The Passions of Emma (10 page)
Outside, a gust of wind blew through the blooming lindens. A swirl of pale yellow petals grazed the windowpanes. And it came
over him again, that feeling of diffused sadness, like a tender place in the heart.
over him again, that feeling of diffused sadness, like a tender place in the heart.
“Better plan for rain this afternoon,” his grandmother said. “There’s a strong west wind blowing, and a west wind always brings wet weather.”
Geoffrey smiled and patted her shoulder. “I will,” he said. But he wouldn’t. All his life his grandmother had looked for signs in the wind and the clouds, and she always saw rain.
He left his grandmother to her obituaries and went, as he did every afternoon, to his library to take care of household affairs before luncheon.
The library was a beautiful room, with carved pine pilasters painted to imitate black marble veined with gold. And a round, arched fireplace with a real black marble mantel flanked by Tiffany glass bricks. Geoffrey thought of it as his sanctuary.
Which was why he was aggravated to find someone else sprawled in
his
Morris chair, in front of
his
mahogany and ormolu desk.
his
Morris chair, in front of
his
mahogany and ormolu desk.
Stuart Alcott leaned far back in the chair, tossed the hair out of his eyes, and crossed his boots on the green felt blotter. He had a cut-glass Waterford tumbler cradled in his palm. “Lord, Geoff,” he said. “What’s happened? You look like hell.”
The statement disoriented Geoffrey because he was feeling just fine, thank you kindly. Except for that strange touch of melancholy brought on by the blooming linden trees, all was right with his world. Indeed, all couldn’t be better.
His brother, though, was a different story. Or rather the same old story. “You’re soused,” Geoffrey said, “and it’s barely past noon.”
Stu tilted the tumbler at him in a mock toast. He tried to smile but it came out sour. “Gin and lime juice. It keeps away the scurvy.”
When Stu was nineteen their father had had him committed to the asylum up in Warren to cure his alcohol addiction. When he had walked out of those black iron gates nine months later, he hadn’t
come home to Bristol. He hadn’t come home for seven years, not even for their father’s funeral. A stay in the Warren asylum, Geoffrey thought, hadn’t stopped his brother’s drinking, but it seemed to have cured him of whatever real joy he had once taken in life.
come home to Bristol. He hadn’t come home for seven years, not even for their father’s funeral. A stay in the Warren asylum, Geoffrey thought, hadn’t stopped his brother’s drinking, but it seemed to have cured him of whatever real joy he had once taken in life.
Stu plucked a Havana cigar from out of the cedar humidor on the desk. Geoffrey watched his brother’s hands shake as he peeled off the cigar’s silk wrapper and clipped the end with the slender silver knife on his watch chain. Stu pushed himself out of the chair, lurched slightly, and bumped into an ivory inlaid chess table. A sterling silver rook rolled to the floor.
In the harsh light coming through the library’s French doors, Geoffrey took note of his brother’s bleary eyes, the sandy stubble on his chin. His tie hung like a noose around his neck. The collar of his sweat-stained shirt was open, and Geoffrey saw to his utter shock and disgust that its points were frayed.
Growing up, Stu had developed a love for fast yachts and faster horses, and a thirst for champagne and brandy cocktails. The world they lived in really asked very little of its rich young men, except that they exhibit good manners and dress well. But his brother wasn’t even managing that anymore.
Yet, still, when he looked into Stu’s world-wearied face, Geoffrey saw echoes of the charming, wild-hearted boy he once had been. The younger brother he had admired and envied, and loved.
Stu had made his wavering way over to the fireplace mantel where there was a brass vase of long spills for lighting cigarettes. He took one and then realized that the fire wasn’t lit. In their Hope Street mansion, the fires were always left to go out on Easter and weren’t rekindled until after Thanksgiving no matter what the weather.
Stu flung the spill into the empty grate. “Christ. Nothing ever changes around here. It’s enough to drive one mad.”
“There’s a match safe over there,” Geoffrey said, pointing to a rope-legged mahogany table that supported a brace of heavy old crystal decanters in their silver cradles. “And you may as well pour
yourself more lime juice while you’re at it. There’s been a veritable epidemic of scurvy in Bristol this spring.”
yourself more lime juice while you’re at it. There’s been a veritable epidemic of scurvy in Bristol this spring.”
Geoffrey recaptured the now empty Morris chair, settling behind his mahogany desk with a small, satisfied sigh. He rubbed at the scuff marks his brother’s boots had left on the felt blotter. He pushed the mother-of-pearl letter opener back to its customary place between the telephone and an onyx postage-stamp box.
When he looked up again Stu was smiling at him with flat eyes. His brother gave him another one of those irritating mock toasts, and this time the drink splashed over the lip of the tumbler and onto the cabbage-rose carpet.
“Hail the conquering hero,” Stu drawled. “All the yacht club and chophouse banter this past week has been about your wooing and winning the glorious Emma Tremayne.”
Geoffrey smiled as he moved the cut glass inkwell back to the center of the desk. He always felt a warm glow deep in his chest, followed by a little hitch of wonder, when he thought of how Emma was truly his now.
His.
His.
His brother’s return had perhaps precipitated his proposal to Emma—he had planned to ask her this summer, the Fourth of July, to be exact. But the way Stu had looked at her that day of the hunt . . . Geoffrey gave himself a mental shake. It was ridiculous, of course, to think his brother had ever had a prayer of taking Emma from him. Of the two of them, Stu had always had the better looks and the greater charm, but Geoffrey was the one with all the money.
He looked up to find his brother staring at him now, the drink in his hand poised in midair. “What?” Geoffrey said.
Stu widened his eyes and slowly shook his head as if moved by utter wonderment. “Good God. If you could have seen your face just then, when I said her name . . . One could almost believe you love her.”
Geoffrey wiped the corners of his mouth. “I . . .” He straightened his brown silk four-in-hand tie. “She . . .”
Stu threw back his head and boomed a laugh at the coffered ceiling. “My brother, Geoff. Still counting his words as carefully as he does his penny change.”
“I do love her,” Geoffrey said, and the words startled him coming out. “I’ve loved her since . . .” He spread his hands, flushed. “Forever.”
A strange look came over Stu’s face. Geoffrey could almost believe that whatever thought his brother had just had, it had cut deep.
“You’ll never make her happy,” Stu said.
“Of course I’ll make her happy.” He turned the humidor around so that its decorative brass eagle was again facing the door. “Why wouldn’t I make her happy?”
“Because our dear little Emma has always had much too much imagination. She might actually get a glimmer, on occasion, that there’s a whole other world beyond riding in a gilt and lacquered carriage with velvet cushions, eating oysters and sipping champagne, while wearing a ball gown from Maison Worth. And when that happens, she’ll end up doing something that will frighten you to death, and our world will destroy her for it.”
“What nonsense.” The mantel clock chimed, and was joined by the standing clock in the hall. Geoffrey took out his gold hunter pocket watch and nodded, satisfied that time was safely harnessed and under control.
He slipped his watch into his vest pocket and looked back up. “My Emma could never bring me anything but joy.”
“Naturally you would believe that,” Stu said, “since you have no imagination whatsoever.”
Geoffrey felt a flash of familiar irritation. His brother always made it seem as if being steady and reliable and responsible were character flaws.
“And you,” Geoffrey said, “have always exhibited an unfortunate tendency to put your own overwrought thoughts and emotions into the hearts and minds of everyone else. Just because you feel
this compulsion to rebel against ‘our world,’ as you call it, it doesn’t follow that the rest of us are secretly harboring similar longings. And I find it rather amusing that you can do all that while getting tight from drinking booze out of a glass worth more than one of my mill workers will earn in a year.”
this compulsion to rebel against ‘our world,’ as you call it, it doesn’t follow that the rest of us are secretly harboring similar longings. And I find it rather amusing that you can do all that while getting tight from drinking booze out of a glass worth more than one of my mill workers will earn in a year.”
Stu smiled suddenly and tossed back another healthy swallow of gin. “You’re right, of course. The rebel’s life is only romantic in the abstract, and a luxury I probably can’t afford. Which brings us around, again, and rather adroitly if I do say so myself, to the subject of money and my lack of it—”
Geoffrey cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I thought I had made my position quite clear on that. I can’t draw another check on your trust fund before the quarter’s end. As trustee, I’ve certain obligations to carry out the letter if not the spirit of our father’s last will—”
Stu slammed the flat of his hand down hard on the desk. “Fuck your obligations! Fuck you and him both. God, you’re as bad as our dear pater ever was—tighter than a nun’s pussy.” He caught himself up, drawing in such a harsh breath he shuddered with it. “Don’t make me beg, Geoff, for Christ’s sake.”
Geoffrey reached out to straighten the inkwell, which had been knocked askew again by his brother’s fury. There was no need for Stu to be spewing foul words like cow dung at his head. If his brother had exhibited some of those character
flaws
of reliability and steadfastness when he was younger, maybe their old man wouldn’t have tied up his inheritance tighter than a nun’s . . . whatever.
flaws
of reliability and steadfastness when he was younger, maybe their old man wouldn’t have tied up his inheritance tighter than a nun’s . . . whatever.
He looked up to say as much, when the library door opened and suddenly Emma was there.
Standing in the doorway, she seemed but a silhouette of a girl outlined in silver light. Then she crossed the threshold and her head came up. The stiff patent brim of the yachting cap she wore lifted to reveal her face, and his heart gave a leap of surprise, as it had been doing for as long as he could remember.
She was dressed for boating, in a navy skirt trimmed with gold braid and a shirtwaist with a big sailor collar. He thought she looked adorable.
He leaped to his feet and crossed the room to meet her. Her cheeks were flushed with color, and he hoped it was only the wind, and that her innocent ears hadn’t been sullied by his brother’s vulgarity.
He slid his arm around her waist, drawing her over to a maroon tufted-leather sofa. His palm pressed into her side, just below her ribs, and he could feel the give of her flesh, the gentle motion of her breathing. He was allowed that, he thought. Now that they were engaged he had the right to touch her more often and more intimately. But he had to be careful, for he wanted her desperately.
“My dear,” he said, his voice breaking a bit with the force of his feelings. “What a pleasant surprise.”
The face she turned up to him was as translucent as a tide-rinsed seashell. “I’ve just been to your mill, Geoffrey. It was . . . I can’t even think of what to say to you. I was in terror the whole time that the machines were going to run amok at any moment and eat the children.”
He was shocked that she had gone to the mill, for it was no place for a gentlewoman of tender sensibilities. No wonder she was so trembly; the noise and smells alone must have made her feel faint. This was all the fault of that foolish woman, bringing her dead child to the hunt last month. His dear little Emma had always had such empathy for all of God’s creatures, even the Irish.
He settled down beside her and brought his head close to hers. She smelled of lilac water and the sea.
He picked up the hand she had clenched into a fist in her lap, uncurling her fingers one by one. “No children are going to be
eaten
by anything. You’re allowing your imagination to run away with you.”
eaten
by anything. You’re allowing your imagination to run away with you.”
Stu made a sound that was halfway between a snort and a laugh. He had gone to lean with Byron-like negligence on the
mantelpiece, but Geoffrey was determined to ignore him. Rather, his gaze had fastened onto Emma’s face, onto her eyes, which had changed to the color of the sea reflecting a cloud-whipped sky. He was sure he knew her, but sometimes he thought he saw, deep inside of her, a thin white flame that was consuming her from the inside out.
mantelpiece, but Geoffrey was determined to ignore him. Rather, his gaze had fastened onto Emma’s face, onto her eyes, which had changed to the color of the sea reflecting a cloud-whipped sky. He was sure he knew her, but sometimes he thought he saw, deep inside of her, a thin white flame that was consuming her from the inside out.
She pulled her hand out of his grasp. “And afterward I had a very enlightening conversation with Mr. Stipple. He told me you pay those poor children a dollar-fifty a week. They can’t live on such a paltry sum. It’s ridiculous and cruel of anyone to think they can.”
“It’s hardly a paltry sum to them. They were born to get by on potato scraps.”
She had such a fierce grip on her parasol that her wrist bone shone white above the edge of her glove. She looked around the room, wide-eyed, as if she’d suddenly found herself in the wrong place.
Her gaze came back to him, and the flame in her eyes burned brighter, hotter. “I think I despise this side of you, Geoffrey Alcott.”
Stu snorted again. “Not only imagination, but insight as well. Deadly combination, Geoff. Deadly.”
Geoffrey tried to take up her hand again, but she pulled it away. “Don’t you think you’re judging me unfairly, Emma? Those people come here from their wretched country penniless and ignorant, and I give them work. A place to learn solid Christian virtues and the benefits of honest labor.”
“And what of the law?”
Geoffrey’s gaze had become fascinated with the way her lower lip trembled and her bosom rose and fell with her agitated breathing. He’d lost track of both his thoughts and her words. “Law?”
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