Emilia
London, 1665
On the morning of the opening of Love’s Fool, Emilia wakes to find a note from Robert waiting on the desk. The note informs her that he is meeting with a supplier of fruit trees. He hopes to purchase a sizeable crop and transplant them to Walden’s fields. The day before, he signed the paperwork returning the estate to the Lennox family. He was in good spirits when he returned, and did not seem to notice how flushed she looked. She had spent the morning building up all the arguments and frustrations she had only begun to vent over supper. There was more to say, much more. And yet when he returned, she lost her nerve.
As she dresses, Emilia touches her body, feeling its familiar lumps and curves, the tendons in her wrists, at the back of her knees. Robert’s desire for her has dried up and it seems the long months away from her have not brought it back, and she discovers that it is a relief to her. Henry desires her. She has never felt so seen or wanted as she does when she’s with him. She mustn’t think of Henry. But of course now that she’s conjured him, she can think of nothing else. She runs her hands across her breasts, remembering the thrill of his touch on her skin. Then she shakes her head. Enough foolishness. She is married.
She doesn’t know what to do with herself, so she goes to the market. For the first time in a long while, she has money in her purse. Robert’s money, but it is still hers to spend. The thought is pleasing. She will spend it all and then ask for more. She buys some ribbons and threads them through her hair, the blue standing out against the white-blonde strands. She buys an extra set, thinking of Arabella.
Their fight is an ugly bruise in her mind. She wishes she could take back her harsh words. Perhaps she will take the ribbons to Arabella as a peace offering. She wanders around the market a little longer, dawdling in front of a stall run by a dyer who promises she can alter the colour of any gown. The work is performed off-site, but the woman has pinned samples to a board which, she claims, demonstrate the depth and quality of the dye. Emilia fingers the strips of cloth fluttering in the breeze. Indigo and rosewood, fustic yellow and woodash brown. Henry’s favourite colours. He’s crept under her skin. The most innocent fabrics are now his allies. She wants to scoop them all up and pin them to her dress, declarations of her affection and esteem for him. A foolish fantasy. Unfair. He doesn’t need her complicating his life, burdening him with her worries and woes. He deserves to be with someone who can give him everything. Ducking her head, she walks away from the dyer.
When she returns to the inn, she is confronted by the innkeeper.
‘A letter, Madam Lennox.’ He bows, holds it out.
It’s addressed to Robert. The handwriting is unfamiliar, yet there is something about it, the weight of it, that makes her uneasy. Emilia takes it upstairs and sets it on the desk. It’s probably from some merchant hoping for Robert’s custom.
She had kept the piece of parchment Henry gave her rolled up under the bed. Now she takes it out, along with a slender stick of graphite. She begins to draw, and somehow finds herself drawing a man’s torso, his stomach and thighs. She catches her breath, suddenly warm and overheated. She sets down the graphite, searching for distraction. Her eyes fall on the letter and again that sense of unease prickles at her. She rips it open, scans the contents, then reads it over again, her mind blank with shock. There must be some mistake.
Robert,
I know you said not to write but I am desperate for word. The children miss you. They want to know when their father will be home. Did you secure the money and the property? I await your news and your presence with loving patience.
Your Susannah
By the time Robert returns, she has composed herself.
‘Who is she?’ she demands the moment her husband appears in the doorway.
Robert stares at her. ‘Who?’ She sees him swallow nervously.
‘Susannah.’
His expression would be comical if the circumstances were not so grim. ‘She’s nobody. What are you talking about?’
She holds out the letter. ‘This nobody would like to know when you intend to return home to your children.’
Robert closes his eyes and sighs heavily. ‘Emilia…’
‘What is going on? Who is this woman? Robert, is this where you were all those months? Living with this woman?’
‘It’s difficult to explain.’
Emilia resists the urge to slam her fist against the wall. ‘Try.’
He does so, and as he’s talking, his stutter returns. It’s almost as if they are strangers, learning about each other for the first time. Robert explains that he met Susannah during the war, when he took refuge with her family. Susannah’s father hid him beneath the floor of her house. It was a brave thing to do; the family were poor farmers who could not have paid a fine or survived the loss of their income if they were caught. In exchange for their kindness, Robert returned after the war planning to repay the family and leave quickly. Susannah’s father had insisted he stay. Over the next few weeks, he spent a great deal of time with Susannah. She was only young, but they had much in common. He fell in love in with her; he couldn’t help himself. He told her they could not be married because he was betrothed to someone else and his family expected him to see the engagement through. She insisted she didn’t care. The next time he visited, he discovered she had given birth to his child. He tried to stay away but he felt a great responsibility to his lover and his son. They soon had another child, a daughter. Susannah was understanding of Robert’s unique circumstances. They resolved to live apart, but swore to come together whenever Robert could get away from Walden.
‘I have always held you in the greatest esteem,’ he assures Emilia now. ‘You are strong, Emilia. Much stronger than me. When we return to Walden in a few days, you will see that—’
‘I will not go with you.’
She is surprised at how calm she sounds. Letting the missive fall from her hand, she reaches into her pocket for the purse of coins he gave her. She tosses the pouch on the table. ‘Consider this our last meeting. I don’t want to be near you. Robert, you have deceived me. You have been living a lie; I cannot. I realise there is no possibility of divorce, but I don’t wish to see or hear from you again. I will stay here when you return to Walden.’
‘You can’t remain in London without me,’ he says, frowning. ‘You’d starve. You need me. You need Walden.’
Emilia shakes her head. ‘You’re wrong. Everything I need is here.’
Running down the stairs and away from the inn, she finds her path blocked. The streets are jammed with people. Confused, Emilia tries pushing through them. She wants to tear across the street, running as fast as her legs can carry her, but her progress is impeded by the crowd who shuffle slowly towards the main road like pilgrims on their way to mass. Some carry trunks; others wheel barrows piled with assorted belongings. Emilia, peering into one, spies a boot, a skillet, a baby blanket, a family bible. The mood is tense. People speak in low, panicked voices. Children crying noisily are hushed by their parents. Emilia catches the eye of a young man carrying a child.
‘Where are all these people going?’
‘Somewhere safe.’ He hoists the child further up his body. ‘Sickness is spreading through the parish. Some are saying it’s the plague. If you’ve any sense, you’ll leave, too.’
Emilia’s breath catches in her throat. Her head spins with this new information. The sun above is blinding hot, the smell of warm bodies suffocating. She turns to ask the man if he knows the best way to reach Covent Garden but he’s already gone. She flags down a woman trundling a barrow and begs her for directions. The woman points wordlessly towards a darkened alley. Emilia jostles her way through the exodus, her fear of catching the pestilence overridden by the more pressing terror of being crushed to death in the crowd. At last, breaking free, she stumbles into the alleyway. There are other people here, too, but at least she can weave around them. She hurries swiftly down the path, keeping her gaze fixed on the light at the end of the passage, eventually emerging onto a main thoroughfare. It is packed with carts and escapees fleeing the city but the sheer breadth of the street allows for freer movement. Dust churned by cart and carriage wheels clogs Emilia’s throat. She coughs loudly and a woman standing nearby leaps away, clapping a hand over her own mouth, her eyes angry and scared. Emilia tries not to be offended. She’s never experienced an outbreak of plague in a city so large. As a girl living with her parents, if there was sickness in the village, they were able to keep to themselves. They barred the door to strangers and left some coins under a rock in exchange for fresh milk and bread. At Walden, isolation was even easier. The house was like a fortress. Any hint of infection sent the family scuttling indoors where they remained there until the danger passed. London is too big and sprawling to permit any notion of exile within its walls. A thought occurs; she should turn back and warn Robert. She can’t imagine pushing through that wall of bodies, though.
When she reaches Covent Garden, she may be able to send a note if she can find someone to deliver it. Not everyone will have the means or ability to leave London. Some will stay and take the risk. She thinks of Arabella. Pregnant and alone in a city gripped by panic, she will need Emilia’s protection. There must be a way for them to find refuge outside the city. They will pay, if need be. Henry will know someone. He will know what to do. Recognising some of the houses and shops on the corner, she navigates the last of the way towards Covent Garden. When she reaches the studio, she hammers on the door.
After a long time, it opens.
‘George! Where is Henry?’
The boy’s face is frightened. ‘He isn’t here, madam. He’s gone to fetch the doctor. Our maid Lavinia is ill.’ He glances back into the house. ‘I think she might die. I took her some water but she couldn’t see me or hear me.’
Emilia’s thoughts reel. ‘Where are the others? Where is Master Lely? Mary?’
George’s lip trembles. ‘Gone. Master Lely has left for the country. Mary went home.’
‘Is it just you, here, then?’
He nods. ‘And a few other boys. The ones whose families live far away. We can’t leave. The authorities say we must remain here until the sickness passes, in case we give it to others.’
‘But you can’t be expected to manage alone!’
‘Henry will return soon. He promised he would stay with us, no matter what happened. He wouldn’t leave us on our own.’
Emilia’s heart turns over. ‘And you believe him.’
‘Of course. Don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
George smiles. His faith in Henry’s goodness transforms his expression from worried to confident. We both love him, she thinks. A sudden moan rises inside the house.
‘You’d better go, madam,’ George says. ‘Good luck.’
‘And you.’ Before he can close the door, she puts out a hand to touch his arm. ‘When you see Henry, tell him to come and find me, whenever it is safe to do so. Tell him not to worry about anything. I was wrong, George. I made some mistakes. I was scared. But I am no longer afraid. You’ll tell him, won’t you?’
The boy nods. Then the door bangs shut and she is alone.
Inside the Fortune, the stage is lit. It gleams, polished to a shine by Winnie’s stagehands but the auditorium is empty. Emilia’s footsteps echo eerily in the silence as she hurries across the floor. Backstage, she finds Arabella in her dressing room, her face swollen with crying.
Arabella holds out her hands and Emilia takes them.
Arabella’s eyes are wide. ‘Everyone’s left. The king himself has fled Whitehall. The plague hasn’t reached all the parishes yet, but it’s only a matter of weeks before everyone succumbs to it. Winnie has gone to arrange our passage to the countryside. Her cousin has a house there. She said to wait here and she would be back within the hour.’
Relief sweeps through her. Safety lies in Winnie’s connections. They must simply keep and calm and wait for her to return.
Pulling Arabella onto the chaise, she wraps her arms around her friend. Arabella feels hot, her skin sticky with moisture. Emilia hopes it’s only fear. She remembers comforting Arabella when they were girls. Small grievances were easily soothed by a hug or a peace offering. She thinks of the ribbons she bought this morning. Putting her hand into her skirt pocket, she pulls them out. Although a little knotted, the strands shine with a bright lustre.
She passes them to Arabella, who looks confused.
‘For your hair,’ she says. ‘I thought they’d look good against the red. I bought them to say sorry. I wish we’d never argued.’
Arabella, still clutching the ball of ribbons, shakes her head. ‘It’s I who should ask for your forgiveness. I never meant to hurt you, only to make you see what is important. How strong you are.’
‘You were right,’ Emilia says. ‘About everything.’ She places her palm on Arabella’s stomach. ‘The important thing is that we are all safe.’
Arabella is silent. When she places her free hand over Emilia’s own, Emilia knows things are right between them. They will never argue again, or if they do, it will be over something trivial – a borrowed ribbon not returned, too-loud footsteps waking the infant from his nap. This was what she was searching for all along. Robert’s family could not understand her the way she needed to be understood. Arabella is her family now.
Footsteps echo in the corridor and Winnie’s face appears, looking stricken but resolute. ‘Madam Lennox! I’m so glad to see you alive and well. I’ve secured us a carriage to take us to my cousin’s house in Oxford. I had to use all my powers of persuasion… and a quarter of our earnings from opening night. I’ve sent the other actors on ahead. But you have nobody. Will you come with us?’
Emilia hesitates. Robert might not be her future, but she should still let him know where she is going so he knows not to search for her. Locating paper and a pen, she scribbles a note, telling him she is headed for Oxford where she will be safe. Outside the theatre, chaos has descended. People are leaving London in droves. The street is jammed with vehicles and citizens leaving on foot. As Winnie urges them towards a waiting carriage, Emilia spies a man selling amulets which he proclaims are effective at warding off the plague. Approaching him, she buys one then slips him some extra money and the letter, asking him to deliver it to her husband at the inn where he is staying. The man looks startled but accepts the coins, tucking them away in a coat pocket.
‘I make no promises,’ he warns.
‘I understand.’
Her conscience soothed, Emilia loops the amulet around her wrist and hastens towards the carriage where Winnie is gesturing frantically for her to hurry up. Once inside, she slams the door shut, reducing the raucous din of the street to a dull roar.
Winnie, sinking onto the opposite seat, glances at the amulet.
‘You don’t believe that nonsense, I hope, Madam Lennox. Nothing inside them but frog guts and spells scratched on paper.’
Untangling the amulet, Emilia fingers the letters scratched into its metal surface then hands it to Arabella. ‘Until now, I never believed in magical amulets with the mysterious power to cure sickness. But I find myself longing to believe in anything in the face of such horror. I believe in love. I believe we will all return to the Fortune where I will watch Arabella perform your extraordinary masterpiece. And I believe I will see my friend Henry Greenhill again, when the time is right. Until then, I will continue to hope.’