If nothing else, he’s a gentleman.
He sat down again, gazed at Emma, sipped his wine, and drank through his smile.
* * *
On the carriage ride back to Louisa’s, visions of the evening ran through her head: the seemingly endless parade of names and faces at the reception, the meeting with Bela Pratt, her introduction to Tom, the possibility of studying in Boston. However, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get Tom’s face out of her head. Was it because of his similarity to Kurt? Why does everything revolve around the face?
As the horses clopped toward the house, Louisa said little, her gaze turned toward the window, her hands clutching at her fur collar.
Feeling snubbed, Emma decided to clear the air. “May I ask you a personal question, Miss Markham?”
Louisa turned, her body clothed in sable, her face dark under the brim of her black hat, the only ornamentation upon it being the flash of white egret feathers. Her hostess said nothing, but Emma decided she was free to state her inquiry.
“What is your relationship to Thomas Evan Swan?”
Louisa stiffened and was silent a few moments before speaking. “We are the best of friends.” She turned back to the window. “Please call me Louisa.”
Emma watched as the large houses, their windows lit by the warm, rippling light of oil and gas lamps, slipped by the carriage. The air in the cab had grown cold, and she thought of curling up in the ornate bedroom; a fire, perhaps, blazing on the hearth; alone, again.
Louisa said nothing more about Tom for the remainder of the evening. After they had retired, Emma thought of him before falling asleep. She continued to see his face in her memory even as she returned on the Sunday train to Lee.
* * *
Emma—with the help of Daniel Chester French, Bela Pratt, and Frances Livingston, in her indirect way—was accepted to the School of the Museum of Fine Arts. At first, her mother balked at the cost of her training and the “fantasy” of an artistic career, but that was before Helen met Thomas Evan Swan in the summer.
“Such a fine gentleman,” her mother said enthusiastically after Tom had spent the weekend as a guest at the farm. “I like him—he will do well financially.”
Emma knew that her mother was endorsing him as a potential husband and that a doctor would offer stability to the family. “I know what you’re thinking, Mother, but Tom is a man, not an investment.”
Helen scoffed and turned away, muttering about the “obstinate blindness of my daughter,” and “you could do much worse . . . I’ll probably end up selling the horses to make ends meet. . . .”
When the acceptance letter came, Helen displayed a happiness Emma had rarely witnessed. Her mother suddenly was more than willing to accept the school’s opportunity, and Louisa Markham’s offer of accommodations. The prospect of having a doctor in the family overpowered her mother’s objection to any artistic career. Emma also received a stipend from the school and some financial help from Mr. French.
Everything fell in place for her move to Louisa’s in the fall of 1911. Her mother shed no tears when she left and neither did she. Emma felt more sadness for her cat, Charis, and the horses that might be sold, than she did for leaving home. She made her mother promise to take good care of the animals. Matilda, she supposed, might be able to keep Helen in check.
She headed to Boston with a large trunk containing most of her clothing and a few notable possessions, including her diary, and settled into the spacious room at Louisa’s with more ease than she thought possible. Their first night alone, Louisa brought up the subject of Tom, a topic Emma dreaded. However, if the two were indeed to be friends everything would be out in the open soon.
“Tom tells me he’s been to Lee several times over the summer,” Louisa said. “You didn’t mention that in your letters.”
Emma once again took in the splendor of the sitting room, the cheery fire having been lit to take away the September evening’s chill. As much as her father had planned for the future, nothing in the Lewis estate could ever match the opulence of the space she now occupied. If she would let it, it might become as familiar as a wonderful dream, one she didn’t mind living, one that signaled a new direction in life. On the other hand, how honest could she be with Louisa—if she was indeed to be called a friend—and not compromise the opportunity that had arisen?
She hesitated to answer, but knew that sooner or later their relationship would be out in the open. “I didn’t want to mention it.” She stared out the broad windows for a moment as a carriage passed. “Frankly, I was never certain how you felt about Tom—I thought there might be more to the story than you were willing to admit. I do consider you a friend—one that I don’t want to hurt.”
Louisa studied her with a look of earnest candor, absent of cold or calculating intent. With her back straight against the cushion, her feet crossed at the ankles, her body exuding a relaxed confidence, Louisa presented the perfect picture of conviviality. “I would never go against a friend, no matter how much my feelings might get in the way. What you and Tom have is between you and no one else. That is all I have to say on the matter—in fact, all I should say on the matter.”
Emma nodded, feeling drained by the topic. “Would you like to get something to eat? Perhaps go out to dinner?”
“Of course,” Louisa answered, maintaining her composure. “I do have one question of my own.”
“Yes?”
“Do you love him?”
She had to think for a moment, certain that Louisa would notice her hesitation. Did she love him? She liked Tom, found him pleasant, affable, charming, everything that Kurt was not—but where was
