—the morbid old wretch. Mrs.
Alcott, I mean, not your charming intended. Duty is a hard thing at times, I know, my dear,” Bethel said as she began to move away, leaving her daughter to the dutiful ministrations of her fiancé. “Yet it must be born with grace and a cheerful smile.”
Alcott, I mean, not your charming intended. Duty is a hard thing at times, I know, my dear,” Bethel said as she began to move away, leaving her daughter to the dutiful ministrations of her fiancé. “Yet it must be born with grace and a cheerful smile.”
But Emma didn’t need to pretend a smile as she watched Geoffrey walk toward her along a path lined with terra-cotta pots of ruby-red gardenias. He looked dashingly fashionable in a striped jacket and red bow tie.
“Emma,” he said, and he took her hand and brought it up to his lips, and she saw genuine happiness flood his eyes. Although he’d been away in Maine for most of the summer, every morning a perfect white rose had arrived for her at The Birches, always with the same message penned in his elegant hand:
“I am in despair that I cannot be with you.”
“I am in despair that I cannot be with you.”
“If you’ve come to coerce me into engaging in a tennis match with you, Geoffrey, I must warn you I positively will not do it. For the rackets you lend me invariably seem to have holes in the middle of them.”
He laughed and held her hand an extra moment, before letting it go. “You must come and admit to Grandmama that you are a failure on the court, for she is always insisting to me that you are perfection itself.”
Eunice Alcott, Emma knew, had never insisted any such thing. But she answered her betrothed’s perfectly turned compliment with a gracious smile.
Geoffrey led her up to the back veranda, where his grandmother was ensconced in a hooded wicker chair among pots of ferns and palms.
She was wrapped up in cashmere shawls, although the day was warm, and her hand shook a little as she raised her lorgnette to her face, but she gave Emma a sharp once-over and announced without any further ado, “I found Prudence Dupres dead in the paper this morning. At only eighty-seven, poor thing. Nipped in the bud.”
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