The Land of Summer Page 22

  ‘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.

  For Emmaline that reflection was almost enough to deter her from doing anything more about getting her poems published. It seemed to her that the very action of engaging a lawyer could easily be misconstrued by the town gossips, and she could come to be seen as a woman whose marriage, already rumoured to be unsuccessful thanks to that disastrous birthday party, was now exposed as being quite pitiably unhappy.

  But then the excitement of the thought that she might see her verses in print overcame her, and pushing aside any feelings of modesty she determined that she would visit Bray Ashcombe and take him into her confidence.

  She knew she must not write to him on the matter because, as her father had always advised her, if you wanted to keep life simple it was best not to commit anything to paper. So, summoning up all her strength, she determined to fix appointments to see Mr Ashcombe and Mr Tully as soon as she was physically able, and to initiate the negotiations by confessing to the authorship of the poetry. With that in mind she wrote a brief note to Mr Ashcombe to the effect that she would like to arrange a meeting with him and Mr Tully to discuss the matter of her friend’s poetry as soon as it was possible. She despatched Agnes into town to deliver the note in person, and then sat happily in front of the fire sewing a new purse intended as a present for Mrs Graham.

  * * *

  While Agnes was away on her mission the telephone bell rang. It was a most unusual sound, since they currently received more communications via the Post Office and callers to the house than they did by telephone.

  Since Emmaline was passing the telephone room at the time she went to answer it, even though normally this was something she preferred to leave to Wilkinson who greatly enjoyed this privilege, answering the few calls they had had since her arrival at Park House with military precision. But this time there was no sign of her butler, so Emmaline closeted herself in the small room dedicated to the making and taking of telephone calls, lifted the receiver, and held it to her ear.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  An American voice answered, somewhat startling Emmaline.

  ‘How do you do? I wish to speak to a Mr Aubrey, if you please. A Mr Julius Aubrey?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emmaline replied, feeling awkward as she always did when using the telephone. ‘This is Mr Aubrey’s residence, but I am afraid he is not present at this time.’

  ‘When might I speak with him, please?’ the caller asked. ‘I am not going to be in this country long and I need to speak with him most urgently.’

  ‘Mr Aubrey is in France at the moment, sir,’ Emmaline said. ‘We’re not altogether sure when he means to return because he likes to leave such matters open, but he did mention something about the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘I see.’ The American paused, then, after clearing his throat, continued, ‘Am I speaking with Mrs Aubrey?’

  ‘Yes, sir, you are. And whom might I be addressing?’

  ‘My name is Dwight Freeman, Mrs Aubrey. I am a business associate of Mr Aubrey.’

  ‘I see. Would it not be more advantageous for you to telephone Mr Aubrey’s office? Not only is it a better place to catch him, Mr Freeman, but someone there might have a more precise idea than I when to expect him.’

  ‘Very kind of you, ma’am, but this is a confidential matter. A personal one, really, and I thought it more prudent to telephone his home. Perhaps you would be kind enough to convey a message to your husband from me, in case I fail to make contact with him or he returns earlier than expected? I am on my way to stay at the Grand Hotel, Cheltenham – and I would like to meet with him there on a matter of some urgency before I have to leave the country once more. Perhaps he would be good enough to telephone me at the hotel when he returns? Thanking you kindly, ma’am.’

  ‘I shall do exactly as you request, Mr Freeman,’ Emmaline replied. ‘And I must say it’s very nice to hear a fellow American. What part are you from, sir?’

  ‘Me? I’m a New Yorker, ma’am, born and bred.’

  ‘Really?’ Emmaline said, in some surprise. ‘It must be the telephone line, but I would have said you were from somewhere much further south.’

  ‘Is that so, Mrs Aubrey?’ the man replied after a slight pause. ‘And where might you be from? No – let me guess. I would put you down as a Bostonian.’

  ‘You are absolutely right, Mr Freeman.’ Emmaline laughed. ‘Completely so.’

  ‘Then forgive me for saying, ma’am, that perhaps my ear for an accent is even better than yours.’

  With that he hung up, as did Emmaline, still convinced, as she
wrote a note for Julius, that what she had heard was most certainly not a New York accent.

  She was sitting at her desk in her room checking her household lists after lunch when Wilkinson knocked and informed her that Agnes wished to see her.

  ‘Can it not wait, I wonder, Wilkinson?’ Emmaline replied, looking up from her notebook. ‘I am rather busy.’

  ‘She said it was urgent, madam,’ Wilkinson replied, standing in front of the closed door. ‘She seems more than a little upset.’

  ‘Very well, Wilkinson,’ Emmaline told him, not having the sort of heart that could exclude someone as nervous and sensitive as her young maid. ‘Show her in, please.’

  Agnes entered with a frown so deep that Emmaline was alarmed. The girl was chewing her lower lip with anxiety and twisting her hands.

  ‘Yes, Aggie? Has something upset you?’

  ‘Yes, madam,’ Agnes replied, all but under her breath. ‘But I don’t know as how I should tell you.’

  ‘Forgive me, Aggie. Do you mean you don’t know how to tell me, or whether you should or not?’

  ‘Yes, madam,’ Agnes muttered, frowning even more deeply and staring down at the carpet. ‘Both really.’

  ‘Only tell me if you wish to, Aggie. You must never feel obliged.’

  ‘It’s not that, ma’am. I never as feel obliged to you, ’cos you’re always so kind, like. To me. To everyone really.’

  ‘That’s very sweet of you, Aggie – yet here am I and we haven’t even started on your reading yet.’

  ‘You been ill, ma’am. Not the sort of thing you wants to do when you’re ill, like.’ The girl fell to silence, continuing to chew her lower lip and frown at the carpet.

  ‘So what is it then, Aggie?’ Emmaline asked gently. ‘It’s obvious something is troubling you deeply.’

  ‘P’rhaps I should have told Mrs Graham first. And asked her if I should tell you, madam.’

  ‘You can go and do so now if you wish, Aggie.’

  ‘I seen Mr Aubrey, madam,’ Agnes blurted out instead. ‘Least I’m as sure it were him.’