Afternoons with Emily (59 page)

“Oh, my dear!” Aunt Helen cried. “I don’t want you pining away for him.”

So my attraction and my confusion in the time since I had returned from Barbados had been that obvious. “Do I seem to be the
pining sort?” I teased.

She would not be diverted. Aunt Helen laid her hand on mine. “My dear, you have had so much disappointment. First losing Davy,
and now, if Mr. Daniels is someone with whom you had hoped . . .”

“Dear Aunt Helen, I value Mr. Daniels for his enthusiasm and his knowledge; the foundation benefits greatly because he and
I work together.” It was not an answer, precisely, but it was the truth. My direct honesty must have reassured her — she knew
the truth when she heard it.

“I am glad. And much relieved, though it is a shame! Poor Mr. Daniels.”

“And his poor wife,” I added, meaning it.

Aunt Helen left my room, and I tried to return to my work. I had written to Roger a few days before to explain that I would
not be able to make the trip to New York until July, a full two months since we had parted. The delay was unavoidable: there
was too much to be attended to in Amherst before I could comfortably leave. And settling in until July would do Elena good;
she needed to become reacquainted with her Amherst routine before my leaving disrupted it. I had written, I think, with the
hope that his disappointment at the delay would evoke from him a fuller, more passionate expression of feelings than did the
two letters I had received from him since my return, both of which had been short and formal. It was too early to expect a
response yet, but I was certain that his heart was as hungry as mine for contact.

Then I laughed, thinking back to my afternoon with Emily. I had not told her I meant to leave again so soon, and thus I could
not please her with news that I was postponing my departure!

I received Roger’s letter a week later.

Dear Miranda,

I entirely understand the necessity of delaying your trip to New York. You have work to do and so do I. My trip to Barbados,
undertaken on short notice, left me with a good deal of unfinished business for the foundation and for other concerns. The
delay will permit me to neatly tie up these loose ends and devote myself entirely to the business of the school.

I hope Elena and your aunt are well.

I remain, yours

What was I to make of this? Roger expressed neither disappointment nor hope. Only the brief subscription at the end, “I remain,
yours,” gave any hint of feeling. Was he mine in any sense other than that of the formal letter writer? I sat at my desk,
the afternoon light streaming onto the page. The words blurred with unshed tears; I was confused, angry, hurt, afraid. I was
unsure which of these feelings was the proper one — mine was not a situation in which a well-bred, well-educated young woman
expected to find herself, and to whom could I turn for advice? Was it simply that the magic of our love on the island had
been just that — fantasy, dispelled by our return to the real world? Had we really imagined we would be able to carry on this
relationship? Roger was married, and I had chosen to become his lover. By Amherst standards, by the standards of the society
in which I had been born and raised, this was scandal. It was wrong.

But it did not feel wrong. Wrongness was far removed from my actual experience with Roger and the true nature of our relationship.
I had no interest in marriage per se: I would like to share my life with Roger and have my union accepted by the people I
loved, but as I had no desire to give birth to a child, I felt no hurry. Elena was all I needed, and I could mother her without
a husband. But what would the people I loved — Aunt Helen and Elena, and Ethan and his family — think of my relationship with
Roger? I might feel that I should be free to do what I liked with my own body, but the matter was not that simple. If Aunt
Helen could hear these ideas, she would likely lock me up and throw away the key! And Ethan! He would remove Elena from my
custody before my depravity could damage his daughter’s moral growth.

Loving Roger might not feel wrong, but it was dangerous. Perhaps, I thought, this was why his letters were so passionless,
so guarded.

But I so needed to confide in someone. At this moment I missed Kate sorely. There was so much we would be able to share now
that I had shared Roger’s bed — the delicate feelings Roger inspired, the wonder of the union. Kate might have been scandalized
by the circumstances of my love for Roger, but I could not believe my cousin would have shut me out entirely.

But there was someone I
could
confide in: Miss Adelaide. So I poured out all my concerns, my radical ideas, my fears, in a lengthy six-page letter. It
felt good to express these ideas even though I knew that, by the time I received a reply, my New York trip and its accompanying
anxieties would be behind me. I understood a bit about Emily’s need to write, even if the recipient would be unable to respond
to the immediate concerns of the letter writer. Perhaps I had judged Emily too harshly.

I left for New York on July 6. Roger had informed Alan Harnett that he would be happy to collect me from the train station
himself. Roger had taken rooms in a genteel boardinghouse midway between Washington Square and the Harnetts’ home on Rutherford
Street. The location was convenient for meetings, but I found myself hoping that Roger would be spending his nights with me.

As I reached the end of the train ride, I leaned against the high back of the seat and shut my eyes. I was grateful that I
had had a train compartment to myself for the last few station stops, as I wasn’t sure I would have been able to carry on
the superficial banter of strangers thrown together in such circumstances. I had been anticipating this moment for so long;
it was hard to believe it had arrived. I pictured Roger on the platform, tall and dashing, his hands clasped before him, as
I’d seen him stand countless times. What was he feeling? Was he as excited as I? As nervous? It was such a startling combination
of emotions that I felt nearly breathless.

With a great screeching of brakes, the train came to a stop. I tugged the curls at the nape of my neck and my temples, arranging
them in the soft tendrils that Roger had loved to stroke. I stood, smoothed the creases from my blue traveling suit, and adjusted
my hat. I took a deep breath and alighted from the train compartment.

The platform was crowded — men and women disembarking, people calling to servants for their luggage, porters darting in and
out of the milling travelers. I spoke quickly to the porter, indicating my large leather valise, and he set it beside me.

“Do you need a carriage, Miss?” the porter asked.

I scanned the crowd, wondering where Roger was. “No,” I replied, a little uncertainly. “I am to be met.”

The man tipped his cap, nodded, and vanished into the crowd.

I turned and stared back along the track. Was Roger waiting at the other end? It would be easy to miss him amid the throng.
As people boarded the train and travelers met their parties and left the station, the platform cleared. The train let out
a whooping hoot, and then slowly, loudly, in a gush of steam, it pulled out of the station.

My heart sank.

Could Roger have misunderstood the time? Or worse — had he decided that this meeting was a mistake, that our time at York
Stairs was a mistake? The cool formality of his letters since Barbados had prepared me to half believe such a thing was possible.
With Roger returned to everyday Chicago, had my willingness to enter into an unsanctioned relationship appeared to him in
a different light? Had his opinion of me changed?

I shook my head. Whatever I knew of Roger, he was not a coward. Even if he had second thoughts, even if he believed we should
forget what we had been to each other and return to a formal, collegial relationship, Roger would not announce it to me by
leaving me standing at the train station. I folded my hands and prepared to wait all night if necessary.

“Miss Chase!”

It was Roger’s dear voice.

I turned to see him striding toward me. I wanted to run to him and be enfolded in his arms, to smell his scent and learn the
lines of his face anew, but something, his expression or the formal way he carried himself, held me back. He extended his
hand and shook mine.

“A thousand apologies, Miss Chase. The carriage that lost its wheel and tied up traffic did not realize I had an appointment
with a very important visiting dignitary.” In one movement he had pulled my arm through his, taken up my portmanteau, and
turned me toward the waiting carriage. “Now, let us get you out of here.”

Bewildered, I let Roger hand me up into the carriage and give the driver his instructions. Then Roger himself climbed into
the carriage and closed the door.

He took the seat across from mine and looked at me for a moment, as if to memorize me.

“You are still lovely. Amherst agrees with you,” he said lightly.

How should I respond? I longed to reach across and touch him, to kiss him, to know he felt as much as I did. Instead I smiled
tightly, waiting to be guided by his behavior.

“Miranda, sweet Miranda.” Roger looked away from me, out the window. “I know we said — in Barbados we said many things, believed
many things would be possible. And perhaps in time they will. But for now, for this visit, I think we must be —”

“Colleagues?” I asked. There was a cold, empty space in me.

He looked back at me and smiled. “Always that. But . . . discreet. Working as closely as we must, surrounded by so many other
people, any behavior which might hint that we are, have been, other than just colleagues, would be dangerous.”

“Dangerous.”

“To the foundation. To our work. Your work. Even our friends would likely misunderstand —” He stopped and cleared his throat.
“I meant every word that I said to you, every gesture, every touch we exchanged in Barbados. It was not until I returned to
Chicago that I faced up to how our feelings jeopardize the foundation. For your sake, and for Davy’s, and for the sake of
the many children I hope that our schools will help, I hope you can be patient with me, and believe that, while once we leave
this carriage I will assume the manner of a friend and coworker, my feelings are as much engaged as ever.”

I pursed my lips to keep tears at bay. “Of course you are right,” I said after a moment. Had I not had the same fears myself?
But it was such a cold welcome, so different from the warmth I had dreamed of.

Outside the carriage, the streets streamed by in a ribbon of color and activity.

“It will be wonderful to see Alan again,” I said at last. “His letters are full of excitement.” As I said it I pictured my
former tutor’s boyish face, beaming with pride.

“He has worked very hard,” Roger agreed.

I reached out to take Roger’s hand, then thought better of it. “We all have. And there is much more to do.”

Roger took my hand in his and twined his fingers with mine. “We shall be very much together in the next few days,” he said.
He raised my hand to his lips, touched it gently there. For a moment the light in his eyes was all that it had ever been,
a bright flame that made my heart flutter. Then he released my hand. “And we are almost there.” It was as if a shutter had
slid into place, hiding the passion I had briefly seen in him.

The carriage turned onto Washington Square and halted at the front door of the school. For a moment, before Alan stepped forward
to hand me down, I took a long glorious look at our new building and felt a flood of joy that crowded out all my other confusion
and hurt. We were about to see a dream come true.

“Thank you for meeting the train,” Alan was saying to Roger. “So many last-minute details to see to, I fear I would have been
late.”

“Punctuality seems to have been a problem today,” I murmured.

“Well, we are all here now,” Roger answered and stepped back so that I could be first into the building.

I was at once struck by the light — warm, sunny, and inviting. In front of me was the central staircase, with a brightly painted
railing. To one side was a large classroom. “There are still a few decisions to make about fabrics and paint, as well as some
finishing of the woodwork,” Alan said. “But most of the structural changes have been completed. Here we took down one of the
walls.” He pointed. “So we can accommodate more activities in a single room. This classroom will be for the littlest children.”

An upright piano stood in one corner; our low tables and chairs were in the center. Brightly painted cubbies and trunks stored
the class materials.

“I love the whitewashed floors,” I said.

Alan ushered us through the back door. A high wall separated the garden from neighboring plots, and an ornate iron gate opened
into the alley.

Roger pulled a set of keys from his pocket, selected one, and opened the iron door. “You see,” he said, “it’s quite a wide
doorway, to make deliveries easier.”

“I see,” I agreed. For a moment I imagined a scene: the garden silvered in moonlight, Roger at the gate, me in a silken wrapper,
waiting. My eyes slid shut; I could feel his touch, his kisses, the humid air sliding across our skin as it had in Barbados.

“. . . still several small wrought iron benches to be placed around the garden,” Alan was saying.

I turned back to him. “How wonderful it is.” I smiled and stepped forward to put my arm through Alan’s.

We went back through the gardening pantry, as Alan called it, and went up to the second floor to two smaller classrooms for
the older children, who would have an easier time climbing the stairs. For that age group, we felt the class size should be
even smaller, as they would be beginning to develop their reading skills and would benefit from more individualized attention.
There was also a music room with another piano, with space enough to exercise and dance.

The third floor held a reception room for parents and guests, an administrative office, and a more traditionally designed
classroom for adults. Here we would train future teachers. And here Elliot Peck’s beautiful stained glass windows were perfect
in their setting, making full use of the unobstructed sunlight.