The Revelation of Louisa May

by Michaela MacColl

CHAPTER ELEVEN

  But her reverence for genius received

  a severe shock that night,

  and it took her some time to recover

  from the discovery that

  the great creatures were only men and

  women after all.

  After walking for a few minutes, Fred said, “I’d forgotten that Walden Pond was so far.”

  “Far? It’s only two miles. You have gotten lazy.”

  Two years ago, Walden Pond had been a favorite haunt of theirs. They often went to catch tadpoles, search for arrowheads, or, best of all, visit Henry in his little cabin. Henry had lived there for almost two years until he felt that he had achieved his goal of living simply and close to nature. Louisa’s favorite memory of that time was sitting with Henry in a canoe on the pond while he charmed the birds out of the trees with his flute. Now that he was back living at his mother’s house on the other side of town, he still returned to the cabin when he had serious thinking to do or essays to write.

  The most direct path to Walden Pond led through a walnut grove on Mr. Emerson’s land. In fact, Henry’s cabin was built on Mr. Emerson’s property. Louisa wished for the hundredth time that Henry would stay far away from Lidian Emerson.

  Fred picked up a nut and broke it open. It was rotten.

  “They were better in the fall,” Louisa said. “Mr. Emerson let us pick as many as we wanted.”

  Fred tossed the nut aside. Not looking at Louisa directly, he asked, “Is it really true that Mr. Emerson doesn’t support the abolitionists?”

  Louisa hopped over a log lying across the path. “He does, just not the way we expect.” She told Fred about the money left in the book the night before. “When he supports us, he’s supporting the cause. But I don’t think he wants to do so publicly yet. He has a reputation, and his speaking engagements are the family’s main income. He’s not like Father or Henry, who wouldn’t mind being arrested in the least.”

  “They’d use their imprisonment to advocate for the cause,” Fred agreed. “All the fellows at school were green with envy that I knew the great Mr. Emerson. But still, I find it disappointing that he doesn’t want to get his hands dirty.”

  “So do I. But I can be patient.”

  “You?” Fred burst out laughing.

  “Someday Mr. Emerson will be as fully committed we are. He’s too good a man to avoid the field of battle forever.”

  Their conversation died down as they walked along a narrow creek. Suddenly, Fred slowed at a small stand of wild crocus. He bent down and picked a bunch, presenting it with a small bow to Louisa. “Amends for my behavior last night, Miss Alcott.”

  Louisa reached to accept the bouquet, but he suddenly lifted it high above her head. “Fred!”

  He grasped her hand and put it next to his heart. “It’s also a declaration of my intentions,” he proclaimed.

  “Then give me my flowers!” Louisa said. He relented and handed them over. She admired the small flowers and tucked them into her pocket. “I’ll accept your amends,” she said. “As for your intentions, we’ll see.” She set off at a fast clip, leaving him behind.

  “I hope I don’t have to wait for long,” Fred said as he hurried to catch up. “I’d like to kiss you again.”

  Louisa turned and punched him in the arm. “Fred Llewellyn, why did you want to kiss me at all?”

  “Ow!” He rubbed his arm. “Because you looked very lovely in the moonlight and I couldn’t help myself.”

  “I have so many problems to deal with right now,” Louisa said. “You couldn’t have chosen a worse time.”

  “In this life, you have to seize the moment,” he said. “You must know how much I admire you. I’ve thought of nothing but you while I was at school. Why not give me a chance?”

  “I’m not ready . . . to think about this right now,” she said, trying to make him understand. “We’re such good friends and it would change everything.”

  He stopped her on the path and put both hands on her shoulders. “Darling Louisa. I know how much you hate change. Unlike you, I really can be patient.” He drew her close to him and she was perfectly still, acutely aware of his body pressing against hers. Louisa hoped he would kiss her again, all the while trying to think of how to keep him from doing it.

  He leaned forward and delivered a chaste kiss on the top of her head. He turned and walked rapidly away. She stood in the middle of the path, confused and, if she were honest with herself, a little disappointed.

  He looked over his shoulder. “Don’t dawdle, Louisa,” he teased. “The day is wasting away!”

  With a growl, Louisa broke into a run and soon overtook him, her boots carrying her easily over branches and around stones. In a few minutes they arrived at the path that went round about Walden Pond. As they went around the northern end of the pond, Louisa heard a cracking noise behind them. She put her hand on Fred’s arm and stopped dead. “Did you hear that?” she asked.

  Fred looked puzzled. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “It was like someone stepped on a branch.” She turned in a circle, senses open to every sound. “It’s gone now.”

  “You took Henry’s lessons in woodcraft too seriously,” Fred said. “Next we’ll track an Indian by his footprints and his evening meal by the marking on his arrowheads.” He began walking again and Louisa followed reluctantly.

  “We’ve moved beyond finding arrowheads to excavating the past,” she informed Fred in a lofty voice. Louisa pointed to a space that had once been a clearing but was now overgrown. “If you look carefully you can see the foundations of a little house. Henry showed me last fall. Freed slaves lived here fifty years ago.”

  “What happened to them?” Fred asked.

  “He doesn’t know.” Louisa shrugged. “But he’s trying to find out. I think he wants to write about them.”

  “Is he still planning on turning his time here into an essay?” Fred asked.

  Picking her way over a muddy patch in the trail, Louisa said, “I think so. He showed me a draft of the beginning not too long ago. It was inspiring.” She closed her eyes to visualize every word in his beautiful flowing handwriting. “ ‘I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.’ ”

  “You remember all that? Word for word?” Fred asked, amazed.

  “How else would I remember it?” Louisa asked, lifting her eyebrows. “His ideas changed how I looked at life.” She threw her arms out wide. “I couldn’t bear to get to the end and realize I’d wasted my time on this earth.”

  “You should go to university,” Fred said. “You’d think and write circles around most of the fellows at Yale.”

  “As if the university would allow a woman in! And even if they did, there’s no money,” Louisa said bitterly. “You see how we live. Debts everywhere and surviving on the charity of our friends.” She shot him an angry look. First Fred proffered her love that she didn’t want, then dangled in front of her nose an education she could never have. Didn’t he understand that Louisa’s dreams were already overfull of unattainable things?

  Fred frowned, his lip twisted. “It makes me burn to see how you live in such poverty while your father refuses to work. Is he indifferent to your family’s suffering? I admire him tremendously, but this aspect of his character I do not understand.”

  She swallowed hard but couldn’t rid herself from an onslaught of angry tears. “I wish I knew. He’s not averse to taking money that other people have earned, like my uncle or Mr. Emerson. Or even Marmee! He just won’t work for anyone other than himself,” Louisa said, swiping furiously at her eyes. “But our situation is more desperate than anyone knows. We owe money everywhere: the general store, the stationers, even the doctor. Thankfully Dr. Bartlett won’t abandon Beth’s care, but we have owed him his fee for months. It’s so mortifying.”

  “I wish there was someth
ing I could do,” Fred said.

  “Marmee and Anne are working,” Louisa mused on as if Fred hadn’t spoken. “I should, too, but jobs are scarce in Concord. Although Henry did offer me a job at his family’s pencil factory.”

  The look of scandalized horror on Fred’s face restored her sense of humor. “All right, not Henry’s factory,” she said.

  “If only I was rich and could swoop in and solve all your family’s problems!” Fred exclaimed.

  “It’s not your responsibility, it’s mine,” Louisa said, but tempered her words with a quick smile. Of all her reasons to avoid Fred’s love, this was probably the truest one. Only a rich man could solve the family’s financial woes, and Fred was not rich. But Louisa could never bring herself to marry for money. So, unless she happened to fall in love with a wealthy man, and even more unlikely he fell in love with her, the family’s problems were hers to solve. “Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”

  Through the trees, she caught a glimpse of the tiny rustic cabin. “There it is.”

  It stood in its own clearing, not far from the pond. It had only one room, with a single door, two windows, and a fireplace. The furnishings were equally spare: a narrow cot, a table, and two chairs. Henry had built it himself with help from Bronson. During Henry’s self-imposed exile to Walden Pond, he had welcomed visitors, and Louisa had been inside it many times. Thoreau’s little house was easily one of her favorite places.

  “I don’t see him,” Louisa said.

  “Maybe he’s inside?” Fred suggested.

  “On such a beautiful day?” They reached the door. As Fred lifted his hand to knock, Louisa realized that there were voices inside. Henry had company, and with a sinking feeling in her stomach she feared she knew who it was.

  “Wait . . .” she said. But it was too late. Fred’s fist connected with the door.

  The voices stopped.

  “Let’s go,” Louisa said, tugging on Fred’s arm.

  “But I thought I heard him inside,” Fred said. He raised his voice. “Henry! Henry Thoreau! It’s Fred Llewellyn and Louisa Alcott.”

  “I wish you hadn’t done that,” Louisa said. The door opened slowly. Henry appeared in the doorway. He wore his usual brown corduroys and a jacket of woodland green with large pockets to hold all the forest treasures he might find. The only thing that was not customary was the furious expression on his face.

  “What are you doing here?” Henry asked in a clipped voice she had never heard from him before.

  There was nowhere for a guest to hide in the single room. Lidian Emerson stood next to the window, looking out over the pond. Her face was scarlet and she fingered the buttons on her bodice, perhaps from nerves, or, Louisa thought with a flash of cynicism which dismayed her, Lidian might be checking to make sure the buttons were refastened correctly.

  “Henry!” Fred said with delight. He stepped forward, then caught sight of Lidian. He flushed and stopped in his tracks. “Mrs. Emerson, I didn’t expect . . .” he said. He ran his finger around his collar as though it had suddenly grown too tight. “How nice to see you.”

  “Fred. Louisa,” Henry said in a clipped tone, looking at Louisa. “You weren’t invited here.”

  As though his words had physical force, Louisa stumbled back a step. “We’ve never needed an invitation before.”

  “You aren’t a child anymore,” Henry snapped. “You can’t just come unannounced. I have company.”

  “I can see that.” Louisa’s eyes narrowed. “As you said, I’m not a child.”

  Henry’s face turned red. “You should go.”

  “I say, Henry . . .” Fred began.

  “Fred, not now,” Louisa said. “We’re not welcome here. Goodbye, Henry, Mrs. Emerson.” She turned on her heel and, grabbing Fred’s hand, stalked away back into the woods, Fred on her heels, putting as much distance between them and Henry Thoreau as she could.

  A man leaned against a tree in the narrow clearing, waiting for them. “We have to stop meeting like this, Miss Alcott.”

  Louisa stopped in surprise. “Finch,” she said.

  Fred started as he recognized the name. Louisa glanced behind her. The bend in the path obscured the view to Henry’s cabin; for the moment Henry and Lidian were out of sight.

  “What are you doing here?” Louisa asked.

  Finch wore a satisfied grin on his face. “Following you.”

  “That is contemptible.”

  “So is harboring a slave.” Finch paused. “Indeed, it’s illegal. So you’d best tell me what you know . . .”

  Louisa cut him off. “I don’t know anything about a fugitive,” Louisa said. “And if I did, I’d not help you for any amount of money.”

  “Perhaps not knowingly,” Finch conceded. “But watching where you go can be very instructive.” With a smirking look at Fred, Finch continued, “And with whom.”

  Fred stepped forward, fists clenched. “I’ll thank you to leave the lady alone.”

  “The lady can speak for herself,” Finch said.

  “Yes, I can.” Louisa put her hand on Fred’s arm. “Fred, please don’t. Fighting will only make the situation worse. I won’t have you soiling your hands on him.” Finch was the kind of man who fought dirty and often; he’d pulverize poor Fred in a fight.

  “Every time I find a lead to my missing property,” Finch said, “I find you in the middle of it. I saw a servant from the Emerson house bring over a sack of clothes to your house. Why, I wonder? And then I hear about a negro chopping wood yesterday in your orchard. Did your family suddenly find the money to hire a field hand?”

  Louisa felt a shiver down her spine, but she kept her face still.

  Finch went on, “And now I find you going off to a remote part of the woods. It’s just a matter of time before you lead me to him.”

  Louisa was relieved and scared at the same time. At least she was nowhere near George. But just around the bend were Lidian Emerson and Henry Thoreau. Finch seemed to attract scandal like a magnet did iron filings, and she didn’t want to hand him any more ammunition to use against her friends.

  Perhaps there was an innocent explanation about Henry and Lidian being alone in that cabin, but Finch wouldn’t look for it. As furious as she was with Henry—how dare he scold her when he was the one behaving badly?—the last thing any of them needed was for Finch to catch Henry in a compromising situation with his best friend’s wife.

  “Mr. Finch, your informant was mistaken,” Louisa said. “My father often wears black gloves and has a dark handkerchief wrapped around his face when he chops wood. He suffers from asthma.”

  “Why don’t we go ask him about it together?” Finch said. “I wonder if he’ll tell the same story. And I wouldn’t mind taking a closer look at your barn and the outbuildings in your garden.”

  Louisa schooled herself not to give away any hint that Finch’s guesses were hitting their target. She stared Finch down, not blinking. “We could,” she said. “But my father isn’t at home. We were just going to join him on the other side of Walden Pond. There’s a hill there with an excellent vista. Why don’t you join us?”

  At her side, Fred shot her a surprised glance, but then he understood her plan was to lead Finch in the opposite direction from George’s hiding place and away from Henry’s cabin, too. “Louisa, we’re supposed to meet him in just a few minutes,” he said helpfully. “We should go.”

  “Not so fast, Miss Alcott.” Finch was scanning the woods as he spoke. “I can’t help but wonder what you were doing on this side of the pond. I remember when I was a boy there were freed slaves living in these woods. Isn’t it more likely that you are out here checking on my fugitive than you are having a picnic with your father? My man is close, I’m sure of it.” He watched her face closely to see if she reacted. Louisa kept a look of polite incomprehension on her face, but Fred couldn’t control himself.

  “George’s not your man,” Fred burst out. “Slavery is an abomination, and you’re the lowest sort of scum t
o be hunting fugitives.”

  “Fred, don’t . . .” Louisa snapped, but Finch was too quick for her. Eyeing Fred with speculation, Finch slowly grinned.

  “Ah, so you’ve confirmed my man is here in Concord.”

  “I did no such thing!”

  “Yes, you did,” Finch said. “Otherwise how would you know his name? But don’t feel badly; I was sure that my quarry was here anyway. And who might you be?”

  “Fred Llewellyn. A friend and admirer of the Alcotts’. I warn you they are under my protection.”

  Finch burst into raucous laughter. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. So leave them alone or you’ll have me to deal with.” Fred put his fists up. Louisa winced; she wished Fred wasn’t such a chivalrous fool.

  “And what, pray tell, my scrawny young friend, do you intend to do about it?”

  Fred lunged forward, aiming a punch at Finch’s nose. Finch saw Fred’s move coming and ducked. Fred landed only a glancing blow, his momentum taking him past Finch, who shoved Fred’s back to push him into the undergrowth. Fred sprawled amidst the ferns, his face in the dirt.

  Finch held his hand toward Louisa. “Shall we explore these woods together, Miss Alcott?”

  Louisa glared at him. “Never!” Turning her back on the slave catcher, she helped Fred to his feet.

  “Never is a long time, Miss Alcott,” Finch said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “The sharp words fly out before I know what

  I’m about, and the more I say the worse I get,

  till it’s a pleasure to hurt people’s feelings and say

  dreadful things.”

  Fred scrambled to his feet, breathing furiously through his nose. His face was smudged with dirt, and a bit of dark fern stuck up from his full head of hair. He looked ridiculous, and what was worse, he knew it. Louisa knew in her heart this was a humiliation that would stay with him.

  “Miss Alcott, put your dog on a leash! He has terrible manners,” Finch said, his hands smoothing his slicked-back hair. “Stay out of my business, boy.”

  Fred started forward, but Louisa grabbed hold of his shirt and pulled him back. “Stop, Fred. You’re making things worse.”