EMMA’S INSIDES CONSTRICTED as she followed Miss Bainbridge to her office. Was being called to speak to the manageress ever a good thing?
Miss Bainbridge indicated the chair across from her desk as she settled into her own high-backed seat. “I am proud of the work you’ve been doing here.”
Confusion pulled at the reins of Emma’s anxiety. With the way Miss Crane had looked at her, Emma had anticipated a reprimand from their manageress. “Oh, well, thank you.”
“Especially given your circumstances,” Miss Bainbridge added with a smile that eased the usual sternness from her countenance. “When our employees are sufficiently trained, it is customary for them to continue their education in an alternate location to ensure they can handle anything our subscribers throw at them. It’s temporary, of course. I’m thinking London.”
“You’re sending me away?” Emma asked. “To London?”
London was nearly halfway to Kent from Nottingham. She would be closer to Olivia.
The manageress tutted. “No need to be concerned, it would only be for a fortnight. Your daughter is in the country again, is that correct?”
“She is,” Emma replied hesitantly.
The other woman leaned back in her chair with satisfaction. “Miss Crane reminded me you were likely due for training in another location. She was right and I think this is the ideal time.”
“But what if Olivia tries to send me a letter...”
“It’s only two weeks,” Miss Bainbridge said with polished patience. “And we can forward any correspondence your way.”
“I don’t believe the post would arrive before I left to return home.” Frustration burned a scorching path through Emma’s chest.
If only motherhood were as simple as people without children assumed it to be.
There was no turning off her worries, or the fear of what could happen in those two weeks.
“We’ll work something out.” Miss Bainbridge adjusted a file on her desk, a clear sign the conversation was over. “You’ll be leaving in a week. Details will follow shortly with your train ticket and all you’ll need to pack.”
Emma hesitated to rise from her chair and Miss Bainbridge lifted her eyes to regard her with sincerity. “All our girls do this, Miss Taylor.”
“Of course.” Emma nodded and slowly pushed herself to standing.
It was nearly April. By the time Emma was in London, Olivia’s birthday would only be a month away. Perhaps Emma might take an afternoon to go to Kent and see her daughter for an early celebration. With the travel being just an hour southeast of London, surely she could make the time.
The thought helped loosen the tension squeezing at the back of her neck. A new perspective truly did make all the difference.
Heartened at the prospect of getting to enjoy an early celebration for Olivia’s birthday with her in Kent, Emma returned to the main floor of the Booklover’s Library. Margaret approached and glanced about at the uncommonly empty room, issuing a low whistle.
“I’ve never seen it this quiet,” Emma said by way of agreement.
“That isn’t why I’m impressed.” Margaret lowered her head, her expression sly. “Mr. Fisk asked you on a date.”
News traveled fast.
Before Emma could formulate a reply, Margaret continued, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Miss Crane in such a peevish state.” Margaret laughed and looked around to ensure the other woman wasn’t nearby. “Please tell me you said yes. I didn’t have the opportunity to hear the rest of the story. Or rather the teller didn’t care to share your response.”
“I couldn’t.”
Margaret’s face fell just as a subscriber entered the room. Emma moved to approach them, but Margaret grasped her by the arm and tugged her into the empty Bespoke Room. “You said no? He’s Mr. Fisk, a man so deliciously tempting I might reconsider my own Jeffrey.” She paused thoughtfully and a whimsical smile lifted her Firefly-red lips. “No, no, I never would. But Mr. Fisk, Emma!”
Despite Margaret’s protestations, Emma simply shook her head. “My life doesn’t need any more complications.”
“Wouldn’t life be easier with a husband?”
It would. There was no doubt about that. The very thought of being free of the scrutinizing stares, of having support to get her through hardships, or aid when it came to business dealings where women were so limited. Tasks like banking or working with any formal organization that considered women completely incapable of thought or responsibility.
Margaret folded her arms across her chest, ostensibly the victor.
Emma shook her head. “If I marry again, it won’t be because I have to, it will be because I want to.”
Once those words left her mouth, the idea of her marriage to Arthur changed from an amorphous thought from the past into a definable shape.
She’d never bothered to consider the reason she’d been so easily swayed into marriage, but their relationship had been entirely based on her dependence on him, her need for his protection, his guidance in the absence of her father, who had seen to life’s day-to-day details she’d been too naïve to understand. They were all things she was adept at now—budgeting, paying bills, navigating contracts to secure flat leases. Matters women were supposed to leave to men. After Arthur’s death, she’d forced herself to learn.
Maybe even then she’d known she hadn’t wanted to need someone again the way she thought she’d needed Arthur.
Margaret put a hand on Emma’s shoulder and blinked up at her with coal-darkened lashes. “All I’m saying is that you’ve been a widow for years, Emma. Your husband is no longer of this world, but you are. Don’t forget to live in it.”
Emma nodded and forced a smile. After all, she was living her life. Wasn’t she?
The question rolled through her thoughts on the walk home. The late-March air was pleasantly cool against her skin, the sun fighting with the clouds overhead for purchase. Sometimes it even succeeded, casting golden warmth over the trees and burnishing the pale green budding leaves.
Did she notice such simple things enough? Or had she spent so long just barely eking by in life that she’d forgotten to savor the experience?
She entered the tenement house, stopping by Mrs. Pickering’s flat to let Tubby out for a quick walk as had become her routine these days. Mrs. Pickering had fallen headfirst into her role with the WVS. No matter what the organization needed, she was ready to charge in, eyes gleaming, shoulders squared with purpose.
Using her key to Mrs. Pickering’s flat, Emma let herself in to the elation of an overexcited Tubby. He leaped into the air, his torso twisting in anticipation of a walk, rendering the task of clipping his lead to his collar nearly impossible. The act took several attempts given how ferociously his body rocked with the wagging of his frantic tail.
“Ready for a walk?” she asked pointlessly.
He yipped an impatient confirmation and tugged her from the flat. As was her habit, she paused at the mailbox and lifted out the day’s post to sort through as they traipsed down the sidewalk.
Tubby sped ahead, ears jauntily bouncing to his happy trot as she shifted yet another pamphlet about the Dig for Victory campaign behind a letter.
She didn’t recognize the name of the sender, but did know the address.
Kent.
She stopped abruptly, tore the envelope open and yanked out the letter inside. Tubby pulled at the lead and she followed blindly, her eyes fixed on the note within, her heart dropping with each line she read as her suspicions were confirmed.
She had been right. Olivia was not doing well.