Miss Emily

by Nuala O'Connor

  “You are fond of unusual financial transactions,” Daniel says. I try to catch his eye to warn him to stop.

  “What do you mean?” Mr. Austin says.

  “You paid a man to go to war for you, they say.”

  “I hired a substitute. A perfectly legitimate arrangement.”

  Daniel snorts, and I fear that Mr. Austin will hand him in if he does not temper himself.

  “We gladly accept your offer, Mr. Austin,” I say, “and we thank you.” I look to Daniel for his agreement. He nods and sits slowly into a chair by the wall. I go to him and take the seat beside him.

  Miss Emily Says Farewell

  TWILIGHT FINGERS AMHERST WITH HIS TAWNY GLOVE, AND I wait, first for night, then dawn and, lastly, morning and my brother’s return. Slowly, slowly, the Pelham Hills drag the evening dark down like a cloak. I sit at my desk, my hands across it, immobile. I listen to a whip-poor-will send out its obsessive call and remember that it can sense a soul departing and capture it as it flees. And what then? I wonder. What does the whip-poor-will do with its soul prisoner?

  Patrick Crohan is no more. Word flew throughout Amherst in the late evening, and Father brought it home from town, where he met Mr. Bowles the newspaper man, who knew that Crohan sometimes worked here. Now that it is certain that Crohan is dead, the stars slip from their orbit and spin awry. And, alas, all of great Neptune’s ocean cannot wash his killer clean. I almost hear the hiss of the tattlers as they pass the news, and the manner of death, back and forward between them. The gossips do not know who the culprit might be, and long may it remain so. My hope is that our family name does not get snared in their prattle. Then Ada will be safe. There is no better secret keeper than a Dickinson; we are able to close around our skeletons as snug as a shroud.

  Before the news of Crohan came, I bade farewell to Ada at the chaise-house as she and Daniel hurried into Father’s carriage with Austin.

  “Be sure to live life completely, my little Emerald Ada,” I said. “I wish I had.” I gave her two heated soapstones for their hands. “Continue to think well of me though we will be apart.”

  “Tell my uncle I am sorry,” Ada said quietly. “Tell him I will write.”

  We embraced, and Austin bundled her into the carriage before anyone might see. Ada’s face looked smaller than ever, and weary, at the carriage’s oval window. She raised her hand to me, then put her fingers to her lips and let fly a kiss. I caught it in my fingers and put it to my mouth.

  So they are gone, fugitives both. And until I see my brother, I will not know if they are out of danger. For myself, I mean never to go outside again. Out in the world, there is tragedy; it is safer for me to write about catastrophe rather than live it.

  My mind cannot surrender the vision of Crohan staggering backward, holding his punctured stomach and lowering his head to try to fathom his wounds. And then, when Daniel pushed him and he hit the ground, Crohan lay so forlorn in the dirt, letting out soft, inhuman whines of pain. I am frantic to rid myself of these scenes.

  To switch my thoughts, I turn my gaze around my bedroom; it lands on the pictures over my bureau of Elizabeth Barrett Browning and George Eliot. I remember a far-off conversation with Ada; she stood before the pictures and studied them, as if trying to discern why they were there.

  “They must be some of your Norcross relatives, are they?” she said. “Neither of them is a Dickinson anyway—I’ve seen all of them, and they are handsome people.” She peered closer at Mrs. Browning and Miss Eliot.

  When I laughed at her remark, she was injured. I told her who the ladies were and that they were heroines of mine, and she accepted that and seemed to warm to them from then on, dusting their frames carefully. I look now at the pair of writers on my wall—are they so plain?—and wonder how they coped when their hearts were sodden. But of course I know the answer to that already. They turned to words, and so must I.

  I rise and take Emily Brontë from her perch beside my bed. I leaf through the pages, hoping for lines that will hand me consolation. My eyes alight on:

  No coward soul is mine

  No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere

  I see Heaven’s glories shine

  And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear.

  Would that I had my namesake’s faith in a heavenly God; would that I had her courage.

  Inky night folds down over Main Street. I go to Mother to say good night. She is propped in her bed, looking jejune and tiny in her cap and nightgown. It not being the Dickinson custom to make inquiries where they are not invited, she does not question me about being out of doors today. I offer it to her anyway. She is a Norcross truly, and I can see that she would like to ask but is restraining herself.

  “I went to Austin’s office, Mother, merely to help him with something. Nothing of concern.”

  “Oh, yes, dear?” she says, as if she does not know I was absent for most of the day. “Vinnie might have aided him. Your brother knows you prefer to stop at home.”

  “He asked for my assistance. He needed me specifically.”

  “And did Austin’s need connect to the fact that we no longer have a servant?”

  I look at Mother, her gentle eyes, her innocent face; I am shy of upsetting her. “No, Mother, it did not. Ada has had to return to Ireland, for her mother requires her. And is she not right to heed that call?” I wonder if I have dashed fast enough in and out of the lie. “She sends her deepest apologies to you.”

  Mother sniffs and pulls her sheet up to her neck. “I will sleep now, Emily dear. Blow out my candle.”

  The night is large and looming; to keep from slumber, I wander the house from eyrie to cellar. In my conservatory the cape jasmine is as luminous as my dress and the calla lily trumpets in silence, its tongue poking obscenely at me. I run my fingers over its succulent petals and will Father Time to slash mightily with his scythe. Up to the cupola I climb, seeking Mother Moon, but she is under wraps tonight, as are the planets. If only I could see Polaris, a lodestar to guide Ada’s way. I will miss her about the house; her talk was like music to me, easing my aloneness and affording me a peek into her alien world. I will miss her companionship and the light she brought to the kitchen. I leave my covert and descend to the dining room; the clock shows that it is not yet midnight. My candle throws a monstrous shadow onto the wall before me.

  “How will I hurry the hours along?” I ask my penumbral self. She, of course, does not answer.

  I go to the kitchen and search for a sweetmeat to liven me up. There is a box of caramel somewhere, if Mother and Vinnie have not unearthed it and scoffed their way through it all. Ada and I made it but days ago; I melted chocolate, she poured molasses, and we took turns stirring as it boiled, both of us damp-faced and tropical from the fragrant steam. No more will we make caramel together or charlotte russe; no more will we fashion potato scones or soda bread. No more will we walk the garden side by side, talking of Ireland and of America, each learning from the other. It grieves me sorely, though I know that Ada had to go, for her own safety and that of her man. Austin has been politic, and it is good that he was.

  But what will Sue make of it? Will she feel righteous now that Ada is gone? Will Austin tell her all that happened? I think not, for there is danger in spreading the news around, even within the family. There are secrets already between Austin and Sue; both of them have shared intimacies with me about former lovers that the other does not know of; both of them harbor romantic thoughts that dwell outside their marriage. But they are only thoughts, and Austin and Sue are each so proud and so eager to appear right that, for now, neither will budge from where they are, no matter what unhappiness ensues.

  The box of caramel sits on a shelf in the scullery, and when I snap its lid, sweetness engulfs me. I sit on the stool that Ada used to stand on and hold the box in my lap while eating piece after piece. The first candies I devour, chewing until my j
aw smarts, but once the craving for a sweet rush has been sated, I suck, letting them melt to naught on my tongue. Sugar-full at last, I sigh, feeling both enlivened and dull. I wonder if I should have one more piece and put the box back but then decide to take it, for who knows of its existence now but me?

  I carry the caramels to the library and sit in Father’s Windsor chair; the blinds are up and the curtains open, but I make no move to close them. I shut my eyes and run my tongue over my teeth to undo the molasses fuzz. And it is thus Austin finds me at dawn: snoozing in the book room with a box of candy in my arms for comfort.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I rise, still half in sloom. “They are safe?”

  Austin nods. “You waited all night, Emily.”

  I blink to waken myself; through the library window I see that morning bruises the sky. “How were they, Austin? How was Ada?”

  “Neither spoke on the journey. I drove hard. The moon was fully round and bright, a great pearl rolling across the sky. It seemed to overtake us, and I followed it all the way to the town of Dana. It was the damnedest thing.”

  “I saw no moon last night. Are you sure?”

  “It shone bright as a lamp, Emily.”

  “And Ada, where is she? Will she fare well?”

  “I left them with a Quabbin man, a good fellow from Dana. He set off with Ada and Byrne while I was there. I watched them go. I instructed him to leave them in the North End. They are no doubt with their own people by now.” Austin shakes his head. “I must sleep, Emily.”

  “Thank you, Austin. For helping them.” I choose not to tell him that Patrick Crohan is dead; he will find that out soon enough.

  “Good night,” my brother says. “But I should say ‘good morning,’ I suppose.” He turns to me. “Think no more on Miss Concannon and Mr. Byrne, Emily. They are gone from us and, at last, are none of our concern.”

  “I suppose you are right. I will sleep now, too.”

  I let Austin walk before me through the library. His back is erect; his lofty head holds itself above the world as if he does not quite live in it. My brother leaves by the front door and is gone.

  I climb the stairs and lie on my bed; light fidgets across the floor through the windows. My eyes sting from weariness, and I close them and beg for peace. Ada is gone, and her absence turns my thoughts inevitably to Susan. Later today I will ask her to come to me; surely she will oblige and find it in herself to listen well and give me cheer. Though she did not approve of Ada, for reasons of her own, she will understand that there is a gap in my life now that Ada is here no more.

  My body hums less noisily, and my legs jerk of their own volition, letting me know that sleep will soon come. All has changed, I think; the bird never resumes its egg, and nothing can be done to undo the terrible thing that has happened. As I fall further into repose, it strikes me that Ada does not know a soul in North End nor in the whole of Boston. I can only hope that her Daniel does. And I further hope that Boston will not ensnare them but that somehow they will end up in a green, leafy spot that will give them succor. I see Ada in my mind, fluttering loosely above the world but at last cocooned in a verdant place. Nature will, I pray, save her.

  Miss Ada Concannon Returns

  MY FOOT LIFTS AND DOES NOT LAND WHERE IT OUGHT TO, FOR the swells make the boat have an uneven rhythm; I move crabways and have trouble correcting my gait. I walk to try to quell the heaving in my stomach. I blame the sea bread we have been given; it ferments inside me like cider, though it is hard and dry as wood. Our sea store is meager, for we did not have time to gather many supplies before we set sail.

  We sat silent in Mr. Austin’s carriage but talked softly when the man from Quabbin drove us. I spoke mostly, for Daniel was rigid with remorse and could not seem to form his thoughts.

  “Where will we go, Daniel?” I clutched his hand in mine and rubbed it.

  “I know not, Ada.”

  “We have money. We could go west. Or north, to Canada.”

  “They’d catch up with me.” He gasped as if only at that moment realizing that he might have killed Crohan.

  “Well then, there is but one thing for it. Home.”

  He whipped his head around to look at me. “Dublin?”

  “Ireland, for sure. It’s where we belong. But we need a clean start, Daniel, so not Dublin. I know a place we can go, where we’ll be happy and safe. Where we can have a quiet life, us and our children.”

  He put his head to my shoulder, and I held his cheek with my hand. The carriage jogged along, and we both fell into a rough sleep. When I woke, I asked the driver to bring us to the Port of Boston.

  I take my walks while Daniel sits on deck, unmoving and silent, his face west to America. He does not seem to notice the beating sails above his head or the plunge of the ship through the water. His thoughts are not mine to know, but I guess that he is wondering about Crohan and whether he is alive or dead.

  I watch the sun fall into the sea each night; it dips slowly first, and then, quicker than quick, it plummets into the water, leaving the sky bleached at the top, sooty at the bottom. Tonight the upsurge in my belly gets so bad that I go to the cook to ask for some ginger—Mrs. Child says it will calm the churning.

  “The only cure for seasickness, miss, is to sit on the shady side of an old brick church in the country,” the cook says, and lets loose with a raucous laugh. I leave his galley hastily; he, and the milk stench of his lair, only make my bile rise more.

  I stay below deck and check on my stowed belongings before heading for the steps to go up again so that I might sit with Daniel. As I reach the far end of the hold, I am amazed to spy the woman with the oranges who had traveled on the same boat as me last year. Sure enough it is her, and she is sitting alone at one of the long tables, peeling an orange. She digs her nails into the skin and breaks the fruit into pieces; she pops the slices onto her tongue, and the juice dribbles from her lips. My mouth fills with spit. She sees me watching and holds out half the orange to me.

  “It will settle you,” she says. “You’ll see.”

  I take it and nod my thanks; the woman turns her face away and continues to eat. I bite into a piece of the orange and chew it up; it tastes bittersweet. I cradle the rest of it in my hand and bring it to Daniel. He smiles when I hold the orange out to him and puts it in his mouth, not even asking where I got it. I am happy as I watch him enjoy its juices; I see pleasure on his face, and I have not seen that for a long time, it seems.

  By night on the ship, I dream of Amherst, not the bad that happened there but the good. I hear the midnight click of Miss Emily’s door as she goes below to the conservatory to pot plants or to the kitchen for something sugared and cheering. I hear the wind in the pines and the gurgle of the barn’s doves. I hear the endless chip-chip of the crickets in the garden and the scratch of squirrel claws on bark. I am comfortable in my Homestead bed, with a clean white eiderdown over me. The factory whistle blows, and I rise to go to the yellow kitchen. Miss Emily stands before me and says, “You do not need to brave it out, Ada. I am here.”

  In my dreams Patrick Crohan walks up to me, then passes, no sign of injury on him. Crohan does not threaten or speak but looks over his shoulder at me and wanders away. I do not tell Daniel about these night thoughts, for he might take a wrong meaning from them; he would maybe think that I want to be back in Amherst and not with him at all. I, who count myself lucky that he wants to be with me when I am a spoiled woman.

  I wake to the heaving sea and the slap of sail and rope and bone ache from the hard bench under me. The smells of salt and tar, grease and sweat, assail my nose. I hear the coughs of the other women, their vomiting and whispered conversations. Babies yowl, and mothers shush them; those who are ailing moan and cry out. I wish for the voyage to end, for I am impatient to start our new life. I wish that Daniel could lie alongside me at night and that he did not have to go to his own bunk
. But I am glad to have his long body stretched beside me by day as we walk the decks and sit to look at the churning sea. That is one very fine feeling, and I thank God for it. I am strong and determined; my mind is rushing forward to the future and to all that might happen, all the pleasing things that are yet to come.

  The first thing is the rain, of course. We stand at the rail on the ship from Liverpool and watch rain sheet across the sea from Kingstown; it moves toward us like a great travail, the sorrows of the country and our own sorrows made into weather. I take my hands from the railing, and they are grained with salt, reminding me of the day I set off less than a year ago. Sea spray has soaked the ends of my skirts and the cuffs of Daniel’s trousers; it has made our cheeks slick. I slip my arm through his and hug him to me.

  Daniel knows all about me now. Up on the quiet of the deck one dusk, I told him of that terrible night and everything that happened afterward. The stars came out one by one above us, and the cold was mighty, but we were wrapped well against it. We sat side by side in our steamer chairs, and I got it all out. The words were hard to find, but I managed as best I could, and he listened with bowed head. I told him about the calomel and the sarsaparilla and what they were for. I told him of my growing feelings of health and had him feel the curve of my hips, which are rounding out nicely this last while. We spoke about what Crohan had done to us.

  “We were both cursed by the same devil, Daniel, but God will be his judge,” I said. “We can only try to forgive him.”

  “That is true, Ada,” Daniel said. We both cried, lamenting the loss of our former selves. But we held each other close and agreed that we mean to march only forward now.

  Daniel slides closer to me at the rail, and we look west, waiting for the coast to show itself. I feel giddy of a sudden and do not wish to witness our approach to Ireland.