The Land of Summer (28 page)

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s you.’

‘I told you I was leaving early. I have to be at the port by seven o’clock because we sail at eight, and Weymouth isn’t exactly a stone’s throw from here.’

‘Sorry,’ Emmaline said, sitting up in bed and trying to tidy her hair, which had fallen loose. ‘I was fast asleep.’

‘Don’t worry about your hair, Emma,’ Julius muttered, frowning at her. ‘Looks very nice down. I’ll see you next week.’

‘Goodbye, Julius,’ Emmaline called out after him, but he was gone.

By midday Emmaline had finished copying out her short poems in her best hand. When she had done so, she put them carefully into a large envelope which she sealed with wax and addressed
Personal: Bray Ashcombe, Esq. By hand
. Then she summoned Agnes and bade her take the package into Bamford and deliver it personally.

‘Shall I wait for a reply, madam?’

‘Kind of you, Aggie, but I think not,’ Emmaline replied. ‘It will take some time for Mr Ashcombe to read what I have sent him.’

‘Very good, ma’am.’ Agnes nodded. ‘I’ll get Alan to take me into town in the pony and trap.’

Having nothing to do now that she had delivered the set of short poems, Emmaline took a bath and changed her nightdress and dressing gown for fresh ones, ate a light lunch by her bedroom fire, and then read and slept until Agnes woke
her
to tell her that Mrs Proctor was downstairs waiting for permission to come up and see her. Once she was fully awake and Agnes had tidied her hair, her visitor was shown upstairs. Dolly served them tea, Emmaline sitting up in her bed against a pile of down pillows, and Mrs Proctor sitting between the bed and the fire.

By the time the small talk had been dispensed with, such as how Emmaline was enjoying life in England, what she thought of Bamford, the latest fashions and what they were both reading, the two women were at their social ease, and Mrs Proctor steered the conversation round to a more personal level.

‘Your husband is away, I gather,’ she said, putting down her teacup, and carefully wiping any trace of cake crumbs from her mouth with her napkin. ‘France again? His mother bad again, I dare say.’

‘You seem very well informed, Mrs Proctor,’ Emmaline replied, trying not to look shocked that her visitor knew more about Julius than she did, but quickly recovering, not wanting Mrs Proctor to guess that she knew so little about her husband that she did not even know that he had a mother in France. ‘Although I imagine your husband must have said something to you?’

‘My husband hardly ever says anything to me, Mrs Aubrey,’ Mrs Proctor replied a little tartly. ‘And you must not be surprised about what people know in this town. It is a small society, and most of the talk even smaller. No, I heard
your
husband was going to France from the wife of someone who has a relative in the medical profession there. He is advising Mr Aubrey, and all is being done for your poor mother-in-law that can be done, I gather.’

‘That is very good to hear,’ Emmaline said, with caution.

‘It is just as well that Mr Aubrey is so conversant with French ways, for their treatments and attitudes are quite different from ours, but then since he lived there for so long, before he inherited this house from his father, it is hardly surprising.’

‘My husband lived in France before he came here?’

‘Did you not know that?’ Mrs Proctor looked at Emmaline, and seeing her inadvertently startled expression added: ‘Perhaps not.’

‘He may have mentioned it to me, Mrs Proctor,’ Emmaline replied, trying to dissemble even though she realised her reaction must have given her away. ‘But I didn’t think of it as having very much significance. What happened before we met, you understand, is something I am still discovering.’

‘You are so unlike me, my dear.’ Mrs Proctor smiled, keeping her eyes well and truly on Emmaline. ‘I have to know everything about everyone even if it is nothing to do with me. I would simply have to know why my husband apparently grew up in France and only returned here when his father died.’

‘He only arrived to live in Bamford then? Just after his father died?’

‘Oh yes, indeed. Before that the works, and everything to do with them, were some way from here, I gather. It was only when Mr Aubrey senior passed that they were brought to Bamford, and I understand are better for it.’ She took out a lace-edged handkerchief and dabbed her forehead with it, suddenly finding the room very warm. But then, she reflected, sickrooms always were. ‘You know nothing of the family history, obviously – perhaps by choice?’ Emmaline just shook her head, suddenly tired by the fact that everyone seemed to know more about her husband and his background than she did as his wife. ‘Mind you,’ Mrs Proctor continued with a sigh, ‘I knew very little about
my
husband when I married him. That is just how it was then. A match was considered for you by your parents, and if it was deemed to be a good one, the next thing you knew you were married – to a perfect stranger most of the time, so who am I to say? Of course because my family arranged my marriage they found out all about my husband’s background and upbringing and his status in society and passed it on to me much later, I forget exactly when. I just would have thought that in this day and age …’ Mrs Proctor stopped to consider her words and to shake her head, indicating her bewilderment with yet another sigh before continuing. ‘However, as I was saying, your husband’s return to Bamford following the gathering of his father was possibly
the
first time he had set foot in the town since he was a tiny boy.’

‘He can’t have been educated in France, surely? He has no trace of an accent – although he does speak French, and his accent sounds impeccable.’

‘I have no idea where he was schooled, my dear. In fact, like most of us around these parts I have very little idea about the family as an entirety, other than the fact that I gather Mrs Aubrey – your husband’s mother – disappeared with the children, back to France, which was hardly surprising since she was, I understand, French. Certainly in all the time I have lived here – I’m not a native of Bamford, do you see? I moved here from Gloucester after I was married – there has never been a Mrs Aubrey here in Park House until you arrived. Mr Aubrey senior had – he had a housekeeper who looked after his needs. She was a Mrs Watson. A very striking woman, you could say beautiful, and not at all one’s conception of a housekeeper. Yet she kept Mr Aubrey’s house and he must have been a very pleasant and interesting man to work for because when he died they say the poor woman was utterly distraught. She left here very shortly after the funeral and I suppose one must imagine she took a similar post elsewhere.’

‘I see,’ Emmaline said, trying to make sense of all the new information being given to her. ‘So Julius returned to Bamford – or rather came to Bamford – quite recently?’

‘When his father passed on there were rumours
that
the business was foundering, and that was why he brought it into less expensive premises here. As you can imagine, in a town as small as this, a town that is dependent on its industries and businesses, people’s ears are kept very close to the ground, and word had it that there was financial trouble at Aubrey & Aubrey. Yet now we gather things are looking up there, although we know no details as to the whys and wherefores, other than the fact that it might well have something to do with the firm’s being adopted by one of those American postal catalogues that are so popular over there, as well as all the new business that your husband has brought in through his connections to our large country houses. He is a most gifted man, as you know, so different from his older brother.’

Once again Emmaline found herself trying not to look astonished. Julius had an older brother? If that was the case, why had he not mentioned it before? Why had he only mentioned a sister? The same young woman who was perhaps the subject of the beautiful hidden portrait? If she had been able to close her eyes at that moment without exciting Mrs Proctor’s curiosity, she would have.

Having reached her conclusion, or at least her final supposition, her last throw of that afternoon’s cards, Mrs Proctor folded her hands carefully on her lap and regarded Emmaline, waiting for a reaction.

Emmaline knew better than to give her visitor the satisfaction of seeing her astonishment, but
she
was nevertheless able to ask her, most politely, if she could call another day. Mrs Proctor was the first visitor she had received since her indisposition, and she would be very grateful if she could now be allowed to rest.

Mrs Proctor agreed at once, tendered her apologies if she had overstayed her welcome, squeezed Emmaline’s hands in farewell and left, leaving Emmaline to try to make some kind of weary sense of all she had learned about the Aubrey family that afternoon.

Two days later the postman brought another letter to the house for Emmaline, and once again Emmaline found herself in the sitting room excitedly reading a note from Bray Ashcombe concerning her poetry.

In no way can I convey to you the intensity of my feelings at this moment
, the letter read.
I have just heard from the gentleman of whom I spoke to you regarding the possible publication of the verses you have so kindly sent me in order to seek my opinion, and I trust my help. Although I am excited beyond measure at his response I must say that it comes as no surprise, for having read the now finished verses written by your anonymous friend I know it is only meet and right that someone should be as keen as Mr Herbert Tully is to publish this poetry. He is of the opinion that the short verses he has now read (and I must tell you read again and again and over again) should be published at once as a collection. You being
such
an admirer of modern poetry will appreciate what a readership there is for publications such as this; we sell countless copies of small poetry collections here in the bookshop, as well as long single poems such as the ones you have now read which have been the subject of our discussions, as indeed do booksellers all over the country
.

How we set about this I am not sure, and I must leave it to you to discuss with your friend her wishes and her intentions. If she is agreeable there will be negotiations to be undertaken and a contract to be signed. In the understanding that your friend wishes to remain anonymous, I can of course act as agent for this agreement, consulting if not directly with your friend then at least with you, if I may. The poems would be printed here in Bamford in the printing works attached to the bookshop, works that were built expressly to print and publish works directly commissioned or encouraged by the bookshop. Mr Tully will act as the publisher, as he has done on many previous occasions, and will ensure the proper distribution of the booklet. Once an agreement has been arrived at it will only be a matter of a few weeks before we shall be able to see, read and buy your friend’s poems from such places as Mr Hunt’s bookshop
.

I do hope this gives as much pleasure to your friend as it does to me, and that we may meet soon and discuss this wonderful news
.

Yours sincerely
,

Bray Ashcombe

This time Emmaline realised she must be more measured in her immediate reaction, so, putting the letter aside, she remained seated in her place by the warming fire. Closing her eyes, she tried to keep at bay the excitement she felt welling up within her at the thought that her verses were going to published, and not just published, but published, distributed and read –
read
, she kept telling herself.

These poems that came to me out of the very blue – who knows? They might bring solace and comfort to those in the same sort of emotional distress as the author. They might enlighten and soothe souls in trouble and torment, they might ease the minds of those who think their plight is unique, and help them realise that this is something that many of us undergo – and that as long as we keep love and faith intact, there is always hope, because somewhere there is always love to be found
.

Once she felt she was calm, and her thoughts collected, Emmaline opened her eyes and began to consider how best to go about all the arrangements that would be necessary if the verses were to be published. She wondered if she should disclose the true identity of the author, or merely pretend that the proper authority had been settled on her so that she might act as her friend’s representative and sign the papers for her, her friend being in America.

No!
she told herself.
There is such a thing as a postal service and doubtless Mr Tully as publisher would insist on getting the signature from the original artist, in case of fraud or deception, even if it meant a
long
delay while the contract was shuttled to and from America
.

At last she recognised the pitfalls of her situation. In whose name would the agreement be made, and to whom should it be sent? Some mythical person, or was it necessary to bring someone else into the deceit? Whichever way she looked at it, it seemed that she was in an impossible position. Emmaline very soon realised that the only way was to make a clean breast of the matter, to confess to Mr Ashcombe and Mr Tully that she was in fact the author, having of course naturally sworn them both to secrecy, a confidentiality that could be legalised in any agreement they might draw up.

Inevitably, along with that decision, came a new concern – if she needed such a clause in a contract then she also surely needed a solicitor, or similar, to ensure that everything put before her was properly legal? Yet to engage such a person in a town as small as Bamford, and for the engagement to remain unnoticed, must surely be next to impossible? While the fact that a lawyer must protect the confidences of his clients was indisputable, there was nothing to say he could not disclose the
identity
of any client. Julius was known to everyone in Bamford, and it would surely only be a very short time before tongues in the clubs and bars were wagging, and the news would be out that Mrs Julius Aubrey had written and was having published poems that were, to say the least, of a very personal nature.