Currently Viva La Vida By Coldplay see related

Sorry I have not really blogged or commented much since the first: I'm a bit too busy to...I promise I'll have more time to after Nov...promise...

Gotta go! :D

The night that followed was long and dark, even though I sat by the candle. I couldn’t fall asleep. I did not even try; I was not sleepy. I cannot say I was afraid, exactly, for my darling Jake’s life. It was more like a very heavy, sickly dread. Every now  and then the wind, which had not ceased to blow, would rattle the window frames and the pounding of my heart was like cobblestones being thrown against my ribcage. Eventually I fell asleep with my head on the table. While I was asleep, the candle had gone out. I awoke to a gleam of the blinding red sun, piercing through the shutter and falling directly across my eyes. When the room and everything else stopped looking black, I checked on Andrew, he was crying. Probably hungry. As was I, caring for Andrew temporarily put Jake from my mind. After I had fed him ( he did not seem to want to eat much, nor was he soiled, or cold. I could not make out the reason for his discomfort, so I just held him for a while.), the servants came. As I could not afford a larger apartment, I could not house my servants. Not even a single housekeeper. When I thought of this, I automatically figured that when Jake came back, we’d move to a bigger place, then tears started in my eyes as I remembered that he might not come back at all. Andy continued to cry nearly non-stop all day, only pausing when he fell asleep. His skin got pinker and pinker as the day wore away, several times, I caught the woman whom I hired as my housekeeper bending over his cradle looking worried. When I tried to feed him again, he would not eat and he was positively burning when I touched him.  I asked my housekeeper in the French that I had learned, if this was normal. She said that it sometimes was; that it was just a fever and it would pass.  It did seem to pass in a few hours. Darling Andrew returned to his normal temperature and cried less. But, I think, what ever the fever was, left him weaker than before. As a month passed, I noticed he seemed to drift off into dazes with his little eyes wide open. I worried, sometimes, that he had gone slow in his precious tiny head. He seemed to eat less, too. By the end of the second month, darling Andrew took a sudden turn for the worse; it seemed he could hardly eat anything: he spat it back up almost immediately, hence growing emaciated in the space of only a few days. The doctor whom I called, the one who had helped me with my pregnancy, was as helpless as I. he had never seen this sort of sickness before, in a grown person, a child, or a baby, like my darling little Andrew. I wrote my husband about this, but he never got the letters.
Every day my little Andrew died a little more and a little more. I could think of nothing else; I grew to resemble him; every look of pain, or greyness on his darling face was mirrored on my own. I recall that my chest constantly felt as if I was carry a sack of graters in there instead of my heart. I was being abandoned first by Jake, and now by my little baby. It hurt so badly that I couldn’t think of any way to save them, especially Andrew: I tried to feed a mush of everything to him, to see if something would stay down, but it just came back up in a moment, and my poor darling would cry, then I would. Then he died, my sweet Andrew died. I hadn’t heard from my husband in months, I knew no one much beyond my servants and the doctor. I was quite alone. After he died, while I dressed him, I did it in a daze, I expected that any moment his gray little face would pucker and he would cry for me, but he didn’t, he was still and icy cold, his skin was the opposite of the burning it had been a mere few months ago. I think that once, during the process, it did hit me that he would not every look at me again. I nearly fainted, and that, I believe, was pathetic of me. I was holding him at the time, and if I had fallen, I would have dropped him on the hard floor and his head would have been cracked open, but even that would not have awoken him. My darling boy!
The graters and the cobblestones had vanished from me, but I still did not feel like myself.
I dragged behind the small procession to the funeral, once, on the road, between Prieurie and Gronmeny Avenues (the road to Brittany), my feet seemed to glue to the stone I stepped on. My mama and papa back home had never gone through this; they’d had a charmed  life, I now saw. They didn’t know about the death of their only grandchild, whom they had never even met him,  I couldn’t bear to tell them. 
The funeral was very cold. Funny, it wasn’t sunny. I don’t remember hearing what the preacher said, nor did I feel the hands that patted me on my arm, trying, I suppose, to comfort me, but most of them had healthy, alive children. A stiff, freezing breeze blew against me, bringing feeling to the coldness. I looked around; I was alone. There was not even a bird in the belfry to accompany me. The front of my dress, across my chest, was soaked, but it hadn’t rained and I realized that it was wet from my tears.  A brown patch in the grey of the dead, winter grave-yard was all I could see of my baby any more. If I had realized what precisely was going on, then, I would have dug it the casket just to see if he had come alive again, but my mind seemed to have handily forgotten. Slowly, I turned away and went back in the direction of my apartment, I got lost and ended up in the poor part of town, at some point, it registered that I was not where I should be and I turned around. Eventually I found myself back at my door. My hem was so dirty that I divested myself of the dress on the front mat, I just left it there. I’m afraid I was rather comical looking as I walked through the sitting room (my own room was on the other side). I put on another dress, struggling with the millions of buttons till the dress back was buttoned.
In my daze, I didn’t realize the tall silhouette of a gentleman leaning against the hall, outside the door, watching me, was casting a shadow over me, until I turned to go see if it had been a dream and Andrew was waiting for me to feed him, in his crib. I was plenty startled and when I could see him in the light, I only recognized him at last, by the white scar on his head. It was the Frenchman who had saved me on the train, before. He did not ask about my baby: he gathered what had happened after a few moments.
The servants had gone, so I could offer him nothing but the stewed tea that the housekeeper had left on the stove. He took it, but did not drink it, staring at me instead. I did not mind, it was some diversion to the loss. After several attempts at conversation, we succumbed to silence, not awkward. Me, in my misery and he, in what, I’m not sure. Shortly, he left, I walked him to the door. Watching him numbly as he stepped over my dirty dress. When the door was shut, I felt more alone than ever. His visit had made me realize, without looking, that Andrew was gone. For if he had been there, I would most certainly have shown him off.
I did not have the excuse that my darling Andrew would have wanted me to go on with my life, in spite of his death: for Andrew had been to young to want anything else but things for his comfort and amusement.
No, I got back on my feet on my own. Neither my husband (whom I had not heard from at all) nor my family, but they did not know. As I said before, I could not bear to tell them.
Daily, the servants came, and did their various jobs. For the week after the funeral, the few people I did know, called on me, bringing me food. They were worried about me, how kind of them.
I saw nothing to laugh at, of course, I grew so very solemn that I would have been a prime candidate for a nun or a morgue keeper. Well, I take that back, some nuns are very silly.
One day, not so long after, another telegraph arrived for me: my husband was returning! He was changing trains in Lyons and had sent it from their, it said:
My dearest Emma stop am in Lyons stop on my way stop tell Andrew hello.
I started sobbing right there, he had not gotten any of my letters and how on earth was I supposed to tell him? My housekeeper took me by the arm and made me sit down, I barely managed to tell her what was going to happen.
I could here Jake’s footsteps running up the stairs, then down the corridor; the boards squeaked awfully. Then, finally, he was at the door. He must have wondered why it was not already opened for him as he knocked impatiently. Dreading this encounter more and more and more and more, I slowly opened the door; he quickly finished pushing it open and pulled me into a bear hug. It took him several minutes to realize that I had not responded and was in tears. Carefully he set me back down on the floor and asked me was wrong.
‘Andrew is dead.’ I said, trying to look at his eyes but only managing his bottom lashes. For a second, he was still, then he pushed me roughly aside, striding through the little apartment, looking for dear little Andrew. When he did not find him (and I believe he looked in the broom cupboard, just in case), he came back; I was still crying by the door. He asked where Andrew was buried then left.
It was sometime after midnight when I heard footsteps outside the door, I opened it: it might have not been him, but someone else entirely, but I did not really care. Anyway, it was Jake, he was very drunk. When he got to me, after stumbling forever along the passage, he came right up in my face.
‘You could not even keep him alive long enough for me to see ‘im.’
You can imagine, I’m sure, how hurt I was. But, for a long time, years, I did not know if he was right, after all. I followed him inside, and when he sat down, helped him take his boots off. Ii was tugging on the right one, when he asked;
‘Why didn’t you write and tell me?’
‘I did, Jake, didn’t you get my letters?’ I answered. He had not, the last one he had gotten was from me, telling him about Andrew’s first teeth. His sweet little pearly teeth, I had not worn the pearl necklace Jake had given me since his death, because they reminded me of them.
Jake did not say anything else; he fell asleep very soon. I covered him with a blanket, then went to my bedroom, alone yet again, and fell asleep myself.
The next morning, I woke rather late; Jake was already awake and dressed. Evidently he had looked around, too, for he had found where I had unpacked his trunk last night, while he was gone. And he had found out that his son’s death was not a drunken dream either.
He did not bother to wake me, letting me sleep far past the usual time I got up (I was tired, I was not used to staying up as long into the night as when he had come home at two thirty.
Happily, I woke up with the temporary conviction that Andrew’s death had not been my fault at all, but merely one of those awfully stupid mishaps of life that affect us in the most dreadful ways possible. It gave me just enough courage to look at him at tad reproachfully when we sat down to breakfast. (Poor man, he did not eat much, I still wonder if it was from his hangover, or Andy’s death.) when he had drunk if coffee; fine black French coffee, I like it the best, he started the conversation that, heretofore, had been limited to stilted good mornings.
‘I take it by your reproachful silence that I said something offensive last night. Though I do not remember what it was, I apologise.’
That was the stiffest thing my darling  Jake had ever said to me, I felt like crying again but decided not to, after all, tears cannot solve everything. Given what he had said (awfully stiff though it might be) I decided to forgive him and accept his apology.
We, sadly, never resumed our loving companionship during the rest of his stay. His injury (which I have shamefully neglected mentioning,) was in his side, but it has healed well, and therefore, he went back to his duties after only a short stay. This time he did not run back to kiss me goodbye three times, he did not even look back. Not once. Oh heartbreak, you do not know what it’s like, nor can you imagine what it is like until your heart actually breaks. Having neglected writing to my parents down in South Carolina, across the Atlantic, I now sat to it. I told them as briefly as I could without seeming to heartbroken, that their grandson, little Andrew had died. Lord, how I am tired of saying that, I think I shall move onto the more lighter subject of what happened after.
I became bored with Paris, Hilda and Izzy wrote me several times, passing along George’s condolences in their letters; he never bothered to write himself. Irene and Eva wrote to. Eva’s made me ashamed of ever believing that she hated me, it was oh so full of worry and kindness. Hilda and Izzy invited me to come and stay with them; they had just moved to a corner Whitehall where George was now going to take up his place as junior prime minister. I was going to accept, but that afternoon, when I got a craving for croissants and went out, I met the Frenchman again. I was walking into the little bakery where the best, in my opinion, ones were made, and he was walking out. I stopped to say hi, briefly, to him, then went on in to get the croissants. But when I went back out with them in bag, he was waiting for me in the street. He asked me to go walking with him in the Jardin du Bassin de L’Arsenal, which was near. The sun was shining and the Frenchman was handsome so I agreed. On the way to the park, I found out his name, Louis-Antoine, I had never found out before, as we had never been formally introduced before. And he, likewise, found out my name, Emma Merry for the first time. He laughed at my last name, and asked what my maiden name had been,
‘Dorsey.’ I said. He said he liked it better, and henceforth called me Mademoiselle Dorsey.
Before we entered the garden, he asked me how I was, very gently. I knew what he was alluding to and did not rebuff his concern, for I could see no pity in it, just kindness.
‘Very hard unless I can forget, and then he’s still there.’ for a moment I lost my smile. He made it return by pointing out one of the first locks we could see and saying;
‘When Napoleon first viewed this garden, he tripped and fell in right over there.’
That made me laugh, for I could easily imagine little Napoleon doing that.
‘Did any fish bite him?’ evidently my silliness was coming back a degree.
‘No, I do not think so, for if one had, I do not think there would be any fish left in the pond.’
We both laughed at this. We sat on a bench, warmed by the sun and ate our croissants. I wished for some cheese to go on them, he had some. I was glad I wore my pretty bonnet; it is far easier to get a tan in France than it is in England.
A horse and rider passed, the rider was a lady and wearing green; she reminded me of that day in Kensington, where this story starts. Behind us in the water, a goldfish popped to the surface, then fell back with a flop. The sun got very warm as it rose overhead; Louis-Antoine took off his waist coat, laying down on the bench between us. I blushed remembering when I had unknowingly walked past him in my mere petticoats and corset. His gesture must have reminded him too, for when I randomly glanced up at him, I found his eyes fastened on my bodice. He noticed me watching and looked away, blushing. I crumbled the last half of my last croissant and fed it to the pigeons, walking around as I did so. Louis-Antoine, having already finished his, remained seated, watching me silently. He did that quite a lot. When I had finished, he rose and joined me,
‘I’m afraid I’m not being a very good companion.’ he said.
‘Oh, no, yes you are! It better than being alone.’ I replied, then bit my tongue; that was too frank.
‘Are you alone very often?’ Louis-Antoine asked.
‘Yes, all the time.’ that to, was too frank and my face reddened.
‘Pardon me for asking, but where is your husband? He leaves you alone all the time, does he care nothing for his wife?’ Louis-Antoine tried to stop, but I kept going.
‘He’s a captain in the royal navy, of course he must be gone most of the time.’ I defended Jake even though I wished he wasn’t a captain at all.
‘Captain Merry, I’m sure such an amiable man must be capable of getting leave any time he wants.’
I shook my head.
‘Then he should transfer to the French navy, most captains in ours get leave to spend nearly all of the year at home with their families.’
My face fell as I was reminded that I did not have a family, and therefore, the only person for Jake to return home to was me. Louis-Antoine, realizing his mistake, begged my forgiveness. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat in order to speak again, but it was hesitant to go. Louis-Antoine, perceiving my silence to mean that I had not forgiven him, began reciting Byron. At length I could speak again and told him to stop, saying he was plenty forgiven, and asked the reason for his questions.
‘Do not take this the wrong way, I do not mean to deride your Captain Merry; I am sure he is a good man in his own right, but I cannot help but form a very low opinion of a man who leaves his young wife, entirely alone and pregnant, and then does not even bother move mountains to return to her and comfort her--’
‘He was wounded! He did not have a clue what was happening; he never got my letters!’ I cried, unable to let this particular injustice pass. Louis-Antoine looked a little chastened for a moment, then continued determinedly.
‘That, all of that is still no excuse to leave you alone so constantly…’ he let his sentence trail off, we meandered along the path silently, our feet crunching on the pea-gravel. At last I spoke,
‘I find it is comforting for you to tell me that, but it is also useless.’
‘why?’ he asked.
‘What on earth can I do about it? Being a sailor’s wife is comparable to being a nun, sans the habit and the sisters.’
A smile started across Louis-Antoine’s face, he laughed and said; ‘I really do not know what he can be thinking!’
I knew what he meant without needing further clarification, it was a compliment that somewhat re-established my sense of self worth. I felt half-guilty, like I should  still be defending my darling Jake, but I could not bring myself to. Conversation began easily again for Louis-Antoine and myself as we strolled on; we must have perused the paths of Jardin du Bassin de L’Arsenal for hours, talking of this and that. He was fascinated by how I was raised in the south; rather a lot different from how European children are raised. It was funny, though, when I described the slaves and what their lives were like, he, like Jake, scowled. Feeling more free to, more comfortable, as I had never been with my darling Jake, I asked why he frowned.
‘Slavery is wrong.’ Louis-Antoine looked down at me.
‘Yes, there are people back home who say that, but I don’t really know why? Papa always said they had comparatively good lives. I lived in the city, so we only had Mammy, and the housemaids, the butler, and then the kitchen servants.’  I said.
‘But they don’t have wages. The house slaves have comparatively good lives, but the field hands are whipped and beaten by the overseers, they live in tiny, miserable cabins, and if they try to escape, to make a better life for themselves, they are lynched.’ Louis-Antoine stooped and picked up a whitish piece of gravel to examine closer.
‘I don’t know, I’m from there and I’ve never heard that they were whipped!’ I disclaimed.
‘no, you probably did not, as I take it your father was a moral man who wanted to do the best for his daughter. He obviously did not want to frighten you, or make you hate your culture.’
I was quiet for a long time, I did not know what to say, I wished he would talk about something more pleasant.
After a while he said, ‘I am sorry, I’ve distressed you again, haven’t I?’
‘No, no, it’s just I don’t really know what to say, when it’s put like that, it is awful…did you know, I never saw a white servant until I went north to meet, Jake--the captain’s parents. It felt so strange for a while, now I suppose I am used to it.’
Louis-Antoine nodded; the conversation was dying. We stopped and stood on the grassy bank of a lock.
‘Why Louis-Antoine--’ I started, turning to look up at him, but when I did, I faltered and had to look down, the look he turned on me nearly made my knees go; Jake had never looked at me like that and I was not even sure why he was looking at me so in the first place, after a moment I decided it was because I had said his name for the first time, and that he liked hearing his name, so I began again;
‘So, Louis-Antoine--’ again I glanced at him, and again I faltered. After a few seconds, when it was clear I could not continue, I heard him ask, amusement deepening his voice:
‘Yes?’
‘I…was wondering what you did, actually? You never said.’
‘Ah, a dull question after all--’
‘dull?! What on earth were you expecting that would be more interesting?’ I cried, I was seriously, but pleasantly, surprised at his response.
Louis-Antoine laughed; ‘you started to say my name twice, and failed, and all you wanted to ask me was what my occupation was!’
‘What, then, do you think I should have been asking? What did you want me to ask?’
Louis-Antoine’s smile faded slightly; ‘I travel: I work for a silk company in Lyons. It is my job to periodically check the farms. I go to Milan next week.’
‘You’re leaving, too?!’ I asked in distress, rather louder, I suppose, than I mean too, for several people around me looked curiously at us. Louis-Antoine looked distressed at my distress.
‘I will be back in a few days! And we have seven days until I must go; if you like, we shall see each other everyday?’
I blushed and looked away, I should not have said anything at all. Now I was embarrassed: Louis-Antoine was the first real companionship I had had in more than a year, and now I had accidentally revealed how lonely I was.
Louis-Antoine must have realized all I was thinking, for when I managed to turn back to face him, I found him struggling to say something, but knowing how to make it sound reasonably innocent. Right then and there I could positively see a wall, or a barrier between us, and I could very plainly see that the poor man was trying to break it without repelling me. I softened my face to the brightest smile I had left, and replied very warmly; ‘I shall be very glad for your company! In Paris, it is very hard to find people to know who speak my language so well.’ he immediately relaxed at my invitation; it had been what he had been struggling to say. We returned to my part of Faubourg Saint-Germain where he walked me back to my apartment, leaving me kindly at the front door.

Almost every day of the next week, we walked about Paris, exploring parts which he knew, but that I had never ventured into before. Once we passed a maison de santè; a madhouse. Louis-Antoine hurried past, as if it caused an emotion or a memory that he did not want to share with me. I dawdled a bit: As much as I could with Louis-Antoine pulling on my arm. I had never been near a madhouse, and I wanted to see if I could hear any screams. Sounds horrible of me, doesn’t it? But I am afraid losing my dearest Andrew to death and my darling Jake to indifference, or whatever the matter was with him, had rather numbed me, only for a while, I hoped, to other people’s suffering. No, I did not hear any screams, I don’t think it was that sort of madhouse.
After a few days, we exhausted all of Paris that was in walking distance of my apartment ( Louis-Antoine had not told me where he lived), so Louis-Antoine took my out to picnic on the banks of the Seine one afternoon.
After we ate, (my housekeeper had made up the meal) he and I sat on the blanket in the grass, listening to the river. It was warm and sunny, but every now and then a cloud passed over, casting a fine shade for a moment, then vanishing.
‘Louis?’ asked I, suddenly, (I had taken to calling him Louis, he did not object or seem to mind, for he called me Emma, and sometimes just Em. But very rarely just Em.)
‘Emma?’
‘You have told me what you do, but otherwise I know absolutely nothing about you!’
Louis-Antoine smiled and lay back on the blanket. I wished I could follow suit: the sun beat on my back, making it as tired as if I’d been a field hand, hunched over picking cotton all day, but aside from it being improper, I was half afraid of what might happen.
‘What do you wish to know?’ Louis-Antoine asked.
‘Let’s start at the beginning; where were you born: who are you mother and father?’
Perfunctorily, he answered me, ‘My father was a gentleman farmer, my mother was his wife. I was born in a farm near Gascony, but I have lived in Paris since 18¾.’
I paused for a moment; he opened his eyes, watching me casually, waiting for the next question.
‘Dare I ask about the “was”?’
Louis-Antoine laughed, ‘Emma! Yes, they both perished of natural causes.’ though he laughed, a cloud seemed to pass over his face when he mentioned their demise.
Seeking to turn the conversation on, I asked next about his childhood.
‘What did you do in Paris?’
He paused, thinking of an answer, but I suddenly gasped: ‘are you well-known?’
Louis-Antoine looked at me in alarm, then it eased and he laughed again;
‘No, Em, no. I should have been, I was very popular when I was at school, but then I became ill. Tutors and seclusion remain as what I remember most of my adolescence. Hardly anyone of account will recognize me or you.’
I shrugged at this last bit for I half wanted to be in society. I missed the social scene of Charleston sometimes. Alright, a lot of the time since I’ve been alone.
Louis-Antoine eased back down again, from where he had half risen, closing his eyes once more.
‘Next question, please.’
‘Well, did anything interesting happen? How ordinary your childhood seems.’ said I, not pretending to be much interested anymore.
Louis-Antoine re-opened his eyes and looked at me speculatively for a long moment before replying;
‘What will you do-what would you say-no, will you be appalled if I told you…’ here he paused, trying better to see my face; for this he sat up again.
‘I promise not to run screaming.’ I assured him.
After a moment, he continued: ‘My uncle, with whom I resided most of my life, went to the gallows fifteen years ago for murdering his brother.’
I gasped, how awful. This seemed to be the desired, yet not desired, reaction that Louis-Antoine wanted, for he looked, again, anxiously at me.
‘Well, what do you want me to say?’ I asked plainly. I’m afraid my tone and the strength of my accent was rather derisive of his apprehension.
‘My own uncle is a cotton farmer farther up the Mississippi.’
Louis-Antoine guffawed and quickly kissed my hand, much relieved by my unperturbed-ness. Still holding my hand loosely with my fingers he flopped back down, continuing his history without my further prompting him.
‘After that, as you can imagine, I was shunned from the respectable folk; my friends could not even be seen with me.’ he made a face at this, ‘Then, relief, I won a scholarship to Oxford and left the very afternoon I received my letter. During my years there, I found myself ultimately disappointed in the country. France is better.’
I softly laughed.
‘afterwards, I came back to Paris. Things had not quieted down quite as much as I had hoped while away, but the one satisfaction time had wrought was that it made my friends more disposed towards my company again, if not there families.’
Here I interjected; ‘It sounds like something they would do in Charleston. Awful, awful dreadful people.’
Smiling, my companion continued;
‘I found that I could not settle permanently in Paris respectably, hence I found employment for a silk company in Lyons, as I told you. And now, not counting the train, after many adventures, I am now laying on the edge of the Seine, precisely where I want to be…there could not be more perfect moment, yet…’ Louis-Antoine, trailed off. I would have thought he’d fallen asleep, except that he was playing with my fingers, as if counting them. Starting with my fingertips and moving back; he almost tried to braid my fingers together once. By his face, any observer would have thought him sound asleep, not a twitch of his dark lashes hinted the they would raise soon, hence I freely studied his face. Or I would have. For at that moment, I felt something other than his finger on my hand, and very suddenly he dropped my hand as if it had burned him, leaping up.
‘Sleepy day! I have to stretch my limbs before I fall dead from it!’ he said, walking off. I watched him for a while, the warmth of the sun beating through my frilly blue parasol, begging me to have nap, the blanket was so comfortable, lying over the sun-warmed fragrant grass. There was no one much near us, we were actually in a rather secluded dell, sided about twenty feet or so off, by a thin thicket of river cane, and in the front, by the Seine. So lay down and fall happily asleep was what I did, after, of course, bracing my parasol next to me where it would cover my face from the sun. then I thought that Jake probably would not care if I was sunburnt or not, a lot of sailors had ugly wives, perhaps it was expected. That made me a little unhappy, and I do believe I fell asleep with a small frown.
After I don’t know how long, I woke up: Jake was lying next to me, I looked over at him. Oh, that’s right, it was not Jake at all, but Louis-Antoine. He was holding my hand again. Strangely, my wedding ring felt cold; Louis-Antoine held our hand in the sun, so it should have been warm. Evidently he wasn’t asleep, for he felt me move and looked over at me: his face was so close; mere inches away! How disturbing! How entirely, very much and too disturbing! I sat bolt upright, jerking my hand away from him; my bonnet fell off: knocked off by the edge of my parasol. He sat up too, for a moment we did not move, then he slowly got to his feet, putting more distance between us. Which was good; it allowed for me to stand as well, unaided by his offering hands, and retie my bonnet over my hair. Not able to help me with that, but obviously wishing to do something, just to move, Louis-Antoine picked up my parasol and handed it to me.
‘It is late in the afternoon, we should go back.’ said he. I mutely nodded, an amalgam (that is a word I learned from Izzy.) of peculiar melancholy feelings swelled over me, making me realize that sometime during my nap, my corset had become uncomfortably twisted. Unfortunately I could not very well try to wriggle it straight here with Louis-Antoine, so I’d just have to be uncomfortable all the buggy ride back into Paris. Meanwhile, Louis-Antoine was folding up the blanket, when he had done, he picked up the picnic basket. I offered to take the blanket, but he refused, saying it was very light anyway.
When we found our buggy, he helped me in, far more stiffly than he had earlier that morning. I settled myself as far into the corner of the seat as I could, trying to be as far out of his sight as possible, mainly so I could try and fix my corset: it was ever so much more uncomfortable twisted when sitting. I did not manage it, but my slight twisting and turning attracted the notice of Louis-Antoine after all. And, thinking that I was uncomfortable in that part of the seat, insisted I scoot over some to fill the over-wide amount of empty space beside him.
When he at last we were back in Faubourg Saint-Germain, in front of my apartment, I tried to get down out of the buggy before he could come and help me, but I could not quite manage it. Given that the circumference of my skirt was so cumbersome, my hem got caught on the edge of some small, protruding piece of metal, and when I turned to loosen it, I nearly fell from the buggy. But Louis-Antoine was there, and he caught me. Before he entirely let me go, he asked me if I would go with him to the country the next week. Of course, without quite knowing why but feeling mighty compelled, I said I would. Then he finished setting me down and freed my dress: without even saying goodbye, I ran inside and slammed the door. My corset hurt me quite a lot now, having become nearly backward in the latest embrace. I was amazed that no one had noticed the difference in the level of my bust driving through the streets; that Louis-Antoine had not noticed it. Or maybe he had, but he, naturally, had not said anything or looked. I hoped he hadn’t. I sure hoped he hadn’t. after much jumping in the front hall, I got it reasonably comfortable and ran on up the stairs. Once inside my own apartment, I hastily dropped my purse and began to furiously undo the buttons: the whalebones for the side were digging awfully into my stomach. Lesson learned: never take a nap on a blanket on sloped ground. When I had finally got it entirely straightened, it was much looser for the strings had stretched and I had trouble re-buttoning my dress. Once finished, however, I felt lost for a moment, then noticed that a piece of mail waited for me on the table, under the mirror. Taking into account its battered condition, I presumed it had travelled far. I picked it up; what was left of the return address told me that it was from Jake. I found it hard to breath, my chest seemed to have swelled in a most uncomfortable manner, I was thoroughly flustered. Bravely, I opened the letter and read it.
‘My dearest Emma,
My ship will be docking in the London Port in three weeks, it would please me very much if you were there.  I’m sure Hilda and George would be very happy to have you, Izzy I know will not mind.
This first part was the most important part  of the letter, I did not finish the rest of it until later for I was suddenly thrown into a fit of gloom. Whenever I thought of Louis-Antoine, I looked again at the letter, what was I doing? I already had a husband, I was no longer free to dally with any other man. I wished fervently, that I could go immediately to Louis-Antoine and tell him that I could not, at all, go with him to the country; that I was married, but I still had not a clue where he lived.
This loyalty to my husband and fiendish wish to be around Louis-Antoine that would not disappear, battled in my poor, tired head all the rest of the day, in the evening and all night.
Just after breakfast, about five minutes after, to be exact, I heard feet pounding up the stairs, then down the hall, towards my door. Even before they had stopped, I opened the door: a young boy halted in front of me; he handed me a folded piece of paper and ran off again, without a word. I looked at the piece of paper; there was no marking, no return address. I unfolded it
‘You are married, I cannot take you with me.  By the time you are reading this, I’m already gone.’
I crumpled the page and threw it on the floor, feeling utterly abandoned. After a moment, though, I picked it up again: he was right, he had only come to the same conclusion that I had the previous night and informed me sooner.
The maids and the housekeeper did not bother me, they remained, mainly, in the other rooms throughout the day. Utterly bored, having come to depend on Louis-Antoine for amusement: a dangerous thing for a human to do, I decided to take one of the maids with me and go shopping. Of course I would need new clothes for London. The drab, dreary black that I have been wearing since Andrew’s death would not be suitable any longer. Fortunately, I do have the excuse that Andrew liked colourful things. His death still ached as much as it ever had, not easing the slightest, but instead I felt as if I had moved out of the old me, and into a new sort of person. The same, but a altered indefinably.
I used to think I was very silly, then I realized that truly silly people never see themselves as being silly. Hence, I now wonder if I still am very silly?
Shopping passed well, easily. Having the maid to translate was a relief. I got a bunch of fine new dresses, and the accoutrements and doodads necessary to make them fashionable.
I made a plan to leave on Saturday, at the end of the next week. I wrote Izzy and Hilda, telling them that I was coming for a visit. 
I meandered about nearly constantly around, unable to sit still.  You find me on Friday now, the day before I am to leave, standing one of Paris’s beautiful bridges. Paris in the summer is lazy underneath. I like the city best in the winter and spring. The grass down on the bank is choking itself; it has not been mowed yet, all summer. It’s green and growing, but it is still strangling itself. It still feels strange to be walking around Paris without Louis-Antoine. Different but bearable. Paris is a very romantic city to be lonely in. lonely, lonely, lonely. I’m ever so tired of being lonely and saying that I am…henceforth, from now on, I shall not say that I am that word. Besides, I’m never alone anyway, I have a constant companion in me.
The water below me rolled indolently out from underneath the bridge. If I looked closely, I could see brown fish swimming in there. The always went against the current, if I were them, I’d think it much more fun to just be buffeted along, taken new places that I’ve never seen. Of course, underwater, things must look rather alike all the time, but there are differently shaped rocks. I was perusing these thoughts when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure start up on to the bridge, then stop. Before I could look up to see who it was, he had vanished back into the sudden crowd streaming out of a building, down on the street. Despite my ever improving French, I could not make out the sign on the building to discover what it was. I though the man was Louis-Antoine. Disturbed from my daydreams, I could not go back to them so I started home again.
That night, I finished packing. As I looked over everything again, I saw that I had forgotten my black ribbon box. I had not touched it in months, I could  not; it was the last thing that Jake touched before he left. I never wondered why I came into the room and found him holding it, I did not ask him either: he just set it back down and left. Now I did wonder, but was at a loss to think of what he could have possibly wanted from it.

Bubbles in my Champagne

My name is Emma Dorsey and I am sitting on a bench in Kensington Park. A horse and a lady are coming up the path, the lady is wearing green, that’s Irene Harrison, she’s been riding around for hours. Last week she told me she was waiting for her knight in shining armour to sweep her off her feet. I should have giggled and agreed with her that every girl really was, but all I could think was how out of fashion iron clothes were, and how uncomfortable, too. Just imaging being literally swept off your feet; you’d be black and blue. Certainly, armour is useful against sharp, speeding objects, but that’s about it and the world really has gotten a tad more civilised since it metal clothing was in fashion. Oh, there she goes, by me again, waving too. Again. I raised my hand; the bright sun glinted sharply off my engagement ring, blinding me. Oh, my fiancée, a very adorable man, I suppose I am in love with him, I mean, Eva is. And Eva is everything. How I came to be engaged to him I am still quite unclear on. He should, of course, be engaged to Eva, who is a widow, but has far more money than I do. Perhaps he really does fancy me more. But, this subject is boring me, and I shall be a raisin is I don’t move out of the sun, even if I am wearing a bonnet and this is a very foggy island. I stood and went slowly back across the park to the carriage. I sent it on ahead and chose to walk the half mile back to Jake’s (my fiancé’s) cousin’s house. They had invited us here so I could be introduced to the extended parts of his family. My darling Jake’s parents live in NY, real royalty they are. I am from Charleston, and after this week I’m going back. Poor mama, she has been missing me dreadfully. My darling Jake is not here, he left last week. He’s a captain in the royal navy, right now he’s off to Australia. I don’t imagine it’s going to be very fun being the wife of a captain; captains are generally absent husbands unless their wife’s want to ruin their complexions by going to sea with them. Of, that is another minus--how awfully old he’s going to look before long, he’s already quite tanned. But on to another subject, oh look, Eva herself is coming down the street. How I loathe this meeting. She will be nice; she is very nice, Eva will be civil to you even when she hates you. I suppose it’s that British pride thing, although she isn’t as uppity as everyone else I’ve met. I suppose being widowed must have been humbling. Now, to be nice: I braced myself as she stopped to say hello:
‘Why, Miss Dorsey,’ (Oh, the italics, the constant italics) Eva smiled her brilliant smile, ‘I did not expect to see you out so early this morning; it was rather a late night, last night, wasn’t it?’ (Yes, Eva, it was, given that it was you who prolonged it. You were too nice to refuse the entranced gentlemen who asked you to sing) I nodded and returned her salute.
‘Are you coming to the Steeplechase later?’
Oh, the Steeplechase, of course I’m coming to the Steeplechase.
‘Why yes, I am going with Izzy, Hilda and George,’ (those are darling Jake’s cousins, Hilda and George are married, Izzy is George’s sister.)
‘I do believe Ian is going to be one of the contestants?’ Ian is Eva’s brother. I have good reason to believe he’s very fond of me…Eva must hate him for that.
‘Yes, and Mr Carson, too.’ Eva added, with another smile. ‘I’m on my way to the milliners, I have to see about the rip in my shawl--’ Eva held up a green velvet shawl that she held bunched in her hands; I hadn’t noticed it before, ‘--it still eludes me how the rip got there--’
Does it, Eva, really does it? Isn’t obvious that the other day when I was in Soho, I saw someone pick your pockets; they weren’t fast enough and you tried to run, but they held onto your shawl, hence the rent. As you escaped unscathed, I didn’t see fit to intercede. Now you’re being typical Eva; instead of owning up to it and being called heroic, you choose to lie about it to escape fuss. Which is worse, I wonder?
‘Oh, no, Eva, I can’t, Hilda is expecting me back soon. I’m very sorry; I would so love to come, but…’ I trailed off, Eva was nodding understandingly. What an angel she was, she absolutely hated me. I shall now tell you how I know she hates me: I know because I accidentally overheard her talking to herself once. It was at a party, a very silly party. The party where my darling Jake announced our engagement not very tactfully:  he interrupted his father’s toast to his wife to announce that he and I were engaged. We were going to have dinner, but the announcement created quite din, after a few minutes it was unbearable to me, so I went to the atrium. It was dark in there; I sat down on a cute little stone bench shrouded in some sort of shrubbery I could make out in the in the dark: I believe I saw that it was some sort of northern ivy later. Where was I? ah, yes…Eva. Anyway, I was sitting there, just getting comfortable in the quiet coolness when I suddenly heard the rustle of someone walking on the other side of the wall, outside the atrium (the bench was up against a wall), they sounded distressed. I was unsure if they were crying or not. Then suddenly Eva spoke, very quietly, I could barely hear what she said except;
‘how dare she steal him, oh I hate her!’ now I am not sure at all if the ‘her’ in question was me, but I’m pretty sure I am, given that it was our engagement that was announced.
Oh, there’s Hilda and George’s house; Hilda is looking out the window--
‘Miss!’ a voice called from behind me, I turned around, a young boy that looked like the one who delivers the morning paper was flagging me down. Presently, he joined me holding a posy of flowers.
‘Give these to Izzy--to Miss Merry, please!’ he corrected himself, blushing. Oh the sweet boy, he was obviously in love with dear little Izzy.
‘Of course.’ I took the posy and he dashed off. Above me, the curtain in the window dropped as Hilda disappeared to come and greet me, and probably reproach me for flirting with the newspaper boy. Oh, that’s going to be my last name, what the boy said; Merry. Emma Merry, wife of Captain Merry, his shipmates probably make such fun of him.
Hilda, of course, met me at the door, Izzy by her side. And of course she asked what the newspaper boy had wanted: ‘Why for me to give these sweet flowers to Izzy.’ I said, happily, Izzy darted forward and got them before Hilda could.
The rest of the hours till the Steeplechase passed in a most dull sort of way. I wish I had gone with Eva instead. It’s at least more interesting to be with someone who hates you than to be bored. Finally, after much dithering, Hilda got all her accoutrements and doodads and all everything unnecessary that she wanted to bring to the Steeplechase and we left. When everyone was seated and situated, I looked around. Down on the front row, below us was Irene Harrison again, and beside her Eva. What amusing company they must make; each trying to out do the other in sweetness. I doubt a sane man could stand it to sit next to them for long, and look there is one: Vincent Pontierre, he’s one of my new English friends. I don’t understand him one bit. But we still like each other very much. I suppose it’s because men like action, just action of every sort. Have you ever seen a man who wasn’t a bluenose not bored when in a lull. Ooh, now I’m sitting here blushing and he’s looking up at me, should I pretend to be blinded by the sun and not see him--never mind, I’m waving. Now the race is starting, goodie! I let George bet my money for me, of course, I think he bet it on Joey Carson.  Joey is a very selfish man who lives most of the time in Rome, according to Izzy. I do wonder what he’s doing here, then, I wish he would go: he so very conceited.
Heaven’s I cannot tell who is in front now; I pity Irene sitting down there with clumps of mud flying into her lap. Oh, lookey look now; Eva’s brother, Ian, seems to be having a poor time…he was leading but now it seems he is falling off his horse. He cannot ride a horse to save his life, evidently, given that the riders behind him are likely to trample him to death! I stood, watching anxiously, but the other riders missed him, and Hilda eventually pulled me back down into my seat. Joey Carson, of course, won, and I got some money, the British money system confuses me awfully so I can’t exactly say how much.
Izzy is a very pleasant little person to know. George is tolerable; Hilda is insufferable except in very small doses. Therefore, I was very sorry to leave Izzy in her company, when I was getting on my steamship to go home to Charleston.

The trip reminded me of how awful it would be if I were to follow my husband to sea; with the storms: we went through three storms on the fortnight long voyage home. Though used to sailing on the sea from going boating with my family when I was a girl, I could not overcome the seasickness that arrested me during a storm on the high seas. It is truly awful. Getting knocked out once when the ship hit a wave and I fell from the bed, hitting my head on the leg of the table, and fainting during the other two times made it bearable.
Mama met me with the enthusiastic veracity peculiar to her, and papa with his usual pleasant reserve. 
Although I was glad to be back at home, I couldn’t, of course, help but look forward to the approaching date of my marriage. Now my darling Jake should be some where down below Mexico, and thus, not very far away from me. The wedding was to be in NY. Mama didn’t like it very much, of course, but she was eventually consoled into reconciliation.
After all, she adored diverse society and there were Yankees in the north. It was ever so good to be back home in my city, every day I took walks along the wharf; shells are positively addicting to collect. Most of the time I was accompanied by my school-girlfriends. Who, now that they were about to lose me for good, seemed anxious for my company, like a loofah soaks up water. Or maybe a sponge; loofahs are usually reserved for use during bath-time. Irene Harrison now reminded me of my best friend, Ada. Ada is a darling, excellent company if you want to know this or that about this and that charity or who invaded the Honduras in 1387. As I don’t really care to know either at the moment, I converse about other things with her: she’s fascinating by the people and cultures of Europe. Just this morning she asked me if it was true that they all either had governesses or went to finishing schools; I answered that that had been true for many years, but now they had a few schoolhouses here and there. Why I remember distinctly when Hilda asked me how I’d been schooled, I replied that I’d had a mammy and gone to school. No governesses for John Dorsey’s child, not like Yankees.
Now, on to more fascinating details of my last month in Charleston…um, oh here’s one: my darling Jake came back at the end of it, oh what a darling he is: dear Jake brought me a string of the cute little shells from somewhere down under, I forget where he said, called cowries, they have the same design on them that a slug has. Now autumn is coming and it’s closer than ever to our wedding date. Tomorrow we’re going to set out for NY. Jake seems to be happy about this, I don’t think he finds our Charleston weather very agreeing; he’s always standing about with the negroes frowning, or riding about the country, frowning. Frown, frown, frown, I hope I’m not going to marry a frowner.
The trip was nice, the scenery lovely, especially in the south. I thought the slaves in the fields, in the sun, surrounded by the gold colour of whatever grain they were harvesting would make a lovely painting, but Jake just frowned. As we got farther north, however, his temperament improved. As I said before, I think it was just the weather.
It was very chilly when we passed through New England, most of the leaves had fallen off the trees, but a few clung on still: they were mostly oak and maple. Up on the mountains, they looked like little gold raisins in a month’s old, grey cookie.

Jake’s mother and father were as gracious as before. I have met them twice, the first time  when they came down to Charleston for the summer (that’s also when I met my darling Jake) and then once before I went across to England.
It was just like being in England again, except for the accents, with all the starched, white servants wandering around, except there don’t really wander. Anyway, I suppose that’s why they call it New England. Hilda, Izzy and George and Eva were there, and they had brought Irene with them. Evidently they had come across just behind me. Now it really made no sense why I had to go there to meet them, when they were now here. New York City, however, is delightful. It is so large. Manhattan is my favourite part, and 5th Avenue is my favourite part of Manhattan: the buildings are the prettiest there. Jake and I got married in the Calvary church, and that’s where I’m at now, standing in my wedding dress, about to repeat the last part of my vows after this iguana-look alike preacher. Mama is crying, I wish she would stop, I can hear her.
Now, finally, here I go. I hope darling Jake is a good husband.
‘with this ring, I thee wed.’ there now, I’m wearing my ring and Jake’s wearing his. I hope he doesn’t accidentally drop it in the ocean sometime. Of course, if he did that, a fish could eat it…and then when darling Jake tries to catch it, it’ll eat him for dropping it in the first place. What am I thinking about--
‘I now pronounce you husband and wife, you may kiss the bride.’
--it’s awful to think about such horrible things happening to one’s husband, oh my--
Darling Jake kissed me. of course, the preacher man said he was, but I wasn’t paying attention. I forgot what I was thinking about, oh well. What a nice kiss it was, quite stirring but less so than the other time. Darling Jake has kissed me before, and it was better. On to something more interesting and less dissertating: I tossed the bouquet: Irene caught, ooh, how delightful. Now we, darling Jake and I, went down back down the aisle. I say back, but I’m not sure if Jake came up it, as he was just standing up there already. Mama was crying harder than ever, I don’t think she could see me, for  though she was gazing in my general direction; her eyes were rather to full of tears for her to actually pinpoint my location. Dear papa was holding himself together better.
After the reception, at which mama cried all the way through, sincerely, if everyone wanted to drink salt water, there would have been more than enough to go around. Anyhow, after the reception, darling Jake and I got back on a ship to go on our honeymoon to Rome, where Joey Carson lives. We would have stayed with him, except that he is living, unmarried, with his unmarried mistress. Darling Jake doesn’t approve, and I agree with him. Oh my, I am forgetting something: our wedding night. It was perfect, of course, as we hadn’t gotten so far out to sea yet, for Jake to have to knock me out (which he, un-obligingly, and like a bad husband, although I did see right quick that he thought himself a good one for it…any way, the point is, he didn’t knock me out when I was very bad and wished he would.)
As I was saying, our wedding night was lovely, dearest darling Jake is a wonderful lover, much better than I’d ever imagined back when I didn’t really even know what to imagine. Anyway, he’s, of course, everything a girl could hope for in that area.
Rome is such a romantic city, one day while shopping, I accidentally met Joey’s mistress, she’s nice, but has the buggiest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Joey I did not see, Jake said that he had, then he frowned.
Now I am pregnant. I found out this morning, the honeymoon is over. Jake was called away suddenly to sail--oh, I forget where. Yes, shameful of me isn’t it? To have forgotten where her husband was going. I blame it on my state, then. I am pregnant in Rome. Still in Rome, he left me just when we were deciding where we wanted to live. I want to remain somewhere on this land mass, which happily includes Paris, or across a very short distance of ocean. Jake left me pregnant, in a strange city. He didn’t know I was pregnant, when he left yesterday. He was so sweet when we parted, running back three times just to kiss me again and say good bye. What should I say, how should I say that I am pregnant? I wonder if he would have disobeyed his commanders and not gone, if I had but found out yesterday morning…
Never mind, here goes:
My darling Jake,
(should I cause him worry, if I tell him, he will be worried. And he is, I think, going to some dangerous place. On the other hand, a father has a right to know that he’s going to have a child.)
When I woke this morning, it was like the time at sea, when I begged you to knock me unconscious. When I was well again, after an hour, I told Mrs Michaels (our land lady) at breakfast (I’m afraid my description rather ruined it for her), and she was happy to tell me that I am pregnant. Now darling, don’t worry, I am in the best of the best of the best care here in Rome, this afternoon I’ve engaged Carina (Joey’s sweet little mistress) to tea. I know you will not approve of this, but it is likely that she know the best doctors Rome. Well, of course you know you have all and whatever is left over of my love, so now I will go. A longer letter I shall write soon, sans the gossip, I know you dislike that.
And, really, don’t worry about me, worry for yourself. If you worry for me and forget yourself, then I shall be worried, and I’ve heard that that is very bad for pregnant women.
Love,
Your darling Emma, and your little baby.
(Well, there, that’s nice.)
P.S.
Really, don’t worry.
But Jake did worry, for very soon he arrived back in Rome, and dismissed Dr Varoulis, the doctor who Carina told me of, finding me another, better doctor, which  I thanked him for. There was something about Dr Varoulis that I did not particularly like. As darling Jake had only gotten three weeks leave, he was not with me long, and too soon he left again, with worry on his face, to be gone more than a year. He would miss the birth of his baby, but I promised to keep him informed of every little detail. While I was still able to travel, I decided to go to France, the doctor Jake found recommended a good doctor in Paris. It was lovely travelling through the Pyrenees, then across Provence. The food was great. As we travelled slowly, I was great by the time we passed through there. Fortunately, in Europe having a baby is not so taboo, and you can walk around without shame. That’s where I am now, on my way through Provence, travelling by train. We’re going so fast, the countryside just outside the window is flashing by so fast, but it slows as I look out across the fields. They say there was some sort of riot in Paris a decade ago, but now it’s quiet and picturesque again. Before I was married I imagined that Jake would only be gone from me as little as two or three months of the year, but now I hardly ever see him and he me. I really do believe I love him, every time I think of him, I think of him with fondness. I wonder what he thinks when he thinks of me. I think he thinks I am silly, which is not very nice at all. Oh, now it is time to go to the dining car: I am so heavy now I can barely stand. Fortunately, I’m getting used to walking on trains and don’t lurch lie a drunk. One plus of being pregnant is that when I’m coming down the hall, and people are coming out of their cabins the see me and stand back. I do feel like a queen sometimes. And all the old ladies are very nice. There are three real darlings that always insist I sit with them, and come to my cabin to check on me. No doubt they’ll be waiting in the dining car to ask me to sit with them. Dears. I smiled to myself, directly ahead of my, a door to a cabin slid open ahead of my, a gentleman made as to come out, saw me, then went on out ahead of me! I was rather insulted, but then figured that perhaps he was mighty hungry and did not want to walk slowly behind a pregnant lady. He went ahead mighty fast anyway. Now I came to the little bridge connecting the dining car to mine; this was the scariest part, for though it made me positively ill to look down I had to make sure my feet did not slip off. I was glad it was warm, I imagine that in the winter, with sleet, that passage would be impossible to pass over. I did not figure, of course, that the heat from the wheels would keep it melted.  Finally, I was across and entering the dining car, not that I had much appetite left, but I ate anyway, for the darling baby. The three old ladies were waiting for me, they had taken the table by the window closest to the door so I would not have to walk all the way down the car. As I sat down, I looked around; the gentleman who had been rude to me was nowhere to be seen.
Marie-Jean, the oldest of the old French ladies, and the most worldly, was the only one who knew how to speak English, she translated for the others. Claire-something, I don’t know how to pronounce her second name, asked if I managed to get any sleep at all last night (the movement combined with my stomach that now resembles one of a camel’s humps, I cannot seem to be comfortable in any way at all, not standing, nor lying on my side) so the answer was, the only sleep I got was accidental; I could not, of my own volition, seem to fall asleep, so when I did, as I said, it was accidental.  The kind old ladies took turns patting my arm sympathetically. I asked Marie-Jean where, if I could at all, find a knife. when she asked why, I told her that back home, in the south, people in pain put knifes under their beds to cut the pain. Evidently the French ladies did not believe the same as they looked shocked and crossed themselves. Silly Catholics. We were about to eat the lemon meringue when something interesting did happen. Mind you I don’t particularly like how I was handled. But anyway, I was just putting my fork just into the yellow stripe on the meringue, my favourite part, when the gentleman who stepped out ahead of me in the cabin car, came into the dining car from the other end. He was very handsome, very fine, noble features; he looked horrified. Seeing me, he came towards me and hauled me, not roughly, but not as gently as I’m sure my Darling Jake would have. Holding me up, as if I would have fallen had he not been, he addressed those in the dining car, repeating himself in three languages; English, Italian and French, so as to be understood. He said that at the previous stop, the train had taken the wrong track and we were nearing the end of the track;  where it was being built, we were very near and the engineer would try to stop the train in time, but it would be safest for everyone to go to the rear cars just in case. Then, taking me along with him, the young Frenchman followed his own advice. Pretty soon I was very glad he had taken me with him first, for behind us came a crush of people from the dining car; I would have been trampled certainly. At the rear most of the rear cars and in the last cabin, the Frenchman opened the door and pushed me in ahead of me. Leaving me standing in a corner of the small space, he dragged the bedding from the bunks and then told me to climb underneath the lower one, I hesitated: it would be very uncomfortable.
‘The train cannot slow in time, in a matter of seconds the train will be derailed!’  he explained in a rush, horrified now myself, I hastily crawled under there. It was rather wide, about four feet across. The Frenchman began to push the bedding in around me, but I grabbed his arm and dragged him under there with, he tried to finish pack the pillows in around us, but I imagine it was rather hard. Once they were all in place, we had no light. The wheels beneath us sent up a constant, bone-jarring vibration. I was sincerely frightened so I imagined that it was my darling Jake lying there beside me and he would not let the train hurt me or his baby. All of a sudden, there was a long, long scream.
I found myself incoherently crying out my husbands name into the roaring shriek, the Frenchman, whom I now did not recognize from Jake put his arm around me and tensed; the next moment the screaming changed to a staccato, metallic screech. And then the train stopped. I heard Jake curse in French and throw his arms over my head. Immediately our car seemed to speed again, then it stopped and I slid upward on the floor so fast that if my darling Jake had not been shielding me, I would have broken my skull on the metal wall of the car. Finally everything became still, the noise did not abate, but instead of a scream, it turned into a grinding crunch. Then at last, after several minutes, it seemed, there was silence. The darkness grew stifling, I could feel flecks of dust from the mattress above sticking to my face, which was wet: I’d been crying. The Frenchman did not move. After aeons, it seemed, I could not bear the darkness and the silence anymore. Since the Frenchman had given no sign of life, I pushed him out  from under the bunk; thank goodness the floor was smooth: if it hadn’t been, I would not have been able to. Our car was still upright, it was on the end, so of course it was. The light against his eyelids seemed to bring the Frenchman around, he had evidently been knocked unconscious, for he had a gash on his forehead. I stopped the bleeding with my handkerchief, he moaned, trying to sit up. At first he couldn’t and I advised against it, but as he became more awake he tried again, succeeding. After I assure him that I was not hurt, we found a way out of the car. Our door had nearly been blocked shut by a piece of furniture from one of the other cabins. The Frenchman shoved it out of the way and helped me into the hall. All along it, doors were being opened and people, both hurt and unhurt emerged. Several more articles of loose furniture had found their way into the hall, the Frenchman and several others moved them out of our way as we went to the door in the back.  Finally we managed to get outside. Ours, the Frenchman’s and mine, and the one directly ahead of it, were the only to still standing, the rest lay on their sides and farther in up the track, most of the cars had been jammed into each other.
The Frenchman and the others went to help, leaving me, alone, standing by the bank. I would have gone to help too, but I was so heavily pregnant I don’t think I would have been much use.
Hours after hours passed, I could see people milling around, bringing people out of the cars, but no one came up to me, the sun began to burn overhead and my legs were so very tired that I thought to sit down, but just as I was about to, I noticed that several scorpions were climbing out of a hole in the ground near me. I loathe being stung, so I decided to go and help if I could. I couldn’t and again, I was pushed to the side, out of the way of others until help came. It did come eventually, at about two or three. The roads to the closest town were positively awful, bump, ump, bump, jolt, jolt, jolt. I was so very tired and hungry when I reached the inn that I did not know what I should do first: eat or sleep. Of course, I chose eating, and sitting in a seat that was comfortable and did not move. Sitting down to eat reminded me of Claire, Marie-Jean, and Marguerite, I never saw them again. Nor did I have a chance to ask about them; for nearly as soon as I finished my meal, my labour came on and after much toil, pain and difficulty my darling Jake and I’s son, Andrew Jacques (the name of the charming Frenchman who saved me) Merry was born. I have to say, I was very sorry indeed for being pregnant at all, the first moments after he was born, because at first he was very unpleasant. Both in manner and how he looked: he screamed and he was purple. Then, after he was dried off some, and began to be a normal colour, it didn’t matter so much that he cried, for he was wonderful to look at. I fell truly in love with my darling baby from the moment he first had normal colour skin. And for a long time it was very hard to muster any real feeling for anyone else but him. I was, of course, sad that Jake couldn’t be here to meet him, but, for the moment, I was very glad to have him all to myself.
I must have wrote nearly a hundred letters to Jake during the remainder of his absence, and from his, I could tell that being apart from me and his son was killing him.
Starting about the month before my darling Jake was to come home, I began to be rather jealous: for what if, when he came, he, as I had done, would love only darling Andrew? I don’t think I could bear that from my loving husband.
Then a week or so from his return date, Andrew smiled his first real smile when he saw me, and I was comforted, knowing that even if my husband fell temporarily out of love with me, one little man would still love me.
That’s where I am now; cooing over little Andrew, little Andipoos, wee cute little darling Andy. the doorbell rang, when I answered, (oh, I am living in Paris now, in an apartment of my own) a boy stood there, he reminded me of the newspaper boy that had brought flowers to Izzy.
‘Mademoiselle, for you.’
Of charming boy, why Frenchmen always call Misses and Mrs’ alike mademoiselle, it really if flattering.
Anyway, I took the little envelope that the boy gave me: it was a telegraph. He stood waiting to see if I was going to answer and for his tip. I gave him his tip, then opened the envelope: the telegraph said that my darling Jake had been seriously wounded, it was unsure whether he would live; he was currently in a hospital in some coastal town in Spain. I could not think, nor could I breathe for a long moment, I sent the boy away. I must have looked very pale indeed, for he kept glancing at me as if he thought I would faint. After he had gone, I still stood in the doorway, the street was very empty, brown leaves that had fallen from the now bare trees skittered suddenly as an icy cold wind suddenly whipped around the buildings, I could practically see it curling around in the air. It whipped past me into the house, I quickly shut the door. Chilled to the bone.