The Land of Summer Read online

  She thought of Bray, of his warmth and kindness. He spoke of poetry, not of wine or food, as Julius was now doing, asking about some choice of wine, asking yet again if the fish was fresh. The servants hurrying forward and backward, dishes being placed, endlessly and it seemed to her so often pointlessly, never finished, except downstairs in the kitchens where they were enjoyed a great deal more than they were above stairs, even by Cook’s cat.

  ‘Very well, Julius, if it is not interesting we will cease to talk about it.’

  There was a long silence broken only by the sounds of knives and forks on plates, of servants moving across the carpet, of the long-case clock striking eight o’clock of a long, long evening. Emmaline thought of her poetry, of her notebook, of the excitement of the bookshop and all that had happened there, and she sighed inwardly, longing to be back there, away from the grandeur of Park House, with Bray and his eager looks, with Mr Tully and his plans, longing to see those words by a Lady.

  ‘You’re still looking very pale, Emma,’ Julius said when he finally joined her in the drawing room after dinner. ‘I think we should ask the good doctor to visit you again in the morning. You really have very little colour.’

  ‘I have always been pale, Julius. I was pale as a child, and so I suppose I shall always be a pale person, wouldn’t you say?’ She put down her sewing. ‘May we continue talking about your past, Julius, or would that still be irritating to you?’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘You might as well have done, Julius.’

  ‘Then there you have your answer.’

  ‘So where did you grow up, Julius?’

  ‘I think you already know,’ he said finally, after an absurdly long silence.

  ‘So let me see if I am right …’

  ‘I was brought up in France,’ he said. ‘I was born in Sussex, where my father had his studio, and then – then my mother moved to France and took her children with her. She lived in the Loire valley not far from Vendôme, which is where I grew up.’

  ‘And which is why you speak French?’

  ‘Every educated Englishman speaks French.’ Julius shrugged his shoulders and sighed, as if the whole subject of himself was so tedious that he could hardly bear to go on talking about it. ‘Apparently my father insisted that we were not to be educated in France so I was sent to a school in Surrey, and then another in Dorset, and used to come home – used to go home to the Loire valley in my holidays.’

  ‘And your father? He wasn’t living in France, then? Or was he? Or did he—’

  ‘No, Emma.’ Julius sighed again. ‘You know better than that.’ He looked down the table at her and shook his head. ‘How could my father be living in France when his business was here?’

  ‘Not when you were a little boy, surely?’

  Julius looked up, and from his expression and tone of voice Emmaline knew she had touched a raw nerve.

  ‘My mother left my father. She walked out on him, taking her family with her, back to France. My father was a very unfaithful man, a philanderer. He was always unfaithful – with his models – when he was painting. Then when he started up his business he was unfaithful all over the place, with his clients’ wives, with their daughters, with their mistresses.’ Julius suddenly looked straight at Emmaline. ‘My father was a rascal,’ he said. ‘And yet because he had charm, everybody loved him.’

  ‘And you, Julius? Did you love him?’

  ‘I tried my best not to. It was difficult when I saw how lonely my mother was. I suppose as a small boy I hated him a great deal of the time, his profligate ways, his selfishness. I particularly hated him when he said I wasn’t to be a painter. That I was to go into the business with him and take over after him – but I didn’t. Not for a long time. When I finally left school I stayed in France and painted. It was only after he died that I found he had left me the business – all of it – and money was a bit short. I needed money quite badly to make sure my mother was properly cared for. I wanted to ensure she had the very best doctors and care that could be afforded, which is what she has had.’

  ‘And I suppose the journey to America, to visit us in Massachusetts—’

  ‘The journey? Oh yes, it was business. First and foremost. Apparently we are beginning to do very well over there. In America. The business.’

  ‘Have you not thought of bringing your mother to England?’

  ‘My mother is French, Emma. She was born in the Loire. She doesn’t like England. She certainly didn’t want to die here.’ For a moment he was silent. ‘I think that’s understandable.’

  ‘So that is what has happened?’ Emmaline ventured, seeing the look in his eyes.

  There was a silence, and then Julius stood up.

  ‘You really do look pale, Emma. I think I will tell Mrs Graham to ring Dr Proctor in the morning – no, as a matter of fact, I will go to the telephone room and ring him myself. I don’t like to see you looking as you are just now.’

  Emmaline stared up at him, and even as he finished speaking it seemed to her that she was growing weaker, and paler, and that in some way that was what he wanted.

  After a while Julius went to the telephone room to make the call to Dr Proctor. As he was waiting to be connected he went through the notes left by the telephone about incoming calls received in his absence, noting particularly the one from an unknown gentleman staying at the Grand Hotel, Cheltenham, one Mr Dwight Freeman.

  Having booked a visit from the doctor for the following morning, Julius telephoned the Grand Hotel in response to the stranger’s request.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the receptionist at the other end of the line said in answer to Julius’s opening enquiry. ‘Mr Freeman was staying here but he left late this morning – no, sir, he left no forwarding address – and as you possibly know, sir, it is not the policy of this hotel to disclose any personal details about our guests, including any home address.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Julius replied, thinking it odd that someone who was visiting on business and apparently calling him for the same reason should up sticks and depart without leaving details of where he might be contacted, although on reflection, as he closed the door of the telephone room behind him, Julius supposed that if indeed this Mr Freeman was serious about contacting him then contact him he would from his next place of residence.

  Having examined his patient thoroughly once more, carefully checking the texture and colour of her fingernails, her tongue, and her gums, and the strength of the pulses in her neck, wrist and ankles, and having listened closely with his stethoscope, Dr Proctor then produced a machine that Emmaline had never set eyes on before.

  ‘Goodness me, doctor,’ she said, looking at the large clock-like dial attached to a length of rubber tubing to which in its turn was affixed some sort of rubber bulb. ‘And what in heaven’s name might this be?’

  ‘This, dear lady, is an instrument very grandly called a sphygmomanometer, this particular type having been thought up by some chap called Samuel von Basch, and it is for measuring the pressure of the blood in the patient’s body,’ Dr Proctor explained as he prepared to use it on Emmaline. ‘Recent findings have indicated that there is a regular and correct pressure for the blood in our bodies, and if this becomes excessive it can lead to progressive illnesses, such as damage to the spleen and to the brain and also to the heart itself, while if it falls too low the patient can be prone to severe lassitude and indeed regular fainting fits – and now you probably understand my reason for trying to get a reading of your own pressures, Mrs Aubrey.’

  In order to take the reading, Dr Proctor pressed the bulb on to the radial artery in her arm, explaining that he intended to hold it there until the pulse disappeared. A moment or so later he consulted the large round dial on the machine which he was holding in his other hand and nodded sagely.

  ‘As I suspected, my dear lady,’ he concluded, taking the bulb off Emmaline’s arm and putting the machine away. ‘Your pressures are a great deal lower than I would like to see, and this would
go a long way to explaining your constant faintness, and indeed your pallor. So.’ Dr Proctor stood up from his bedside chair to roll his sleeves back down, put his jacket back on and pack up his Gladstone bag. ‘So I think all in all, given that your general health seems otherwise unimpaired – your chest is absolutely fine, your heartbeat as regular as the workings of a clock.’ He waved his stethoscope at her before packing it away in his bag.

  ‘In the old days, of course, one had to do it by ear, don’t you know,’ he said. ‘And it was as uncomfortable for the doctor as it was for the patient, disgust in itself making it impracticable in hospitals. It was hardly suitable where most women were concerned, and with some – well, without going into details I’m sure you can well imagine the difficulties. So thank goodness for Samuel von Basch’s great invention. Good. Good,’ he repeated. ‘So now I shall go and find your husband to have a word with him as to my recommendations – which mostly will be to make sure you get complete rest and some fresh sea air. And plenty of iron, young lady – I want you to eat lots of liver and take the iron tonic I have prescribed. If you follow my directions we shall have you as right as rain in no time at all. Good day to you.’

  Finding Julius waiting for him in the drawing room, over a glass of excellent sherry wine the doctor informed him of the diagnosis he had reached at the end of his most extensive examination of the patient.

  ‘She is not of a very strong constitution, Mr Aubrey, alas,’ he said. ‘But please do not let this alarm you. There is nothing physically awry – no specific illness or disease that I can identify – other than a weakened pressure of the blood system, which as I have explained to you both can cause these various unpleasant and unsettling symptoms. However, if we feed the patient up with victuals that have a high concentration of iron and make sure as best as we can that she suffers from no undue tensions and concerns, because I do feel very much that patients who are subjected to unnecessary or excessive worry do themselves no good at all, no good whatsoever, I am sure we shall prevail. So peace and quiet and as much of it as possible, but above all a good dose of ozone, please! A good long dose of ozone, which in cases such as your wife’s we know to work miracles. So off to the seaside with her as soon as possible.’

  ‘Not now, surely, Dr Proctor?’ Julius replied. ‘In the middle of December?’

  ‘Sea air is good any time of year, my dear fellow!’ The doctor laughed. ‘And often in the winter, when it is particularly bracing, we in the medical profession find the ozone to be even more efficacious. Have you not found yourself that standing on the sea shore with a winter wind blowing a storm around you makes you almost intoxicated with the goodness of the air? I most certainly do, which is why I recommend any of my patients who are in need of a good physical boost to their systems to get themselves to the seaside with as little delay as possible.’

  ‘I see.’ Julius nodded, placing his empty sherry glass on the chimneypiece. ‘As it happens the Aubreys do have a place in Cornwall.’

  ‘Excellent,’ the good doctor opined. ‘Could not be better. The Cornish climate, while kinder and softer than ours, is still an immensely healthy one, so if you have a place there, so much the better. Mrs Aubrey could rest there as long as it takes her to recover.’

  Julius eyed the doctor and nodded before going to the door. ‘I shall see what can be arranged, doctor,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming out so promptly.’

  ‘As you know, the health of all my patients is paramount, Mr Aubrey.’ Dr Proctor picked up his hat. He walked to the door, his expression commanding, his tone serious. ‘So please do be advised by me. This is not a condition that is going to clear up by itself, and let us hope there are no future complications. Good day to you.’

  He left Julius frowning after him.

  So it was decided that Emmaline should be sent to Cornwall to benefit from the ozone, in the hope that in due course a seaside convalescence would help to restore her health and strength.

  ‘Are you to come too, Julius?’ she asked her husband when the decision had been made. ‘Or am I to be sent there by myself? I would find that a little difficult seeing I do not even know where Cornwall is, I am ashamed to say.’

  Julius smiled at her, produced a large atlas from the bookcase and showed her the lie of the land.

  ‘It’s less of a county and more of a small kingdom really,’ he told her. ‘A duchy, as it happens. Owned by the Prince of Wales, when he has a mind to remember it. Or the time – the time away from the racecourse or the card table – or the boudoir.’

  ‘I know nothing of your prince, really,’ Emmaline confessed, ‘other than what I read in your newspaper.’

  ‘I would not consider that a hole in your education,’ Julius said, lightly. ‘Now – see here.’ He pointed to a spot on the map of Cornwall. ‘My father built a house here. Nothing grand, you understand, just a place where he could go on holiday from his work, and paint if he had a mind to do so. This is an area called the Roseland Peninsula and it contains very fine stretches of coastline, very fine indeed. I used to go there sometimes as a boy for a few weeks in the summer.’ His face softened. ‘Good beaches, amazing cliffs, wonderful walks – the perfect place for a good dose of ozone. The house is about here – with a wonderful view of Veryan Bay and out to Dodman Point. Even in winter you’ll like it.’

  ‘Will you be coming down as well, Julius? Or am I expected to take the sea air alone?’

  ‘I shall come down as soon as it is possible, Emma. I shall certainly be there for some part of Christmas. When work permits – we have just had a couple of very sizeable orders that must be filled first – but when work permits I shall get down there, rest assured. A Mrs Carew keeps house. Cooks as well. Utterly reliable woman and a very pleasant one as well. You can take that maid of yours, and there are housemaids who come in daily.’

  ‘Agnes might not want to come. I have not asked her,’ Emmaline reminded him with a look.

  ‘Oh, Agnes will come, I promise you. She will not be parted from you. She is your little pug dog, is she not? And Mrs Carew will organise any other help that’s necessary. It’s a bit of a walk to the village, but since you’re going there for the air and the exercise that will all be to the good. And please – please do not look so disconsolate. Dr Proctor would not have advocated this convalescence unless he thought it absolutely necessary.’

  Confined to the house until all arrangements had been made for her journey to Cornwall and her stay at Gorran Lodge, Emmaline began to fret about what was happening to her book of poetry and what the exact plans for it might now be. Unfortunately, it was not possible for her to invite Bray Ashcombe to the house without giving rise to unnecessary speculation …

  ‘Of course!’ she exclaimed out loud, halfway through the reading lesson she was giving Agnes, and causing her maid to jump.

  ‘Course what, madam?’ Agnes wondered. ‘I ain’t said nothing.’

  ‘No, no, Aggie, don’t give it a thought,’ Emmaline said with a smile. ‘I have just remembered something I must do, that is all – and I want you to help me. I want you to take a note into town.’

  ‘To Mr Hunt’s bookshop again, is it, madam?’ Agnes enquired with a small rise of her eyebrows.

  ‘I think it better if you carry in a note, rather than my using the telephone, because I am not altogether sure that at this very busy time of year messages will get passed on with the greatest of speed.’ Emmaline finished writing her short note, placed it in an envelope, sealed it and gave it to Agnes. ‘You will need to take it in when we have finished this lesson, if you will.’

  She had suggested to Bray that he should call between the hours of 2.30 p.m. and 4.00 p.m., making it as clear as she could without giving the message any added sense of drama that she was expecting him in company. She suggested that if his sister was well enough now then she would be pleased to see her at Park House. When he received the note Bray understood perfectly well that he could not and would not be received as a solo visitor, but since he cou
ld not do exactly as suggested for a very particular domestic reason, he invited a friend of his, a Miss Lamb, to accompany him as if she were his secretary. He was of course delighted to be asked up to Park House, not only because he had some page proofs of Emmaline’s poems that Mr Tully had given him the day before hot off the presses next door to show her, but because he would be seeing the young woman who had already begun to haunt his dreams, and whose handkerchief he still kept hidden in his desk at the shop.

  Arriving on the stroke of half past two in the afternoon, Bray introduced Miss Lamb to Emmaline by way of a message on the card he handed to Wilkinson, and waited to see if they would be allowed admittance.

  After what seemed to Bray to be an uncomfortably long wait, a hiatus that was in fact no more than a matter of a minute or two, Wilkinson returned to say that Mrs Aubrey would be happy to receive them in the drawing room.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Emmaline said, after shaking hands with her visitors. ‘I was expecting to see your sister again.’

  ‘And most kind of you too, Mrs Aubrey,’ Bray replied, ‘to have invited us both up to see you. But sadly Arabella, my sister, is still not fully recovered, and has retired to the country, where I shall shortly be joining her. Miss Lamb here is to take my place, temporarily, in the bookshop.’

  He gave Miss Lamb an affectionate glance, which she returned in full.

  ‘Miss Lamb is a particularly assiduous reader of poetry. You might say she is a muse to every passing poet.’

  ‘A muse, truly?’ Emmaline gave Miss Lamb a considering look. She had quiet good looks, and such a shy manner that it occurred to Emmaline that there must be more to her than was perhaps revealed at first acquaintance.

  ‘She inspires so many of us …’

  ‘Well, that is charming, I am sure, but, Mr Ashcombe, what a coincidence that you should be leaving Bamford.’ Emmaline laughed lightly, indicating to her visitors that they might be seated. ‘I have also been ordered to leave Bamford for reasons of health, and to take the sea air.’