He laughed and assured me it was not. As he helped me down from the chaise, the front door swung open and Charles appeared.
“Waldo!” He leapt down the steps and embraced his brother, as if he hadn’t seen him in months. “Congratulations on your new life! To both of you!” He turned and clasped me in such a hearty embrace that my bonnet twisted off and fell to the ground. At that moment, Mr. Emerson turned to secure a box from the chaise and accidentally trod upon the gray satin brim.
“I see marriage hasn’t relieved you of any clumsiness, Waldo.” Charles stooped to retrieve my crushed hat. “I had hopes that this union might reform you.” He straightened and grinned at me. “I apologize for my brother. I fear he’ll remain forever unredeemed in this matter of gracefulness. Which will, no doubt, be a severe trial to you.” He bowed and handed me the bonnet.
I couldn’t help laughing, despite my ruined hat. “Bonnets are of no account in the theater of marriage,” I said. “Nor is grace a requirement for love.”
“You see, Charles?” Mr. Emerson said. “Her manners and elegance should relieve all your anxiety. She may even reform your mischievous ways.”
Charles’s reply was cut off as a horrifying shriek filled the air. He winced and Mr. Emerson’s smile disappeared in an annoyed frown.
“That’s Sarah Sales.” Charles gestured to the building on the ridge. “Chief resident of the poor farm. It’s on the other side of Mill Brook but it might as well be in your yard for the all the protection the brook offers. Sarah’s lived there for sixteen years, demented after the birth of a stillborn son. Some days she screams for hours on end, and yet there are days when she won’t utter a sound.”
I must have looked distressed for Mr. Emerson quickly laid his hand on my arm. “Don’t fret. I plan to set a screen of trees along the stream that will soon block both sight and sound.”
“No,” I said, for pity had filled my bosom. “I won’t have it obscured. Better that it should serve as a constant reminder of Christ’s words to attend to the least of these.”
“Or perhaps as an inducement to ingenuity, since I doubt that God wishes my studies to be so distracted.” Mr. Emerson had assumed a cheerful tone. “We’ll discuss the matter at another time. I’ve waited three months to learn if this place merits your approval. I can’t wait a moment longer. You must see the inside.”
He led me around the house to the front door, opened it and stood aside as I entered. I found myself in a wide hall amidst a jumble of chairs and small tables facing a bare wooden stairway. My eyes instantly began gauging and measuring. Good quality carpeting would be costly, but it was a necessity in a home whose chief occupant was devoted to study. Mr. Emerson should not have to endure the clattering of shoes up and down stairs all day. Likewise, something would have to be done about the entry. Despite its width, it seemed cramped and unwelcoming.
“This will be my study,” Mr. Emerson said, guiding me through an open doorway to my right. The last of the day’s light slipped through two west-facing windows and lay in yellow spears on the wooden floor. There were six windows in all, two each facing west, north, and south. I was glad that someone had thought to clean the panes. The walls were papered in frescoed India ink—a vigorous pattern of houses and barns and trees. A square center table was flanked by two straight chairs. It was a large room—too large for a study. And, with so many windows, it was certain to be cold in winter, despite the odd-looking coal stove that sat in the corner.
I crossed the room and swung one of the shutters back over the window. It closed securely and seemed tight enough, but its true worth would not be known until colder weather arrived.
“We’ll remove those two windows,” Mr. Emerson said, as if able to read my thoughts, “and build a chimney, with two fireplaces. Charles’s and Elizabeth’s parlor will be on the other side of the wall. And here”—he indicated the blank wall to my left—“I’ll have bookshelves from floor to ceiling. The shelves will be separate units, with handles, so they can be easily rearranged. Or removed from the house entirely in case of fire.”
“How clever!” I said, marveling at the scope of my husband’s genius. I had not, until then, seen him exhibit any interest in things of a practical nature apart from finances and was pleased that his love of philosophy might be balanced by a pragmatic efficiency. “Will you build them yourself?”
He shook his head. “No. Nor are they my design. Reverend Ripley’s study is arranged that way and I’ve admired it since I was a boy. I fear I have no more talent with the saw and hammer than I do with animals. Any effort I made in that regard would distress us both. But there are many skilled carpenters about who are ready to turn out a fine shelf for a small fee.”
I saw the wisdom of his plan, yet a stab of disappointment lingered, regret that he was not well-versed in these male arts. I recalled my father fixing the hinges on the half door that led from our kitchen to the garden. It was through that same door that our milk cow, Buffalo, used to put her head, seeking the food scraps I slipped to her. When I was four, I’d discovered that by wrapping my arms around her neck, I could swing in and out of the door without opening it. I’d spent a warm spring afternoon practicing my new skill, until my delighted squeals summoned Father, and he put an end to it.
“Lidian.” The gentle pressure of Mr. Emerson’s hand at my elbow brought me back to the present. I found him smiling at me. “It seems you are forever slipping away from me to commune with unseen spirits. Let me show you your parlor. It’s right across the hall.”
The parlor was a mirror of the study, except that it had four windows instead of six, and held more furniture, most of which I recognized as my own—a small mahogany desk, a narrow sofa, and a Queen Anne chair covered in gray watered silk. A fireplace claimed the south wall.
“Mrs. Emerson?” A tall woman appeared in the doorway to the left of the fireplace. Her round, pink face was set off by black hair, braided into a great twist at her crown. She wore no cap. “Tea’s nearly ready, ma’am, but I haven’t been able to find the china. There’s no plates.”
I must have stared at her oddly, for I was not yet accustomed to being addressed as Mrs. Emerson. I tried to imagine serving tea without plates.
“This is Nancy Colesworthy,” Mr. Emerson said. “My mother sent her to help ease our labors as we adjust to our new situation. I believe I wrote you that she’s been a cook in our family for many years.”
“Yes.” At last I began to come round. “It’s very kind of your mother.” I’d retained one of our Winslow House servants and arranged for another recommended by my aunt—they were both to come to Concord within the week—Hitty to keep house and Louisa to cook—but it would be several days before their arrival.
I was grateful that my mother-in-law had declared her wish to remain at the Manse until I furnished the house. I was not eager to have her move in with us, for I sensed that our natures would often be in conflict, and it would be necessary for me to frequently hold my tongue. Though I regarded the coming trial as part of God’s plan to perfect me, I did not relish it.
“I took the liberty of using saucers, ma’am,” Nancy said. “I hope that suits you.”
I smiled. “An excellent idea. Let me help you set things out.”
“Oh, no, ma’am! That won’t be necessary at all. I’ve taken care of everything. Just wanted to check about the saucers.” I detected a hard scrape of disapproval behind Nancy’s tight smile.
“We’ll have our tea as soon as Mr. Emerson has finished showing me the house,” I said firmly. Whereupon I linked my arm through my husband’s, praying that he would quickly proceed.
We followed Nancy through a second entryway and into the dining room. Its lively red wallpaper wearied my eyes, yet the fireplace looked in good condition. I found myself picturing pale green walls and the green-and-white carpet from my Plymouth bedroom covering the bare plank floor. The kitchen beyond was plainly furnished with cupboards and a long counter, but it was spacious and well-lit. I was
pleased to see that a range companioned the fireplace and that a large pantry was easily accessible.
We then went back through the rooms to the front entry, for Mr. Emerson insisted that my first ascent to the second floor should be by the front stairs. At the landing, the stairs turned, and I mounted the last few steps to find myself at the second-floor hall window overlooking the street. I counted nine horse chestnut trees along the fence, none yet old enough to have grown as tall as the house, but their long flat leaves were already beginning to turn yellow. A farmer in an ox-drawn wagon passed slowly on the road beyond the fence. The clatter of his iron-rimmed wheels shook the windowpanes and raised a trail of dust.
Behind me, Mr. Emerson said, “It’s closer to the road than I would like, but we’ll set out more trees and soon we’ll feel as if we’re on a remote country lane.”
I did not tell him that I experienced that remoteness already, and it was not a pleasant feeling. Instead I again took his arm and together we inspected the upstairs rooms. We allotted them with little discussion, for the choices were obvious. Mrs. Emerson would occupy the room over my husband’s study, while the chamber above the parlor would be the master bedroom. The room over the kitchen would go to Charles, who had already installed his bachelor bedstead there. The remaining chamber we assigned to Lucy. Frank and Sophia and the servants would sleep in the garret.
Though some of my furniture had already arrived from Plymouth, my bed, in which we had slept on our wedding night, was not due until the next day.
“We’ll just have to make do, and sleep in my old bed.” Mr. Emerson kissed my cheek. “We’re in the country now and must adopt country ways.” And he gave me such a frankly ardent smile that I glanced away, blushing.
We went back downstairs to the dining room. The candles had been lit and cast a yellow light over the linen-covered table. I saw with relief that my silver tea set had been unpacked and waited on the sideboard. Our wedding cake dominated the center of the table, emanating its strong, fruity perfume. A platter was heaped with slabs of cold mutton. Thick slices of bread sat beside a bowl of strawberry preserves. Nancy filled our glasses from a bottle of claret as we took our places, and then we bowed our heads as Mr. Emerson prayed that God’s blessing would rest always on this house and the bright enterprise of our marriage.
“Well, Lidian.” Charles raised his head and aimed his smile past Mr. Emerson to me. “What are you going to do to this place?” He swept the room with a large gesture of his hand. “To make it sufficiently transcendental for my brother’s needs, that is?”
I smiled back at him, my heart singing. “Since peaceful surroundings are the first requirement for transcendence, I must change these hideous red walls.”
He laughed, as did Mr. Emerson, in a short burst. “I didn’t expect you would find everything to your satisfaction,” my husband said. “But don’t burden yourself with so much transformation that you injure your health.” He lifted the platter of mutton and passed it to me. “I’m convinced that the country air will agree with you, Lidian. Starting with the improvement of your appetite.”
“I’m sure of it. As long as it’s well mixed with conversation and marital concord,” I said.
Once again, we all laughed.
That night, I prepared for bed by the light of a single candle, while Mr. Emerson and Charles talked in the parlor below. I could hear their voices rising and falling, and the occasional eruption of Charles’s laughter.
I laid my nightgown on the bed. Its blue satin ribbons gleamed. The night air had turned cold and the buttons on my bodice were knots of ice beneath my fingers. I drew my arms from the sleeves, loosened the hooks at my waist and let the dress fall. I unlaced my petticoats, pulled my chemise over my head, and stood shivering in my pantaloons and shift as I removed the comb, false curls, and pins from my hair. I placed them on my bureau, as was my habit, though with a sharp awareness that the furniture was no longer mine. Mr. Emerson owned it now, as he owned everything that belonged to me—as he owned even me, in my own flesh and person.
I turned and quickly scooped my nightgown over my head. It spilled around me in soft, cool folds. Impulsively, I pressed my face into the cloth at my left elbow, to catch the scent of Plymouth in the fabric. A wave of homesickness swept through me, so intense that I clenched my hands to the sides of my face.
After a moment I opened the windows and blew out the candle, then climbed into bed, pulling the heavy wool blanket over me. The cornhusk mattress crackled pleasantly beneath me. I wondered how much longer Mr. Emerson would remain downstairs talking with his brother. The bed was not uncomfortable, though it sagged alarmingly in the middle and was set too low to the floor to take advantage of the warmer air in the upper part of the room. I lay in the darkness, listening to the wind in the field below my window.
It was some time before I heard Mr. Emerson’s footsteps on the stairs. He put his candle on the nightstand, then removed his collar and placed it carefully on the bureau beside my comb. He was humming a tune I didn’t recognize. I watched him through half-shut eyes as he took off his clothes and stood naked a moment before putting on his nightshirt. The light from the candle flickered across his thighs and stomach. I felt a stab of excitement. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew that he was smiling. How I loved his smile! Especially when it was directed at me. As he got into bed, I rolled to face him, suddenly eager for his touch, as I had not been the night before. Suddenly and desperately in love.
I DEVOTED most of the next day to wrestling the parlor carpet into place. Nancy and Mr. Emerson tried to help me as they were able, but neither had the patience to stay with the task, so it fell to me. At three, a load of my furniture came from Plymouth, and we hurriedly pushed most of it into Mrs. Emerson’s room. The four-poster was set up in our bedchamber and I piled it festively high with pillows and blankets, before going back to the carpet. The rough matting edges scraped and cut my fingers so that by the day’s end they were torn and bleeding, yet I was satisfied with the outcome, and relieved that the task was finished.
Hitty, my Plymouth chambermaid, arrived on the evening coach, and her presence revived me. That evening, as I sat at the dining-room table writing my first letter as a married woman to Lucy, I reflected on how everything pointed so clearly toward the perfection of my union with Mr. Emerson. I was certain that we were on the threshold of a new age when harmony of thought and conduct would rule us all.
LUCY ARRIVED a week later, on a day that was to prove the most trying of my young marriage. I was in the kitchen coring apples for a bird’s nest pudding, when I heard a carriage pull up to our east entrance. I went to the window and watched a strange man and woman step out of an ornate vehicle. He was tall, with thick brown hair that curled down over a long forehead. The woman was shorter, and round as an apple. I called for Nancy to greet them, which she did, though not without a sidelong glance of reproach, a look to which I was already growing accustomed.
“They’re here to see Mr. Emerson,” Nancy announced when she returned. “I put them in the parlor.”
“Thank you.” Apple juice stained my hands and apron but I had no time to change into a presentable dress. All I could do was remove my apron and hastily wipe my hands on a towel.
Mr. Emerson introduced the couple as Benjamin and Martha Rodman, friends from New Bedford. “You must stay the night,” he told them. “We’ve so much to discuss. And here we are”—he gestured with pride to his surroundings—“rattling around in this big house. We must put it to good use.”
“You’re an excellent friend, Waldo,” Benjamin said, “but we cannot impose so soon after your wedding.”
“Nonsense! Good friends are never an imposition. Are they, Lidian?”
I had no choice but to smile and echo my husband’s words and hurry off to make arrangements. There was no place for the Rodmans to sleep except Mrs. Emerson’s room, which was jammed so tightly with furniture it could not be entered. I sent Hitty and Nancy to start moving what pieces th
ey could into the hallway.
I was nearly frantic with worry. Lucy and her children were due at any moment. I’d worked all morning to prepare my sister a warm welcome. Now my plans were thrown into disarray by my husband’s largesse. I could not, of course, display my displeasure in front of the Rodmans, but I intended to make my feelings plain to Mr. Emerson before we slept that night.
When Lucy arrived just after three o’clock, I perceived her exhaustion at once. Her trip had been complicated by the presence of a loutish man who insisted on smoking cigars. I whisked Lucy up to her room, while Frank and Sophia trailed wearily behind. Lucy stepped over the threshold and burst into tears.
I made her sit down as I untied her bonnet and unhooked her cloak. The children stood in the doorway, silent as stones.
“Go down to the kitchen,” I told them. “Ask Nancy to bring up some tea and cake for your mother.” They left obediently, but I noted the reluctant set of their small shoulders.
It took me some time to persuade Lucy to reveal the source of her dismay. Finally, in halting sobs, she told me that, while she would be forever indebted to my hospitality, she was devastated that she would no longer be mistress of her own home, or mother of her own children.
I tried to console her, to assure her that we would share the management of the house, and that certainly she’d never cease being the mother of her children. But she would not listen. She sobbed on and on. How desperately I wanted to stay with her, to confess my own doubt at my ability to serve as Mr. Emerson’s wife! But there was too much work to be done. I left her to unpack and joined Hitty in Mrs. Emerson’s chamber. Together we moved as many pieces as we were able into the hallway before Nancy summoned us to the table.
She had prepared a simple but substantial supper, and I saw by Mr. Emerson’s expression that the sight of so many at his table charmed him. He led the conversation from the pleasures of reading to the properties of acorns, and successfully engaged the interest of all parties, even Sophia and little Frank.
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