Emily had fallen in love with the Author of Doña Inez. She brought herself to admit her feelings the day Eustachio arrived. Emily fell in love frequently. It was her secret vice, cultivated since girlhood, when she had tumbled head over ears in love with her father's new bailiff because he had guinea-gold hair.
Emily had never done anything about her little passions. Virtue? Rather prudence, perhaps, or cowardice. She did not suppose she would do anything about this passion, either, but she had now been a widow for four and a half years. Sometimes she felt as if her widow's weeds were a nun's habit, or as if, at five and twenty, she had taken on the mantle of middle age. Sometimes she wanted to do something quite mad--run off with a band of gypsies or take up opera dancing. It was in this spirit of secret recklessness that she had indulged her epistolatory passion for Richard Falk. It was not quite a safe thing to do, and that was why she did it.
As the "doing" so far consisted only in writing him cheerful details of his children's lives and rereading the brief notes that prefaced each installment of Doña Inez for signs of the man behind the pen, her risk had not seemed very great. But there was risk. The uncertain, up-and-down state of mind that had driven her to write the furious letter to him when she thought he would not come to see the children had taught her that much. Her anger had been disproportionate. The children did not miss him. How could they? Amy would surely have missed his letters--Matt as well. But none of the three children remembered Richard Falk as a real presence. Emily was the one who wanted to see him in the flesh.
She also had to admit to herself that part of her anticipation stemmed from plain vulgar excitement. She was exceedingly curious to see him again. She wanted to compare the man with the writer of absurd adventures. She reminded herself that she had not been enchanted with him at their first meeting. Indeed, he had struck her as remarkably cross-grained. In all likelihood she would find him repellent, and probably that would be for the best.
Peggy McGrath's welcome of her spouse was nearly as vociferous as the children's enthusiasm for Eustachio. Emily did not take to McGrath. A sour-faced, short-tempered, ugly man, his glowers intimidated Matt, though Amy chattered away to him happily enough. Out of delicacy Emily gave the connubial pair a private room in the untenanted second floor and took Tommy into her own bedchamber. He cried for his Peg a bit the first evening, but he was a sunny child, and Emily distracted him easily enough with his new territory. When he found next morning that his nurse had not entirely deserted him, he decided to accept her husband with only an occasional reproachful glance from his sloe-black eyes.
Amy coerced McGrath into saddling Eustachio with one of Emily's discarded sidesaddles, an insult that Matt bore so ill he forgot to be afraid of McGrath. Thereafter everyone rubbed along tolerably well--for the next week. Amy, like Doña Inez, decided she preferred to ride astride.
It was not possible to pump McGrath about his master. Emily had thought the Irish loquacious. Peggy certainly bore out that impression, but McGrath's idea of civil speech was confined to grunting and scowling. When Emily ventured a cautious question about his master's wellbeing, McGrath scowled. When she allowed that Major Falk must be pleased with his promotion, McGrath grunted. Given her husband's unprepossessing qualities, it was curious that Peggy took on a rosy glow in his presence. The horse McGrath had ridden belonged to Major Falk. McGrath declined to stable the creature on Emily. "Orders." Grunt. Scowl.
Major Falk himself finally appeared on the late coach as McGrath was about to settle with the innkeeper for the horse's board, so he did not come to Wellfield House until morning. Warned by Peggy's welcoming screech--she had spotted her master from the window on the second-floor landing--Emily put off the apron she had donned for her daily descent to the kitchen, tidied her cap and her emotions, and went down to greet her employer. If the pulse pounded in her throat it did not pound so hard that she was incapable of reason.
Phillida had stuck the major in the chilly withdrawing room where he stood looking not greatly different from what Emily remembered, except he was clean-shaven and somewhat tidier. His hair was cropped short. He had a new coat. Emily did not approve the coat. It looked vaguely foreign.
"Good morning, Major Falk."
"Mrs. Foster."
"I am glad to see you well. You will wish to go up to your children directly, I daresay. I have not prepared them for your coming, so I beg you will go slowly with Tommy." Emily was proud of this civil, businesslike, uneffusive greeting.
Major Falk followed her obediently up the stairs and said nothing. At least he didn't grunt, Emily reflected, philosophic. It was not in her to maintain a dignified silence. She kept up a polite chatter. The children loved the pony, Tommy now spoke seven separate words and two sentences, Amy was learning to write her name, the weather was agreeably mild, was it not, she hoped he had had a pleasant voyage. She did not await his reply and ushered him into the schoolroom sans ceremony.
His daughter indulged no adult tergiversations. She launched herself at him with a delighted shriek.
"Papa," Tommy echoed, experimental.
It was not as affecting a reunion as it might have been, but it was satisfactory. Major Falk accepted Tommy's wariness without comment. He listened to his daughter's mostly English chatter with grave attention, and when Matt showed signs of sulk, drew Emily's son into a discussion of the pony's points which developed into a riding lesson. That took up most of the afternoon.
Emily had decided it was time her father met her employer. That evening, Major Falk bore with Sir Henry's Corn Law monologue without satire. No sparks flew. When Major Falk had gone off to the inn at Mellings Parva, Sir Henry made mild approving noises. Aunt Fan said nothing disparaging. Emily did not voice her own exasperation. It was all too tame. Major Falk left the next afternoon with McGrath. The children continued to speak of their father afterwards, casually, as one might speak of an uncle one saw on occasion. Amy did not repeat her silent mourning.
Emily told herself she was a fool to have wished for more. Presented with a full account of his friend's sufferings, she had had to accept her employer's decision to stay so long with Major Conway. Indeed she was glad Major Falk had never received the scorching letter she posted to Toulouse, and she admitted to herself that loyalty to one's friends was always commendable. Commendable. Convenable. Conventional.
Before he took his leave, Major Falk said, flat and emotionless, "Write Tom Conway if I'm killed. He'll know what to do."
That seemed to give Emily an opening. "I trust it will not prove necessary, sir. Er, what arrangements--"
"Tom knows what to do," he repeated. "No complications to trouble your head over, unless you mean to give the children up."
"No. Oh, no, of course I don't." Exasperation sharpened Emily's voice.
Falk went on, oblivious, "That's settled then. Write Tom."
At that point Peggy brought his freshly scrubbed children down to the foyer, where the major and Emily awaited them. Peggy was inclined to be distraught and dramatic. Major Falk sent her out to lament over her departing husband and took Tommy, who gave his father a wet kiss of the sort he bestowed on all corners.
"Bye, Papa." He wriggled to be put down, and his father obliged with a small pat on the little boy's petticoats. "Bye," Tommy repeated, cheerful. "Bye-bye."
The major had knelt by his solemn-eyed daughter and took her in a cautious embrace.
"Don't go."
"I have to."
Amy's face screwed up.
He said something soft and rapid to her in Spanish, adding in English, "Shall you write to me, querida?"
"I can write my name."
"Yes, and very clearly, too."
"I'll write," Amy said with dignity, "if you will, tambien. Bring me un paroquet, Papa, and write me of Doña Inez in America."
Tommy whirled in a gleeful circle. "Bye, Papa."
"Oh, sir, I'll keep my heels in." Matt clattered down the stairs. His shirttail hung out. "I promise."
"Hush, Matt." Emily intercepted her son at the foot of the stair. Tommy was still whirling and chanting. He is going to knock over that table, Emily thought, distracted. She lunged after Tommy just in time to prevent a vase of late daffodils from crashing to the polished tiles of the entry. "Bye," said Tommy impudently. "Bye, Mama Em."
"Oh, Tommy." Half laughing, Emily turned, and stopped with her smile frozen on her lips. Major Falk still knelt holding Amy, his hands cramped desperately on her small shoulders and his eyes clenched shut.
"You're squeezing me, Papa."
"Like a lemon," he said in an almost ordinary voice. Amy giggled.
He released her and rose slowly, his face composed and colourless.
"Shall I write you every month as usual?" Emily wanted to say something splendid and healing, but her voice rattled out dry and precise as peas on a shuttle.
"Yes, if you will. The winds from America are somewhat erratic. Don't be alarmed if my replies are delayed as much as three months. Good-bye, Matthew." He shook hands with Emily's son.
Three months! Emily did not voice her despair. It was rather too late for that. "Shall we come out with you?"
"No!" He added more quietly, "I shall have to detach Peggy from McGrath."
"Poor Peggy."
"Poor McGrath," he said drily. "Good-bye, Mrs. Foster."
"Bye!" Tommy shrieked. "Bye! Bye! Bye! Bye!"