Mr. Emerson's Wife

by Amy Belding Brown

  The next day Margaret sought me out in the kitchen as I measured the breakfast coffee. She thanked me for hosting such a grand farewell and then confessed that her walk with my husband had been the most memorable of her entire visit. “Waldo and I were more truly together than usual.” Her pewter eyes were soft with the memory.

  Fury sparked at the base of my spine and surged upward through my body. “Do you mean to take my husband from me?” The words were out before I could stop them.

  Margaret’s eyes widened. “Lidian! How can you think such a thing?”

  But I was deaf to her shock. “You imagine him capable of an intimacy of which he has no comprehension. His warmth—his tenderness—is all on the surface. Your belief in his attachment to you is the surest warranty that you do not know his heart.” I was fairly spitting my rage. Margaret took a step backward; her right hand rose to her throat.

  “Oh no, Lidian, you’re wrong! Waldo is kindness itself!” She swallowed audibly and her fingers fell from her throat to her collar, where they restlessly twisted the white lace into knotted beads as she spoke. “If he seems remote it’s because of his grief at the loss of your son! Surely you perceive that!” She reached toward me, withdrew, took another step back. “He’s poured out his soul to me so eagerly! All he wants is a listening ear, an attentive heart. If he’s not turned to you it’s not because he has grown cold, but because you’re so deeply mired in your own grief you’ve no compassion to spare!”

  “I invited you into my home as a friend,” I hissed. “Not to berate and betray me.”

  “I am your friend! More truly than you realize. If my words seem harsh, it’s out of concern for you. Have we not pledged from the start that we would be honest with each other?” She lurched toward me again and this time took my hand between hers. “I offer this only out of love for you. Perhaps if you scolded Waldo a little less you’d find him more tender.”

  Her touch had an odd effect upon me. I suddenly found myself clutching her, not merely her hand, but her arms, and then her shoulders until I finally clasped her to my bosom. My words rushed out of their own accord and tangled themselves in her hair, which fell in thick, soft loops from her temples so I could not know if she heard me or if her sweet and compassionate response was merely a reaction to my excess of emotion. I felt her hands on my back, patting me, reassuring me, then her soothing voice in my ear.

  “You poor dear. You must not do this to yourself! He loves you in his own way! You know that!”

  I shook my head violently. “If I’ve scolded, he’s driven me to it! You have no idea, Margaret, what it is to be married to Mr. Emerson! A man the world perceives as a sage and a saint—flawless, noble, without sin. Some regard him with an awe that ought to be reserved for Christ.”

  I became aware that she was trying to pull away from me, murmuring protests as she twisted in my arms. I released her but continued to speak.

  “If you win him from me you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. He’ll take the gift of your intellect and drain every ounce of brilliance from you.”

  She stared at me. Her face was unnaturally flushed and her breath came in rapid bursts. “I’ve no desire to win him from you! Lidian, I’m his friend and philosophical companion! Nothing more.”

  I was silent for a moment and when I spoke each word fell from my lips with a solemnity and slowness as if I were the voice of doom itself.

  “For him, that is everything.”

  Margaret covered her face with her hands. As I watched her, I felt the anger go out of me all at once. All I knew was compassion, for I saw that she was a woman exactly like me in her passions and principles. I took her hands and pulled them from her face and saw her tears. And in that instant I forgave her everything.

  20

  Collisions

  The lot of woman is sad. She is constituted to expect and need a happiness that cannot exist on earth.

  —MARGARET FULLER

  The duty of a wife is to her husband and although I strove to comply, submission was not in my nature. Every day I endeavored to discharge my responsibility to Mr. Emerson, and every night I sank into sleep, bruised from the continual collision of temperament and obligation.

  What can a woman do when she’s sacrificed her life to a man’s conceit? When she’s given all in the false hope that virtue will be rewarded with love and appreciation? When she’s subdued her nature at great cost—all for nothing? What hope is there for such a woman?

  Were it not for Henry, I would have flown into hourly rages, and perhaps deserted Mr. Emerson entirely. But Henry cautioned me to remember what I already knew—that only when I addressed Mr. Emerson with reason and composure would he listen to my thoughts and accord them his respect. I strove to calm myself, forcing the rage deep into a hidden closet of my heart where it could not be detected. Few knew the ice that limned Mr. Emerson’s soul. How many times I asked—begged—him to discuss the insufficiency of love in our union! Yet while he would discuss love and marriage in the abstract, he could not—or would not—speak of it in a personal way. I had long ago seen that by his philosophy Mr. Emerson could describe the earth but could not work with it; he could expound on truth but could not share his heart. Nearly everyone was deceived by his eloquence, the warmth of his smile, and the brilliance of his thought. Even those who did not admire him would have thought me a fool for forsaking the great fortune of being Mr. Emerson’s wife.

  There was only one person in Concord who understood. Only one who saw the depth of my suffering and stood by me through it all.

  How strange that the love of another man was the very glue that bound me to my husband.

  NOT LONG AFTER Wallie’s birthday, I received a letter from Lucy informing me that Sophia was gravely ill. “She’s been unwell for some time,” she wrote, “though I’d not realized it for she was determined to hide the fact from me and go about her daily rounds. I fear her stubbornness has been her undoing. She asks for you often and I tell her that you will come when you are able.”

  I arranged at once to make the journey to Plymouth. Since Edith was still a nursing babe and Mr. Emerson was lecturing out of town, I had to take both children with me, though I feared for their safety in bringing them into what I suspected was a house of fever. Henry, who had been away on a walking excursion along the Merrimack River, returned to find me overwrought, and offered to stay at Bush and care for Ellen. But I could not bear the thought of being parted from either of my two living children. So, on a cold November morning when hoarfrost had etched each dying leaf and blade of grass, Henry helped the three of us board the public coach and we rattled off down the long road to Plymouth.

  Despite the unhappy occasion, I was elated to be in Plymouth again. The sea air was bright with salt; a soft gray sky overarched the harbor where seven four-masted ships swayed on the dark tide. I walked down North Street with the children, my shoes clicking on the cobblestones amid the chime of horses’ hooves, the scent of baking bread emanating from the two bakeries we passed.

  Lucy greeted us at the front door of the house where she boarded and led us up a dark, narrow staircase, to the two small rooms she and Sophia occupied. It was nothing like the spacious chambers of Winslow House, but I was so glad to be reunited with her that I made no comment, but simply laid a sleeping Edith on the bed, sat Ellen in a chair, and heartily embraced my sister. I reflected, as I felt the sweet comfort of her cheek against mine, on how altered I felt in Plymouth. The very scent of the air seemed to restore my spirits and deliver my true self back to me.

  “How is Sophia?” I asked, removing my gloves and bonnet and laying them near Edith on the bed. “Your letter alarmed me.”

  Lucy nodded. “I’m sorry for that, but her condition was alarming.” She lifted Edith to cradle her against her bosom. “Thankfully, she’s improved. The doctor came and bled her this morning and it seems to have done her good.” She glanced sideways at me and I detected something odd—an unspoken and painful burden—in her look.r />
  “There’s something you haven’t told me, isn’t there?” Ellen was swinging her legs, kicking the rung of the chair. I picked her up, sat down, and placed her on my lap. My encircling arms seemed to calm her and she laid her head on my shoulder. I looked at Lucy again. “Confess it. I’ve not come all this way to be kept in the dark.”

  Lucy sagged onto the bed, still holding Edith. As she gazed down at my babe’s sleeping face, I noted with dismay that there were tears in her eyes. “I don’t know how I can tell you,” she said.

  “Why ever not? I thought we have always confided in each other.” I was growing impatient. I wished I could kick the chair rung as Ellen had.

  “It’s mortifying,” Lucy said. She was silent a moment, staring down at Edith. Finally she turned to face me. “She has miscarried a child,” she whispered.

  “A child?”

  Lucy nodded and closed her eyes.

  My mind was a storm of questions, none of which my sister’s expression permitted me to ask. I took a deep breath and clasped Ellen more tightly. I felt that if I did not hold her fast, I’d begin trembling. I recalled Sophia’s beguiling smiles and the gay coquetry of her manner with Henry and the oldest Hosmer boy on the recent occasions when she’d visited. I recalled a long conversation we’d had on the nature of love and marriage. She’d told me that she had no intention of marrying, since men so rarely kept their promises. I said I’d felt the same when I was young, but that she should not forget that marriage was the road to motherhood, which was the most satisfying of a woman’s duties. She’d looked at me thoughtfully, her head tilted, and announced that it was satisfying only because it was the one opportunity in which women could exercise power and influence. Stunned at the wisdom of her insight, I was unable to contradict her.

  “The father?” I inquired.

  “She will not tell me.”

  “Oh, Lucy!” I murmured. Yet I could think of nothing to say that would grant my sister the solace she required.

  Lucy raised her head as if it contained a terrible weight. “She went to visit Frank at Brook Farm last summer. She came back changed. I did not think at the time—” She stopped, choking on the words. “I believe the father was one of the community members. But she will concede nothing. She just looks at me with the most sorrowful expression and begins weeping.”

  “What an ordeal for you!” I could no longer remain seated, but rose and went to stand by my sister, still carrying Ellen who had fallen asleep. “Your son hiding himself in that community and Sophia brought so low! Didn’t Frank offer to leave the farm?”

  When she shook her head, I sighed loudly. “I’m grieved that you bore it so long alone. Take Ellen and I’ll go and speak to my niece.”

  Lucy did not protest. She seemed very faraway when I lowered Ellen onto her lap, sunk deep in her own anguish.

  Sophia lay propped high on pillows, her oval face nearly as white as the casings. Her chestnut hair had lost its sheen and her eyes were so deep in their sockets they gave the appearance of having shrunk. As I entered the room, she turned her head and gave me a feeble smile.

  “Aunt Lydia.” Even her voice had been drained of strength; it was no louder than the wind in a hemlock grove. She started to raise her hand toward me, but the effort was too much for her. I noted a small bloodstain on her arm—a relic of the doctor’s morning physic.

  A narrow chair was drawn up beside the bed and near it was a small table, cluttered with vials of potions, the stub of a candle, and a worn Bible. I recognized the Bible, for I’d given it to her on the occasion of her twentieth birthday.

  I sat in the chair and took her hand. Her fingers were cold, though her palm was warm with fever. These symptoms alarmed me, for I’d seen them before—when death was near.

  “Dear Sophia,” I said, in as calm a voice as I could manage. “Oh, my dear niece, I cannot bear to see you like this.”

  Her eyes filled instantly with tears. “Mother’s told you?”

  I nodded. “Are you in great pain?”

  “No more than I deserve.” She moved her fingers against my palm. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I blame myself for this. I’ve stirred you to love liberty but have not sufficiently influenced you toward Christ.”

  Her eyes closed and her hand seemed to shrink in mine. “I know what I did”—she paused, opened her eyes and took a shuddering breath—“was unforgivable.”

  “Nothing is unforgivable,” I said. “God’s mercy is infinite.”

  She sighed and seemed to wait while gathering strength to speak. “I’ve offended everyone I love. Beginning with God.”

  I leaned closer to hear her better, for her voice was dissolving into silence.

  “I went to Mrs. Ruedel on Leyman Street.” She spoke slowly, pausing between each word. “She gave me a potion. She told me I’d be quickly freed of my burden. But it took three days.” She stopped and sank deeper into her pillows. The room’s silence spread around her in waves, like the ripples caused by a stone cast into water. It lapped against me and washed into my mind, where it rolled in shadowed undulations. I don’t know if Sophia’s breathing grew louder or if it was simply the effect of the silence upon my ears, but it seemed to me that her inhalations became desolate moans. I took both her hands in mine in a futile effort to warm them. At last she spoke again, though I had to strain to make out her words.

  “You’ll take care of Mother, won’t you, Aunt Lydia? She needs someone to comfort and provide for her. I’ve only brought her shame.”

  Though barely audible, these were the last words I heard Sophia say. Two hours later she slipped into a coma and the next afternoon she died.

  I did what I could to console Lucy, but my own heart was breaking as I made arrangements for my niece’s funeral and burial. I washed her body and laid her out in the cramped room. The next day Uncle Thomas came with a coffin and took Sophia to his house, where the funeral was held. Frank traveled from Brook Farm, in the company of two young men. One, a tall man with wide shoulders and straw-colored hair, seemed particularly moved by the simple service. I could not help but wonder if he might be the father of Sophia’s child, and the author of her death as well. He seemed bowed very low with grief. When I greeted Frank he kissed my cheek but quickly turned away, and avoided me throughout the day. I insisted that Lucy return to Concord with me and she offered no resistance.

  Lucy cried continually on the long ride, desolate over her loss. Yet she thanked me again and again for my kindness and several times reached across the space between us to lay her hand on my arm and remind me that now we were bonded not only as sisters but as mothers in mourning. I hardly needed to be reminded of this, for Sophia’s death renewed my own anguish in the most piercing way. And I also mourned Sophia, for I’d been the most doting of aunts before my marriage, and continued our intimacy afterward by writing to her often and inviting her for numerous visits.

  I reflected, as we jounced along the turnpike with its wind-whipped leaves and rutted track, that 1842 had been the most terrible of years. Only two good things came from it—it brought my sister back to Concord, and it bound me in a profound friendship with Henry Thoreau.

  When we finally reached Bush and pulled up before the front door, the twilight sky was a clear indigo, punctured by two brightening stars. Mr. Emerson emerged from the house to hand us down from the coach. I placed the sleeping Ellen in his arms, and Lucy carried Edith. So I had no one to hold as I advanced up the walk and entered the overly warm house. It was evident that Mr. Emerson had stoked the fires himself and in the process probably used up a great deal of firewood. When the door swung shut behind me, I wanted to fling it open again at once.

  “Shall I carry her up to bed?” Mr. Emerson looked at me over Ellen’s head, which lay on his shoulder.

  I nodded and reached to take Edith from Lucy. There were times when I felt my children were the only nourishment for the hunger of spirit I felt at Bush.

  I put Lucy in the Red Room and went thr
ough the east entryway into the dining room, still cradling Edith, for I did not want to let her go. I heard my husband’s footfall as he moved above me through our chamber to the nursery. I thought of Sophia’s shame and wondered how much of her plight could be attributed to the way I’d spoken to her of marriage. I’d urged her not to settle and warned her of the dangers and constraints that a bad match presented for women. Perhaps she’d heeded me too well.

  I did not tell Mr. Emerson. On the evening I returned, when he asked the details and cause of Sophia’s death, I told him it was a fever and that I was convinced she’d died in a state of grace. He did not pursue the question.

  Lucy stayed with us only a few weeks, quickly making arrangements to board elsewhere in town. She did not consider the Thoreau establishment, for she had been wounded by Cynthia’s tactlessness, and Lucy had a hard, unforgiving side much like our father. Instead, she found lodging at the home of a neighbor. Before she was settled a month, Mr. Emerson arranged to buy a small house for her on Lexington Road, within sight of our front gate. The house was in poor condition and required extensive remodeling, but he assured me he had the necessary funds and that it would be worth the expense to abolish my endless worry about Lucy’s health and happiness. Once she was settled only yards away from my doorstep, I could reassure myself hourly, if need be.

  There were times when I believed my husband the most generous and considerate of men.

  ON THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY of Wallie’s death, Mr. Emerson was in Philadelphia, and I could not relieve myself of the thought that he had fled there to be far away from the site of mourning. I lay in bed most of the morning, rising only to dress the children and wander through the rooms, adjusting the placement of vases and books. I sent Nancy to the market without instructions, not caring about the kind or quality of meat for dinner. When she brought back a gristle-laden cut of beef, I did not admonish her. At dinner, I had no appetite and did not touch my food, though Mother Emerson chided me for not keeping up my strength. When Nancy carried the pudding in from the kitchen, Henry, who’d been silent throughout the meal, put down his fork and rose.