“It makes perfect sense, Miss … Emmeline. I think that is perhaps the enchantment of the modern romance novel. The idea that romance really does exist in a time when most marriages, of the upper classes, at least are, as you say, transactional.”
They both fell silent for a moment, and Emmeline wondered if Hunter was thinking as she was of their own arrangement. Surely their marriage, if it did go ahead, would be the perfect example of all that the modern romance novel sought to buck against.
For a few moments, she wondered at her own penchant for the form; the idea that people only married for love and that they were almost always suited in every feasible respect. They were attracted for looks alone, in the beginning, then found themselves in sympathy on almost every point which rose up between them. Was that what Emmeline had always hoped for, yearned for, even? And had she really had such a match when she had thought herself almost engaged to Christopher Lennox? When she thought of him, Emmeline was not sure she felt the same weight of the betrayal which seemed to have held her down for so many weeks. Something was changing, but she did not yet know what.
“I suppose there is also the idea that the form of Romanticism deals with all manner of emotions largely ignored in life and literature. The less pleasant as well as the sought after.” He spoke in a hurry as if keen to get them both talking again.
“Yes, emotions of horror and anxiety. Things which seem somehow to revolt against the normal.” She paused for a moment, pleased to have another rich seam to explore conversationally. “It is almost turning one’s back on the current mode of manners and etiquette, to explore what is less seemly and appealing, the things which society would like to keep secret from one another. Horror would certainly be a fine example.” She had become more animated, sitting forward in her seat also, looking into his gold-flecked eyes as she spoke. “Mary Shelley’s book would be a very good example of the form. Veering away a little from romance, of course.”
“Frankenstein?” Hunter said, also gripped by the turn their conversation had taken. “You have read that also?”
“Indeed, I have. Have you?”
“Twice. I was utterly gripped by it, although naturally more upon the first reading.”
“My mother was terribly worried about it all. Lady Harbury had read it and told her of all the terrors within. The dear lady had proclaimed that she had not had sleep nor had a moment’s peace for a full sennight after reading it!” Emmeline was highly amused, as was Hunter, who boomed with laughter.
“Good heavens!” he said, still laughing heartily.
“Mama was convinced I would be much changed if I read it. It occupied her and worried her for days.”
“But you emerged from the experience unscathed, I have no doubt.” He was smiling and, for a moment, she almost forgot their joint determination for a loveless marriage.
“Indeed, I did. Although I shall not pretend I was not afraid at times.” She smiled conspiratorially. “But I must also admit to that sort of fear being a most exciting thing. The sort of thing which makes one feel suddenly very alive.”
“I could not agree more.” Hunter was thoughtful. “And I think that particular book found a common, almost unseen thread, whereby society at large seems to have a fear of progress. I speak of scientific and mechanical progress, of course. It was very well observed and neatly re-told, that particular fear because it is one which people would hardly know they had until they confronted it in some way.”
“That was something I had not considered. But it is true, of course.” Emmeline was enthralled, finding herself quite at home on the sunlit terrace of Addison Hall.
She had never had somebody with whom to dissect literature, specific texts, in any way. In truth, she had not found many other readers who had chosen the books that she had chosen. Clara, the person with whom she had spent a good deal of her time, had never been particularly fond of reading, save for some of the more obvious romantic works; the ones where a happy ending was not only assured but a little too easily won.
Clara Lovett had liked stories which were simple and without struggle. Emmeline wondered how on earth the young woman had gone on to make her own romantic life so very complicated and such a subject of gossip when she had betrayed her oldest friend in such a way.
The rest of the afternoon had passed in lively discussion of literature and art. They had begun to talk about stage plays when her mother and Rose returned from the lake for afternoon tea.
“Well, what a wonderful afternoon we are having down at the lake,” her mother said when they were all seated, and the tea, sandwiches, and cakes had been laid out.
“I am glad to hear it, Mrs Fitzgerald.” Hunter seemed more relaxed than ever, and Emmeline watched as her mother regarded him with secret interest.
“And you both seem most entertained.” Emmeline almost laughed as her mother expertly began to search for information.
“Indeed, we have been, Mrs Fitzgerald,” Hunter continued enthusiastically. “We have discovered a shared fondness for reading and have spent a very fine afternoon discussing the books we have read in common. It has been truly enlightening.” He looked significantly at Emmeline, and she felt a little warmth in her cheeks.
“You are a great reader yourself, Lord Addison?”
“I should like to think so. Although I think I am perhaps just a little behind Emmeline.” Emmeline saw her mother’s face break into a broad smile as the Earl called her by her Christian name.
No doubt her dear mother thought it all much more significant than it truly was. Assuming, of course, that the idea was as insignificant as Emmeline had believed it to be.
“Perhaps not. We have read many of the same volumes after all, have we not?” She returned his smile but found herself suddenly a little too awkward to look so directly into his eyes as she was previously comfortable with.
“Yes, my favourite, of course, being Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.” Hunter caught her eye as her mother shuddered involuntarily.
There passed a great look of amusement between them, and Emmeline enjoyed the idea that it had been by Hunter’s design. He had wanted to share a secret moment of amusement and, although it was somewhat at her mother’s expense, it was gentle and amusing nonetheless.
“Oh, that book,” Constance Fitzgerald spoke almost reflexively. “My poor dear Lady Harbury.” She shook her head in quiet despair as if all present would instantly know how her dear friend had suffered upon reading the frightening story.
This time, it was Emmeline who cast a secret, amused look at Hunter, who was all too ready to acknowledge it.
The day had been, as far as Emmeline was concerned, a great success. She had enjoyed the time that she and Hunter Bentley had spent together and felt sure that the two of them could manage to be married in a most contented sort of a fashion. Perhaps they might even be more than content.
However, as soon as the thought occurred to her, Emmeline chased it away. To harbour such ideas was far from healthy and could only lead her along the old path she had once walked down; the path to the deepest sorrow.
Chapter 15