Authors: Leen Elle
Emy's came first, arriving only three days after she'd left:
Dearest Sara,
I wish to tell you of Clarendon, of Brook's university and how wonderful it all is, but I unfortunately cannot. Our carriage rolled into town not two hours ago and we've only just unpacked our belongings and gotten settled in. We were so eager to see the school today but night has already fallen upon us and it won't be possible until tomorrow.
However, I'm happy to say that even though the trip's only just begun, I'm already enjoying myself immensely. Our rooms are located in a wonderful little tavern in the center of town. I've never had a room all to myself before though, so it's rather strange to me. In Laraford it was Nora, Gail, and me. On Violet it was all five of us together. And in Brighton it was you and I. To be honest, I've never exactly wanted my own room. And it's still far less appealing in a busy city where my window graces the rowdy streets and I fear of pickpockets and thieves and murderers hiding in the night. But Brook has assured me that with his room only just across the hall I shall remain perfectly safe. If I grow fearful, I can jump from bed and knock upon his door. And if the whistling wind or the dangerous alleys outside my window make me tremble and grow fretful in the night, he even offered to lie upon my hard wood floors to protect me and alleviate my nightmarish worries. Such drastic measures will hardly be necessary, but I appreciate his kindness and his offer nonetheless. A more gracious and benevolent man I have yet to meet.
I fear I shan't sleep tonight, dear sister. Not for fright, but because my excitement for tomorrow's proceedings is too great. For near the entirety of our trip Brook told me of his high expectations for the festival. He divulged which painters and sculptors shall be present, whose work shall be represented, and which exhibitions he was most anxious to see. He assured me most animatedly of the school and the festival's brilliance and of that I have no doubt. Even if, for some unfortunate reason, I should never see the art myself, just hearing the joy and the excitement in his voice and the vivacity of which he explains such sights would surely make me just as content as if I'd seen them all myself. Never have I heard someone speak with as much expression and enthusiasm as he. Until we enter the festival, I fear my heart shall never slow its continual rapid beating.
From what I have seen of it, Clarendon looks to be, on most accounts, a fine, charming town. Its noise and chaos can be intimidating, but the beauty of the season overpowers such unpleasant factors. I do, however, fear for our poor Gail. She harbors a stronger heart than I, I daresay, and shall uphold herself better than I could in a town such as Wickensville. But I still worry of her happiness in such a place, especially when Nathaniel is not well either. If only you'd seen the look of it as I did the day we dropped her off. A more quiet, depressed, dark, and saddened place cannot be found. No one smiled there, not even the children. It was an unfortunate sight indeed. If you hear from her as I expect you shall, write to me quickly in case I do not hear first. She is not yet sixteen and I wish she weren't staying in Wickensville alone. She has Nathaniel, of course, but his presence is different than that of a companion or a guardian.
I desperately wish to know of his health as well. If he is looking just as ill as the last time we saw him, I must pray for poor Gail as well as he. She cares for him far too much to bear such a disappointment well. But I have faith in both the health of Mr. West and of our Gail.
I cannot wait until tomorrow. The sun shall not rise soon enough to please me. I promise to write to you of everything I see.
I hope all is well at home. Assure Mr. and Mrs. Lindsey of our safety and our arrival. Also, relate to Mary and Nora the contents of this letter and tell both that I promise to write again soon.
I'm sorry, but I must go now. Dinner has been served downstairs and our stomachs are rumbling already. Until tomorrow!
Your joyous sister,
Emmeline St. James
The following day, the postman arrived with another letter. But this one bore the address of Wickensville. It read:
Sara,
I hope all is well in Brighton. I'm missing everything and everyone back at the Lindsey's house already. Wickensville isn't quite what I'd expected. I could spend pages and pages telling you all about its depressing gloom and eerie silence and dark streets, but I do not wish to worry you. I shall only say that I strongly advise you not to ever set foot in this town unless you absolutely must.
However, I'm happy to say, for Nathaniel's sake, that the hospital here is wonderful. I've never seen one better. For the most part, the staff is friendly and inviting. The atmosphere is far brighter than that of its surroundings and the doctors have my respect in their education and their actions. Nathaniel certainly doesn't feel the same way as I on these matters. Within my first hour in the hospital I heard him complain that the nurses were petulant, the doctors were lunatics, and the food was a disgrace. But do not worry. I told him directly how rude, obnoxious, and ungrateful I thought he was being. Although he still finds plenty of time to criticize the medications and the room and the meals and the physicians (and on and on the list goes), since I've arrived I believe he hasn't been quite so contentious as before. The nurses assure me of that daily and beg me to stay as long as possible. As long as I stay with him, they don't have to deal with his complaints and I'm the one who's yelled at most. But I don't mind it greatly. The poor women have been abused, I fear, by Nathaniel's harsh critiques. For calming him down a bit at times (though the serenity usually only reigns after a lengthy period of quarreling) the nurses are most grateful and I'm happy to oblige them.
All that being said, it goes without saying that Nathaniel isn't quite so terribly ill as when we saw him last. Half of his voice has he returned, though it is raspy and often leaves him after prolonged shouting matches with me. He is no longer sitting on the brink of death, I'm glad to say, but do not mistake my words. He is far from good health still and each day I fear he is growing worse again. The uncertainty of his condition drives me mad. But the doctors are doing everything they can. He had surgery before I arrived, though he tells me it did him no good, and the doctors are continually trying new injections and new medications on his frail, weakening body. It's tearing him apart, I can tell, and dragging down his last bit of strength, though he tries to blame everything on the lunacy of the doctors and never mentions directly the pain and the weakness it's causing him and the destruction it bears upon his fractured mind.
He enjoys my company, to be sure, despite our endless arguments. And I'm glad I came.
I promise to write again soon if you'll do the same. So long!
Love,
Gail
In the coming days, several more letters arrived, all written in Emy's simple and rather pretty penmanship. She wrote to her "dearest Sara" and confessed that no words could express her current state of happiness.
The Clarendon Art Institute was incredible, the workshop Brook worked in was full of amazements and wonders, and the brilliancy of the festival was beyond her wildest dreams.
She loved the spectacular architecture of the exhibition rooms and enjoyed every moment she spent in Clarendon. The painters and sculptors and potters impressed her immensely. She had already spent a small portion of her money on a little watercolor painting that she planned on hanging above her dresser back in Brighton. With it, she had also received numerous pencil sketches and charcoal drawings from Brook. He completed so many that there were plenty to spare and he couldn't find a more worthy and thankful recipient than Emy. Each day in Clarendon, she wrote, was even better than the last.
Her favorite activity was visiting the showrooms of the more famous artists present. Although she rarely found that their talent greatly surpassed the other artists at the festival, she adored lingering among the wealthy and highly sophisticated guests. Although she and Brook could both appreciate a good work of art, they found it amusing to stand beside the rich patrons and hear them try to praise the work with invented terms and profess how deeply a simple painting could affect their very souls. They had no idea what they were talking about and it showed. Nothing could be more hilarious to Brook and Emy than vain, overly smug people trying to claim that they were emotional and respective of artwork purely for the sake of their own outward appearances. Sophisticated people never enjoy admitting their own faults, especially in an area as greatly esteemed as art.
Reading through the letters, Sara found
herself
exceedingly glad to hear that Emy was in such high spirits and she wrote back directly to tell her so often.
However, when Nora read through these same letters a few hours later, although she, too, was happy to hear of Emy's contentment in Clarendon, she noticed something that Sara had not. It was not something unpleasant nor was it certain, but it made Nora smile nevertheless.
She saw how excessively Emy spoke of Brook. Such an act was not surprising considering he was her only acquaintance on the trip, until one looked more carefully at the words she paired with his name:
"A more gracious and benevolent man I have yet to meet."
"Never have I heard someone speak with as much expression and enthusiasm as he."
"With each drawing I receive from him, my admiration of his talent and dedication grows."
"It seems that wherever we go Brook is able to introduce me to more of his mates from school and professors. With such an amiable personality and pleasing demeanor, it is not surprising that he should gain so many friends."
"Because he knows that I am uncomfortable in large crowds and I do not easily converse with strangers, Brook stayed by my side the whole of the night. I could not have been more grateful."
"There is no one in the world I would rather be here with than Brook."
And finally, in the very last of the several letters, Emy related an anecdote that Nora could not help but giggle at, considering Emy's bashful and reserved demeanor.
During an evening spent visiting the booths of amateur artists, a comment was made to Emy by an old, white-haired man with twinkling eyes and silver spectacles:
"The man assumed me to be Brook's sweetheart, for he said we strolled the streets with a look only lovers can posses. If Brook had heard I'm quite sure I would have died on the spot, but he was fortunately visiting a booth nearby and admiring oil paintings. Nevertheless, I blushed immensely and stammered when contradicting the man's assumption. He laughed and told me I needn't be embarrassed. Then, much to my surprise, he tore out a sheet from his sketchbook, scribbled something on the back, and handed it to me, refusing to accept any payment in return. It was a lovely little pencil drawing of winter in the countryside with snowy hills, bushy evergreens, and near a hundred little figures building snowmen, constructing snow angels and igloos, sledding down hills, and throwing snowballs as well as various other winter activities. The picture was highlighted with small bits of color on the hats and the trees and the scarves and the powder blue sky, but the majority of it was crisp, clean white. I adore it and could not profess my gratitude to the man enough. But it wasn't until that night, as I admired it once more, that I noticed one small detail that had escaped observation before. The sketch was titled 'Young Lovers Behind the Tree' and, accordingly, near the very edge of the paper, partially hidden behind a pine tree, was the subject of the drawing- two lovers sharing a chaste, joyful kiss. And on the back I found a bit of the man's scribbling that read 'To Miss St. James, a young lover behind the tree.' I swear I haven't any idea what he was talking about. I only wrote of it here to tell you of the wonderful little picture, Sara."
In a matter of instants, all of Emy's lovesick looks and silent misery aboard Violet were justified. Nora finally understood who she'd been yearning after for all those many weeks. Emy was in love with Brook.