The Land of Summer Read online

  ‘You have been so kind, Mr Ashcombe,’ Emmaline said, coming to a halt. ‘On behalf of my friend, thank you. This is where I must leave you, alas – but you have been not just kind but so diligent, and I really do thank you, on her behalf.’

  ‘No, Mrs Aubrey,’ Bray corrected her. ‘It is not I whom you should thank. It is your friend.’

  Emmaline was about to turn away when her attention was caught by the unmistakable sight of the stranger to whose aid she and Agnes had come earlier in the day watching the two of them talking. She was leaning against the same window where Emmaline and Agnes first saw her arguing with the young man who was now standing beside Emmaline. Seeing her, Emmaline raised a hand in greeting, and after a second the young woman half raised her own in return, before dropping it in what seemed suddenly to Emmaline to be a gesture of despair.

  Bray, seeing this, frowned.

  ‘You two ladies are acquainted?’ he wondered, almost sharply.

  ‘Hardly,’ Emmaline replied calmly. ‘No, no, we only met this morning when I was on my way to the bookshop. The young woman in question was coming towards us on the street when suddenly she seemed to become unwell, most distressed, so naturally Aggie and I stopped to help her.’

  ‘I see,’ Bray replied with a nod, staring back at the window, only to see the young woman now waving and indicating something to him.

  ‘It seems that you two are also acquainted?’ Emmaline said, reading into the woman’s sign an indication that she wanted Bray to go and see her. ‘It certainly appears that she wishes to talk to you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bray said slowly. ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I do so hope she has recovered from her distress,’ Emmaline added, concerned. ‘She was really very unwell, even perhaps feverish, when we went to her aid.’

  ‘She has recovered, she is perfectly recovered, I do assure you,’ Bray informed her a little too quickly. ‘A passing malaise, that is all.’

  ‘So you two are acquainted?’ Emmaline persisted, despite the fact that she knew full well the answer to her question.

  ‘Yes, we are, Mrs Aubrey. Miss Ashcombe is my sister.’

  Emmaline could hardly contain either her excitement or her apprehension on the return journey to Park House. While Agnes sat religiously studying the alphabet book that Emmaline had bought her, her mistress stared out of the carriage window at the grey winter landscape and wondered what might be going to happen next in her life. She supposed there were two possibilities – when she sat down to write again she would discover that she did possess a natural gift for verse, hitherto unsuspected, or she would find herself sitting at her desk and staring at a blank sheet of paper, unable to pen another word.

  She gazed at the neat stone-built townhouses they were passing, houses in which other young women like herself were confined by society and by reason of their sex. How many of them, she wondered, would be sitting staring at a blank sheet of paper, feeling the same as herself? How many of them would be inveighing against the constriction of marriage? For, swiftly following on the possibility that she might have an unfulfilled gift for verse, came a truth. She would not be able to publish her poetry, she would not be able to publish anything, without Julius’s permission. It was a fact as unalterable as the colour of the sky, as Agnes’s finger moving under the letters of the alphabet, as the blue of her walking dress.

  Julius most certainly would not approve of his wife’s being a published writer, the sort of person who not only shows her emotions in public but has the audacity to do it in print. He would be outraged. Even the most famous female authors in England used male pseudonyms, or signed their work ‘by a lady’.

  ‘Yes, of course!’ Emmaline banged her umbrella tip on the floor of the carriage. ‘Yes, of course!’

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, madam?’ Agnes looked up in surprise. ‘Did you say something?’

  ‘Yes, I did, but nothing that need concern you, Aggie – at least not quite yet.’

  Emmaline smiled at the little maid opposite her in her black dress, and her black coat, and her little neat lace-trimmed hat. Her ‘friend’ would publish her verses, if they were indeed good enough to be published, as ‘a lady’. She would be so meek and retiring that nothing else would do.

  Her thoughts then turned to the conversation she had had with Bray Ashcombe, not that part of their talk that had been to do with the writing of verse, but the latter part, when they had passed the house of the beautiful young blonde woman who had been taken ill earlier.

  How strange that it had turned out to be none other than Bray’s sister whom Agnes and she had come across feeling so unwell. Yet the fact that it was his sister, Emmaline could not help realising, brought with it a certain sense of relief. If it had been his wife it would have been disappointing, for he had denied being married with such grace and sweetness that it would mean he was a very different sort of person from the man Emmaline thought she knew had he lied.

  Emmaline stared at the street outside, trying not to face the undoubted truth. If it had been Mrs Bray Ashcombe whom they had stopped to help, Mr Bray Ashcombe would have seemed somehow a lesser man, less the exciting young scholar, less the handsome young enthusiast. It was not that Emmaline wanted him to be a lonely bachelor, by no means. She just did not want him to be married. If her experience was anything to go by, marriage brought all kinds of complicated emotions in its train, which might influence his reading of her friend’s verse and colour his reaction to it, whereas if he was merely young and single, and not in the least lonely, then his enthusiasm for her poetry was, as it were, freely given, and could therefore be taken at its face value, which was considerable.

  By the time the carriage pulled up in front of Park House, Emmaline was in a particularly good frame of mind. She had met Bray Ashcombe and handled their meeting with decorum, being particularly pleased with the way she had not allowed herself to show how exhilarated and excited she had felt. Any show of emotion might not only have given away the true authorship of the verses, but, worse than that, have revealed to Bray much more about herself than she would ever wish.

  So, when George appeared to help Emmaline down from her carriage, she felt well able to give him a brilliant smile.

  ‘Thank you, George. What a lovely day it has turned into, has it not, after all?’

  George, still holding her hand, which in his eyes was no penance, steadied her as she climbed the shallow steps to the house.

  ‘It is a lovely day,’ he agreed, wondering whether or not she had heard the news. ‘On such a day one feels ready for anything, that is what I always says.’ But he looked up at the grey of the sky and shook his head.

  Emmaline nodded happily. George was right. She felt quite ready for anything now, anything at all.

  ‘Mr Aubrey has returned, madam,’ Wilkinson informed her as he took her coat from her. ‘He is in the drawing room.’

  Julius was standing by the fire smoking a cigarette, one foot propped up on the fender and in his hand the splendidly engraved invitation from Lord and Lady Parham, but he was frowning at it as if it gave him no pleasure.

  ‘Julius, you are home earlier than expected, are you not?’ Emmaline asked, crossing the room to greet him. ‘I hope your venture was a success?’

  ‘When did this arrive?’ Julius wondered, as if he had not heard her, still staring at the engraved invitation in his hand.

  ‘This morning. Why? For some reason you appear to be aggravated by it, Julius. Was it not a compliment to ask us, for Lord and Lady Parham to ask us?’

  ‘It just isn’t something I was anticipating, that is all.’ Julius tapped the card against the mantel before replacing it there. ‘And yes – yes, my journey was successful, thank you. I suppose we shall have to go to this.’ Once again Julius picked up the invitation and stared at it. ‘I cannot imagine why we have been asked. We are merely the artisans in the pack, they must have other far more important people they could ask, they should ask. But then that is the Parhams. The
y may be members of the aristocracy, but they make little sense out of their lives, poor souls.’

  ‘Perhaps the Earl and Countess are pleased with your work at Hartley, Julius? Perhaps this is their way of rewarding you, with an invitation.’

  ‘Well, you may be right,’ Julius agreed. ‘And yes, they were pleased. As so they should be. Mind you, it would not take much to please them as far as decoration goes. I might have advised them to slap whitewash fit only for stables everywhere, and they would have been more than content. They really are the oddest of people. The previous earl constructed a whole system of tunnels under the house for his sole use, the purpose being so he could wander from room to room or whatever without ever seeing a servant.’

  ‘My.’ Emmaline smiled, sitting herself down by the fire in order to get warm. ‘And what about the countess? I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she also has eccentricities.’

  ‘If it is of any interest, Emmaline, Her Ladyship’s main preoccupation is the breeding of ferrets.’

  ‘Ferrets?’

  ‘Yes, ferrets. They are like stoats, or weasels, and they are used for ratting, mostly. I am surprised you didn’t encounter any while you were there. On occasion she allows them to run quite wild through the place.’

  ‘I did see something I thought was a squirrel once or twice. So that was a ferret?’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ Julius replied without interest, and yet again he picked up the invitation. ‘I suppose we shall have to go, although I cannot imagine why Her Majesty should choose to visit the Parhams. On her way to Osborne, perhaps? Is it not about time luncheon was served?’

  ‘Did anyone tell Cook?’ Emmaline asked him, trying not to laugh.

  ‘Is that necessary?’ Julius asked in return, looking slightly astonished. ‘It’s only luncheon.’

  Even though it was only luncheon, Emmaline rang for Wilkinson to inform him that she and her husband were ready to lunch. Wilkinson nodded gravely and replied that he had taken the liberty of telling Cook this might be the case, so there should only be a slight delay in calling them to table.

  ‘I am so looking forward to eating English food again. I love French food, but there are so many rich ingredients,’ Julius confided, looking suddenly boyish and pleased to be home.

  ‘Is that where you have been, Julius? You have been in France?’

  ‘Yes, I was called to a château in the Loire which is the size of Windsor Castle and in total disorder. No one but no one knew where to begin, and in truth it really did not matter where we did begin, such was the state of the place. The Bastille would be cosier, and easier to alter.’

  ‘I wish you had told me that you were going to France, Julius.’

  ‘You do?’ Julius replied, giving her a puzzled look. ‘Why would you wish to know such a thing?’

  ‘I would like to have given you a list of some small items which you could have purchased for me, in particular some Breton lace, and gloves. French gloves are the very finest. And more than that, it would have been reassuring to know where you were, in case you suffered an accident.’

  ‘No matter,’ Julius said, consulting his fob watch. ‘I know where you are. I am afraid I have to go into Bamford this afternoon, I must have lunch as soon as is perfectly possible. I hate to be an imposition, but is it possible to eat very soon?’

  ‘We will eat as soon as lunch is ready, Julius,’ Emmaline told him in a firm tone, ‘and it is too bad of you to turn up as and when you think fit, having told no one of your whereabouts before. It makes life impossible for both wives and servants.’ As Wilkinson came into the room, she nodded at him. ‘Thank you, Wilkinson, we will go in, and many apologies to Cook from Mr Aubrey for not conveying to her at what time he wanted luncheon served.’

  Emmaline swept ahead of Julius, a small and naughty voice repeating in her head, I have written verses with which a young scholar is much taken, I have written verses with which a scholar is much taken. And because of them she was able to hold her head high.

  Julius followed his wife into the dining room, trying not to look as surprised as he felt. He did not know why, but Emmaline seemed greatly changed. Not outwardly, perhaps – her lovely thick brown hair was just the same, as was her slim figure, and she was wearing a blue day dress which he particularly liked, all that was the same. No, it was something else, something on which he could not put his finger, something of which he felt suspicious.

  Julius did indeed hurry through his lunch, not speaking other than to tell her he would be away again the following week.

  ‘Where might you be going this time, Julius?’ Emmaline asked, trying not to look relieved.

  ‘Same as last time, I imagine. Although I doubt if even Hercules would have taken on this particular task.’

  ‘I would really like to go to France with you,’ Emmaline remarked carefully.

  ‘Have you not been to France, then?’

  ‘I think you must know that perfectly well, Julius.’

  ‘I would love to take you to France, one day, but not on this journey,’ he said, half to himself.

  ‘Would you, Julius? Would you really?’

  Julius stood up without replying, so that it seemed to Emmaline that his putting his napkin down and walking from the room was a reaction to what she had said. Would you, would you really? Had it sounded all too much like a plea?

  ‘Will you be in for dinner, Julius?’ Emmaline called, but Julius was gone, replaced by Wilkinson, who had silently appeared through the pass door.

  ‘The master will be in for dinner, madam,’ the butler informed her, easing her chair out from the table for her as she rose. ‘I enquired before lunch, because Cook was becoming somewhat animated on the subject of Mr Aubrey’s coming and going, and he told me he will be in for dinner tonight.’

  ‘Thank you, Wilkinson,’ Emmaline replied. ‘It is possibly just as well one of us knows when Mr Aubrey will be in.’

  By the time Emmaline settled herself down once more to write at her desk in the bedroom the rain was flinging itself against the windows as if it was begging her to let it in. The wind was howling round the house, while the fire in the grate smoked and doors rattled in the draughts. Emmaline could not help shivering at the sound of the wind, because it sounded more and more like a person, a person calling insistently and often, someone needing her, someone wanting to tell her something, but who could it possibly be?

  To take her mind off such imaginings Emmaline opened her book of writings, and once again it was as if she was reading something from the hand of someone else, a total stranger, someone she barely knew. Yet it was perhaps because the poetry seemed to be written by another hand, in a voice she could not recognise as her own, that within no time at all she found herself beginning to write. At one point it was as if she was watching her pen move without any effort on her part, as if it was being held by someone else, and yet she knew that she was being swept along by emotions that came from deep inside, engulfed by passions and sentiments that arrived with a life of their own. She became so infused with the excitement of what was happening to her that when she stopped for a moment she found she had been writing with her bent forehead resting in her left hand and that the fingers of that same hand were damp with perspiration.

  For a moment she stopped, leaving her desk and sitting at her dressing table, where she carefully wiped her forehead with a handkerchief dipped in lavender water, watching the stranger who was staring back at her in her looking glass. Once she was cool again, and her heart had slowed to its normal rate, she returned to her desk and saw that she had written two whole verses of fourteen lines apiece, both of them with hardly a correction – a word crossed out here, perhaps, and another moved two spaces back and another to the next line – and it seemed as if the poem had just flown out of her, until looking at the clock she realised she had been sitting at her desk for well over two hours.

  She rang for Agnes and asked her to instruct Dolly to bring her tea up to her room, since she wished to continue writ
ing for the half-hour she still had at her disposal. Then she sat back down at her desk to do some further corrections until Dolly appeared with the tea tray. While the housemaid went about her business, Emmaline stood at the window watching the trees in the darkened garden bending in the force of the wind, their branches waving signals of distress as the gale grew in force and threatened to break them in two. Unswept leaves swirled in eddies at their base, while the rain continued to be driven hard against the panes. Emmaline pulled the curtains and asked Dolly to build up the fire before she left the room, and then she went once more and settled herself at her desk.

  She had hardly picked up her pen again when she heard a door bang along the corridor. Thinking that Julius might have returned home earlier than expected, she at once shut her notebook away, and went to peer out of her door and down the corridor.

  She could see that the door of his dressing room was open and there was a light burning within, yet the longer she watched, the less it seemed there was any sign of her husband. She waited, listening to the howling wind, that voice crying out for someone, that anguished lonely voice.

  All of a sudden the door of the dressing room blew wide open, seeming to acquire a life of its own, before trying to shut itself once more, and failing. It gave out a repetitive dull thud, as if the latch had jammed, and Emmaline hurried forward into the darkness of the corridor to close it. When she reached it she found that the latch was indeed stuck, and she could not free it with the use of just her finger, so she went into the room to search the dressing table and the top of the chest of drawers for some sort of improvised prop that would free the latch and put a stop to such an irritating noise.

  First she tried using one of her husband’s boot hooks, but the hook itself was too big to fit the latch so she searched for something smaller, finally uncovering a small nail file that she thought would be ideal, which in fact it proved to be. On returning the file to where she had found it on top of the chest of drawers, her attention was caught by something unusual covered with a cloth and half hidden between the back of the chest and the wall. Peering more closely from one side and lifting the cloth, underneath she saw a large picture frame.