Sharon Sobel (34 page)

“Oh, good heavens! She is coming back!” Emily clutched her aunt’s arm with one hand, and her thudding heart with the other.

“Impossible!” snorted Constance Clarkson, shaking her off. “I never saw a woman so determined on her course as your mother. She has spoken of this wretched mission of hers since before your father died, and is not likely to be deterred by any interference. Nor the sight of her only child crying at the docks.”

“I have not shed a tear,” Emily said under her breath. “But Mother is most certainly returning. Perhaps she forgot something.”

“A sense of duty to her daughter, perhaps? Financial obligations to your father’s hospital?”

“Dear Aunt, you must forgive her. I did years ago. Her calling is not to motherhood. Nor to domestic concerns.” Emily watched as Mrs. Clarkson pushed aside an elderly woman carrying an oversized bundle and argued briefly with a man in uniform. “Nor to delicacy of manners,” she added.

Aunt Constance laughed. “I can forgive her anything for having given me the care of you so many years ago. She gave up a most precious gift.”

The tears Emily could not shed for her departing mother now blurred her vision. Not sufficiently, however, to miss her
mother climbing over a bulky trunk and its straining owner.

“And yet she seems to be making her way back to us,” Constance continued, slowly and with a touch of annoyance.

“Dear child!” Mrs. Clarkson waved her hands wildly, slapping an elderly woman in the face. “I have almost forgotten!”

“Go to her,” Constance said calmly. “See what this is about, and let there be an end to it.”

Emily said nothing, but continued to watch in dismay as her determined mother cut a wide path through the crowd of boarding passengers. Heads turned in anger, and one or two gentlemen attempted to restrain her, but Mrs. Clarkson was not one to be deterred from a goal, no matter how unreasonable it might appear. So it had been her whole life, from the time she jilted a wealthy earl to marry a struggling medical doctor, through all her humane missions to the needy in Ireland and Wales, and to her present objective to establish a school for freed slaves in America. Mrs. Clarkson was an admirable woman, if an indifferent mother.

“Go to her,” Constance repeated, and pushed Emily forward.

“I almost fear her words.”

Constance laughed again, though Emily saw nothing in the least amusing about her mother’s apparent change of heart. Life in Mrs. Clarkson’s circle was always confusing, spontaneous, entirely disorganized, and sometimes dangerous. Plans were made to be broken. Social obligations were forgotten and ignored. Conventions were turned on their backsides.

Life proved perpetually eventful.

The problem was that Emily was not an eventful sort of girl. Like her calm and sensible aunt, she longed for normality, for quiet, for introspective afternoons spent in the parlor reading instructive essays or creating exceedingly fine needlework designs. Her friends and beaux were from respectable families and she always met with them in the company of Aunt Constance.

Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, as she looked up to answer her mother’s desperate cries, she felt quite alone.

“I have almost forgotten!” Mrs. Clarkson shouted again.

“Your ticket, Mother? Your books? Your sturdy boots?” Emily asked helplessly. What good could a reminder now serve, with the ship’s crew preparing for departure?

“Silly child, of course not! I am well prepared for my journey; you oversaw the packing yourself.”

“Then what is it, Mother?”

“A little obligation. I quite forgot a tiny promise I made to Lady Gray. You do remember her? She is one of the patronesses of your poor father’s hospital.”

“Of course. We dined at her town house on more than one occasion. Have you a message for her? A small gift perhaps?”

“Not quite.” Mrs. Clarkson looked vaguely uncomfortable, which was sufficient to make her daughter extremely uneasy. “Something I forgot to tell her.”

“Mother?” Emily hoped her stern tone was distinguishable above the roar of the crowd.

“I forgot to tell her I am on my way to America. I am sure it would not matter so very much to her but I promised I would take on the post of schoolmistress at her brother’s new mill school.”

Emily blinked several times, not sure she comprehended the point of her mother’s pronouncement.

“Lady Gray’s brother? He is patron of a mill school?”

“Darling, it is even better than that. He owns the mill.”

“And there is a school for the children who work there?”

Mrs. Clarkson clapped her hands in delight. “He is an enlightened man. He will not have five-year-olds running the machinery nor tolerate any similar abuses. Instead, he wishes to educate the children of his adult employees. Hence, the school.”

Emily waited patiently for her mother to continue, though fully aware they were running out of time.

“I am sure he is an admirable old gentleman, if I may use that title to describe a man who owns a mill. And I am sure he will be terribly disappointed you will not be able to fulfill your obligation to him. I suppose it is why you have trampled over your fellow passengers? Do you wish for me to write him of your defection?” Emily asked.

Mrs. Clarkson looked horrified. “You must not do that; he will be inconsolable. In fact, there is no hope for it, my dear. You shall have to go yourself.”

“I?” Emily’s cry most certainly was heard above the thrum of the crowd. “It is impossible!”

“Why so? If not I, why not my daughter? You have far more patience, and are even more learned. Besides, you have absolutely nothing to gain by spending every minute with your aunt.”

“I like to spend time with my aunt.”

“And you should like this more. It will give purpose to your life, my dear.”

“And my most immediate purpose shall be to inform Lady Gray’s mill-owning brother that there will be no teacher named Clarkson to run his fledgling school. If you prefer, I shall deliver the message myself.”

“Excellent, my dear.” Mrs. Clarkson started to back away. “As the mill is up north in Glenfell, your resistance might be softened by the time you get there.”

“Glenfell? Where on earth is …”

But Emily’s words were cut short by the interference of two bulky crewmen, who started to slip the gangplank from its supports. Her mother momentarily disappeared from view. Her voice, however, was indomitable.

“Excellent! You shall love it there. Take your aunt, if you will. She might be able to help with the little ones. And do give my regrets to Lady Gray’s brother. I am sure he will not be disappointed in you.”

And, so timing her exit, Evangeline Clarkson scampered up the tilting walkway.

“Mother!” Emily cried into the wind, as desperate as any abandoned child.

“Console yourself, my dear,” came Aunt Constance’s voice at her shoulder. “An hour ago, you were pleased your mother was leaving you.”

“I have had a sudden change of heart, Aunt. Now I find I want nothing so much but that she stay.”

On the day after Evangeline Clarkson’s triumphant departure for the American wilderness, her daughter sought refuge in the parlor she shared with her aunt. Comforted by its sensible orderliness, Emily knew she could gather her thoughts there so that she might compose a tactful letter of refusal to Laura, Lady Gray. And yet it was not as easy as she had supposed.

She could not doubt Lady Gray understood something of her mother’s character, for Mrs. Clarkson was ever known as an independent thinker. But she was also reputed to be a woman who remained devoted to her causes, and Lady Gray would have supposed the education of poor children to be one of them.

In addition, Emily must convey that she, herself, did not share her mother’s passions. She did not wish to leave her comfortable home, her gentle aunt, her kind friends. She liked her life just as it was.

Emily finally put her pen to the paper, and broke the point.

She examined the offending object as if it were a personal affront, and then calmly reminded herself that this whole business proved nothing more than a minor irritant. Why did she care what Lady Gray’s brother did, or what promises her own mother made?

She was not her mother, nor did she care to be. She had spent most of her life distancing herself from that erratic lady, who demonstrated her affection only in rare shows of attentiveness or interest. For Evangeline Clarkson, a daughter was simply not compelling enough to borrow time away from urgent causes; a grown daughter so unlike herself was an embarrassment.

Emily was only left to wonder why her mother thought her worthy enough to take on such a project.

Perhaps her mother valued her more than she had ever imagined. Her thoughts had just begun to turn onto this hitherto unexplored avenue when she heard Aunt Constance clear her throat.

“Dear aunt! I did not hear you enter.” Emily pushed back her chair and turned in her seat.

“You seemed very preoccupied. I would not disturb you, but for some urgent business. Mr. Tilden is arrived and wishes to speak to you.”

“Mr. Tilden?” Emily frowned. She, of course, immediately recognized the name of her late father’s solicitor, but had always before been summoned to his office on matters of business. What compelled him to call upon her now? Unless …

“Aunt Constance? Do you and Mr. Tilden have something to announce to me?” she asked mischievously. She had
always wondered about the relationship between her father’s younger sister and his oldest friend. Neither had ever married, and they certainly seemed to regard each other with affection.

Constance looked blankly at her niece and then blushed with dawning realization.

“Do not be impertinent, child. Mr. Tilden appears agitated.”

“So he should be,” Emily teased. “But I suppose I must see him, though surely his excuse for coming must have been yourself.”

“Do not imagine it,” Constance said under her breath, and let her niece pass before her. “He is in the library.”

Emily was at last persuaded of the proof of Aunt Constance’s denial, for no man would attempt to do any romancing in the dark, stagnant air of Dr. Clarkson’s abandoned library. Though her father had moved from his childhood home more than twenty-five years before, he had never found a convenient time to transport his collection of medical tomes to his own town house or hospital. His younger sister was left to the care of it and, several years later, to the care of his only child. Dr. Clarkson had treated the library and Emily with equal affection, noting from time to time that the dust settled on neither.

Constance always treated her brother’s possessions with care; after his death three years ago, that care had become reverential.

Emily reflected only briefly on these matters as she crossed the hall and pushed open the heavy oak door. Edward Tilden stood with his back to her, examining a book.

“Mr. Tilden? What a pleasant surprise!” Emily said clearly.

The man turned quickly, almost dropping the book, and stared at her for a few moments.

“Miss Emily. I am not yet accustomed to seeing you as an adult, looking the very image of your mother.”

Emily knew it was a compliment, for her father had often told her how he dared to court the most beautiful woman of the season of 1790, and how no one was more surprised than he when she accepted him over her more impressive suitors. She also knew her mother’s dark beauty had been exotic in her time, but was decidedly less desirable in 1819.

“I believe that is a compliment, sir. And yet there are few who would actually mistake me for my mother. Some say I seem years older than she.”

“In matters of responsibility, dear, certainly not in appearance,” Aunt Constance said reprovingly, behind her.

Something in their words seemed to affect Mr. Tilden most deeply, for he cleared his throat and loosened his cravat.

“Shall we move to the parlor?” Emily asked, wondering at this display.

“I am afraid … I am not here on a social call, Miss Emily. I have matters of an urgent—and unpleasant—nature to discuss.”

“Dear God, it is not my mother? Her ship?” Emily asked, and blindly felt her way to a chair.

“It is about your mother, but as far as I know, her ship remains seaworthy,” he said, and pulled some papers out of a case. “I will get to the matter at once.”

“Please do, Edward,” Constance advised. “You have near caused Emily to faint.”

“What I am about to say will not make her better, Connie.”

Emily only vaguely noticed the familiarity. “I am prepared for it,” she said.

Mr. Tilden looked doubtful, but went on. “I hope I am not presumptuous to guess Mrs. Clarkson did not discuss any recent financial arrangements with the two of you. It was not in her nature to bother with such things, and she readily dismissed me when I suggested we involve you in her plans. Therefore I felt it prudent to wait until she left for America to come. We could not meet in my office, because what I am about to do is highly unprofessional. My only excuse is that I consider myself a friend.”

“Of course, Mr. Tilden. Be assured we appreciate your efforts on our behalf.”

“I hope you know you may always count on me.”

“Edward, you are baiting us most unkindly. Please get to the point,” said Constance.

“Well, then. The point is that Mrs. Clarkson has diverted whatever monies remain from her husband’s investments and her own portion into the Free Home School in America. The house in which we are standing remains her property, and
home to the two of you for as long as you wish, but I must tell you there has been no allowance made for its care. Nor, I believe, for any additional expenses the two of you may have.”

“Edward …” Constance began.

“Connie, I should like to discuss a solution with you.”

“This is neither the time nor the place, Edward,” Constance said firmly.

Emily looked from one to the other, wondering how she could have trivialized what so clearly rested uneasily between them. That her aunt should have denied a lover for so many years was neither coquettish nor a game; the sudden insight did not make Emily feel any easier about the present circumstance.