Mr. Emerson's Wife

by Amy Belding Brown

  “Ellen?” I called, for I knew it must be one of the children, and most likely Ellen, since she was always the leader in their games. I found her, curled on the bottom step in her nightdress. Her head lay against the banister, and her thin arms circled her knees. She looked up at me and, despite the dim light, I could detect great sadness in her face.

  “Did you have a nightmare? Did something give you a fright?” I took one of her hands and tried to pull her to her feet, but she would not move. She was nine years old, too big to lift. “Come, you must go back to bed,” I said, my tenderness fading in the face of her defiance.

  She shook her head and pulled her hand from mine. Her long black hair flickered through the air, slapping her shoulders and partially covering her face.

  “Ellen!” My tone grew sharp. “Stop that! I insist that you go upstairs to bed immediately!”

  She ceased shaking her head and looked up at me through the snarled tresses. “I saw you,” she whispered. Her tone was both urgent and injured. “I saw you with Mr. Thoreau.”

  “Mr. Thoreau is a friend of your father’s and mine, Ellen,” I said. “You. know that.”

  Her forehead puckered. She was silent for a moment, then she said, “I saw you kiss him, Mama!”

  Pain stabbed at the back of my eyes. “Dear God!” I whispered, and lowered myself to the step beside her. I pressed my palms to my forehead. I wanted with all my heart to tell her that she was mistaken in what she saw, that what had passed between Henry and me was an innocent sign of our friendship. But I could not falsify the truth without damaging myself.

  I slowly raised my head. “Ellen, I’m sorry you did not stay in your bed as you were told.” I spoke slowly and carefully. The words felt hard as chips of stone pried from frozen ground. “Spying on one’s elders is a serious sin. You must pray for forgiveness.”

  She stared at me.

  “Come.” I rose and held out my hand. “We’ll pray together for God’s mercy.”

  Reluctantly, she took my hand and got to her feet. We climbed the stairs quickly, leaving Henry to bank the fire and extinguish the lights.

  However fervently I might wish that Ellen would forget what she’d witnessed that night, I knew she would not. From a tender age, Ellen had displayed a remarkable memory, a fascination with detail and discourse that enabled her to recite entire dinner conversations. She spent hours with Mother Emerson, relating the particulars of her day, and this brought them close. Over time, Mother Emerson drew Ellen into her pattern of thinking, and demonstrated a prim and cautious Christianity. She taught her how to be critical of people’s manners and eccentricities. And she encouraged her to always side with Mr. Emerson over me.

  The night Ellen saw me embrace Henry I marched her upstairs and tucked her firmly into bed beside Edith. I warned her not to rise again until morning. She did not cry, nor even pout, but gazed at me with large, sorrowful eyes—her father’s eyes—their piercing blue exactly matched Mr. Emerson’s. I could not erase from her memory what she had seen and heard, but I hoped that by stressing the sinfulness of spying she would not magnify it by the error of gossip. From her doorway, having left her without bestowing my usual kiss, I said softly but firmly, “A person’s privacy is a sanctuary, Ellen. It must always be respected.”

  She nodded, and drew the blanket tightly beneath her chin. I knew she was entertaining thoughts that she would not divulge. In this she was like my husband, who rarely shared his reflections with me.

  I remembered the life we had planned together in the days of our courtship—thoughts of a home distinguished by a warm and gracious hospitality, where we would welcome not only our friends, but all seekers after truth. And now the unwelcome seeker was my own child, and I was the one who sought to hide truth.

  When I finally descended the stairs, I found the parlor empty.

  I DID NOT SEE Henry again for two days, days I spent in wretched bouts of dread that alternated with fury at being so tightly bound by convention and shame that I seemed incapable of advancing my own happiness. When I finally came face-to-face with him, in the afternoon gloom of the downstairs hall, his glance flicked away from me, as an exposed finger jumps away from a flame.

  “Be assured it won’t happen again,” I said, certain that he would grasp my meaning, though the passage of time since Ellen’s interruption had shorn it of context.

  He sighed. “Lidian—”

  “No, hear me out.” I was suddenly and fiercely angry—not at Henry but at myself and my foolish desires, which had victimized Henry and done nothing to liberate me. “I want to put all this behind us,” I said. “All these unseemly thoughts and feelings.”

  He nodded slowly, as if weighing the wisdom of my words.

  “We cannot continue as we have.” I took a step toward him—my skirts floated over the floor. “We must refashion our friendship. To that end, I want to work with you to liberate the slaves.”

  He gave me a started frown. “You have no idea what you’re asking.”

  “I mean to learn. Emancipation is everyone’s work. Or it ought to be.” I felt the fury of righteousness. I lashed out in what I now understood was a desperate attempt to save my life. “Don’t deny me this, Henry! In the name of God, you must know that I cannot sit by and do nothing while you and others risk your lives fighting this great evil!”

  He stood with his arms at his sides, watching me.

  “Please, let me help you,” I begged, my voice breaking. “Don’t leave me to while away my hours in useless domesticity. I could do so much to help! This house has dozens of spaces to shelter fugitives. And so many strangers visit here that no one would suspect more comings and goings.”

  I stood before him, like a penitent submitting her fate to a judge. “Don’t deny me this,” I whispered. “If you have any feeling for me at all, you will say yes.”

  He closed his eyes briefly. For a moment I imagined he might be invoking God’s direction, and when he opened his eyes again and gazed directly into mine, I knew that if he had not been asking God’s help, God was at least there helping me. “Very well,” he said. “There are ways you can be of use.”

  “That is all I ask.”

  BY THE END of the month, I was absorbed in what came to be known as the Underground Railroad. Nearly every week I welcomed new fugitives into my home, sequestering them in the garret and spending as much time near to hand as was possible without arousing suspicion. What was most surprising is that I was able to keep my endeavors from my curious children. They were always following me about like so many barn cats, hoping to be fed. Yet Henry contrived to deliver fugitives to my door under the welcome protection of darkness, when the children were long since tucked safely in their bed in the nursery upstairs.

  One night after the departure of a young slave who had spent three days at Bush, I was in the garret tidying the area where he’d slept, making it ready for the next fugitive, whoever he might be. After I finished, I wandered among the discarded and stored furniture, my mind churning. By a strange trick of fate, a tall desk set against the wall in the northeast corner drew me, and I found myself standing before it, peering into its cupboards and sliding open the drawers. Most were empty, but I found in one a small packet of letters in blue ribbon. I undid the ribbon and examined the envelopes more closely. The packet was a collection of Ellen Tucker’s letters.

  I recalled my husband reading her letters, but I’d not seen him do so in recent years. I’d allowed myself to imagine that he had destroyed them, thus freeing himself—and me—of that bond. Instead, he’d hidden them in a secret place. I wondered how often he climbed the stairs to the garret, how many yearning nights he pored over them. I suddenly imagined myself standing before the fire in my chamber and dropping the letters one by one into the open flame. I could feel the liberation this action would bring to my mind and heart. All my married life I’d lived in the shadow of Ellen Tucker’s beauty and gaiety. Whenever my husband spoke her name, his voice filled with a tenderness that I cr
aved for myself.

  I slid the packet into the pocket of my gown and closed the empty drawer. I went down the stairs and passed Henry’s room. There was a line of light beneath his door. I pictured him at his small desk writing. I had often seen him bent over the page, so absorbed in his work that he didn’t hear my approach. Lately he’d been working on a series of essays about his two years living beside Walden Pond. He dreamed of making them into a book—a sequel to his volume of adventures on the Concord and Merrimack rivers. I hesitated, longing to knock and enter, to show him the cache of letters. I believed he would share my despair.

  Yet I knew he would not welcome the interruption, for though he was unlike Mr. Emerson in many ways, in their close attention to their work they were the same—both immersed themselves so thoroughly that even the smallest distraction provoked a rebuke. I went past the door and into my own chamber, my skirt hems shushing along the floor, making a sad sound that reminded me of rain.

  I placed the lantern on the small table by the bed and knelt in front of the fire. I was gratified that beneath a fine layer of gray ash I found the coals still glowing. I soon had a fire blazing heartily. I slid the packet from my pocket. Oddly, it seemed to have grown heavy and damp, as if each letter had been saturated in tears. When I untied the ribbon, several of the letters slipped from my grasp and fluttered to the floor.

  I stooped and picked one up. It had escaped its envelope, and I found myself reading the first two lines.

  Dear Waldo, I love you, says Ellen T. I dream about you again night and day.

  I opened another envelope and scanned the lines. Ellen’s handwriting was exquisitely ornamented—nothing at all like my sharp, open scrawl. And her words—such love, such unaffected adoration!

  I collected all the envelopes and carried them to the bed, spilling them there in white profusion. I don’t know exactly what was in my mind. Perhaps nothing more than a sudden whim. At that point, I still believed I would burn them, yet my curiosity compelled me to read more.

  What I found was poignant courage and a sweet and gentle wit.

  Waldo the parting prayer murmured over my pillow is sweetly receiving its answer … . I want to tell you that I love you very much and would like to have you love me always, if consistent with your future plans.

  No wonder Mr. Emerson could not let her memory die.

  I read until dawn, opening one envelope after another. I read until my eyes were sore and my heart ached. Reading her words, holding the very paper where she’d rested her hand, I felt as if she were present in the room, regarding me with her large, enchanting eyes, her perfect lips tilted into a gentle smile. I imagined her as a dear younger sister—gentle and sweet-natured, impossible not to love.

  The last envelope was fatter than the others. When I opened it, I discovered that it was not a letter at all, but a sheaf of poems. I read them slowly and with great tenderness. The last one must have been written shortly before her death.

  And Hope, sweet bird & kind, at last has flown

  And of her beauty scarce a trace is found

  Save a slight tinge where her last splendour shone

  And there a golden feather quivering on the ground—

  Just bright enough to cheat the eager eye

  Just strong enough temptation for a lie.

  Light was sliding between the curtains when I folded all the letters and poems back into their envelopes. I wept openly, unable to stem my tears.

  As I tied the packet together again, I felt a terrible longing to talk to my husband. It occurred to me that Henry was probably awake—he always rose before dawn—and that I could turn to him as I had so often in the past. And yet I hesitated. For though I knew he would be sympathetic to my situation, I believed he would not comprehend the conflicted condition of my heart. As I read Ellen’s actual words for the first time and knowing, as I read, how brief her life span was to be, my heart had unfolded and opened like a summer rose. I suddenly understood how completely she had transformed my husband’s life—she’d given him his most profound experience of the divine—she had softened his heart, made it pliable and true. Though what I most frequently encountered in him was ice, still I knew that he was capable of fire.

  I reflected on the core of great tenderness that lay within my husband. His apparent coolness was not the result of a stony heart, but a protection from a surfeit of suffering. I’d spent years striving in vain to turn his affection toward me. Yet I understood now that it was not because I was unlovable, but because Mr. Emerson was not capable of opening himself so widely to anyone again. Ellen’s death had scarred his heart too deeply. And Wallie’s passing had dealt a second, near fatal blow.

  I heard a cock crow from the direction of the Hosmer farm. Within the hour, I would hear the children begin to stir in the nursery. I’d not slept that night; my eyelids were heavy, yet I knew I could not rest before I had unburdened my heart to my husband.

  I carried the lantern to my writing table, and sat in the straight chair. As I picked up my pen and dipped it in the glass inkwell, it occurred to me that I, too, had fallen in love with Ellen Tucker.

  29

  Fidelity

  Love must be as much a light as a flame.

  —HENRY DAVID THOREAU

  In the second week of May, I received Mr. Emerson’s reply to my letter. I’d expected dismay and disapproval, even harsh words, but he wrote that he was deeply moved by my action and observations. Once again, he extolled Ellen’s sweetness and virtue, reminding me again of how dearly he had once loved her—and loved her still. His melancholy reminder that I’d not known her was softened by his commendation of my feelings, which he called just and noble. I carried his letter throughout that week, as if it were not mere words but the gentle caress of his hand that I could draw from my pocket at will. One afternoon as I sat reading it yet again in my garden, Henry chanced on me and asked what caused my wistful expression. I handed him the letter and he read it standing silent before me. When he finally raised his eyes to meet mine, he sighed.

  “This is typical, isn’t it? Ever since I’ve known him, Waldo’s slighted you. He recognizes your nobility only in light of your admiration for Ellen. He praises you for docility and submission while your true strength and power is lodged in your passion and independence.”

  My passion and independence. Henry’s words had the strange effect of making my heart beat more quickly. I rose slowly.

  “I’m not insensible to his slights.” I recalled Henry’s proposal that I flee with him to the west. He had made it weeks before, yet it seemed to me as if he had suggested it only moments ago—the memory was so fresh in my mind that it seemed to demand an immediate response. “I have thought about your proposition.”

  His forehead puckered. “Proposition?”

  “That the children and I could go west with you.”

  “My business is here in Concord now,” he said. “My situation has changed.”

  I did not allow any embarrassment to show. I raised my chin and fixed him with a look that was not unlike my husband’s penetrating stare. “As has mine,” I said. “I was about to tell you that I believe it would best serve the Cause to remain as Mr. Emerson’s wife.”

  Henry studied my face, and his own appeared to redden, though I told myself it was the late afternoon light. “You are right,” he said. “Your wisdom is as discerning as ever.”

  “I wish I were wise enough to compel my husband to listen to me,” I said.

  “That is not your deficiency,” Henry said, handing the letter back to me. His voice had the buoyancy of relief. “It is his.”

  MR. EMERSON SAILED back to Boston at the end of July. His return was quiet, undisturbed by fanfare or celebration. The coach from Boston simply pulled up in front of our door late one afternoon, and he stepped off and walked into the house. I was in the nursery folding the children’s linens, and when I heard the door, I went to the top of the stairs and peered over the rail. When I saw my husband looking up at me,
my legs propelled me down the stairs and into his arms. I disregarded his stiffness, and his awkward confusion about what to do with his hands; I embraced him with warmth and thanksgiving. I voiced no recriminations for the infrequency and coldness of his letters. I welcomed him back into our home with simple gratitude that his long journey was over. If Mr. Emerson puzzled over my behavior, he said nothing, but immediately settled into his customary routine.

  When Henry came back from his afternoon walk and found Mr. Emerson in residence again, he went up to his room and packed his things. He found me in the kitchen, where I was rolling out a piecrust.

  “I’m going home.” He stood stiffly in the doorway and it was only when he didn’t come into the room and drop into a chair as was his custom that I noticed he carried his satchel.

  “Home? But this is your home!”

  He shook his head. “No longer. I have other lives to live.”

  Something in the shape and width of his shoulders made me see in him a strength and a competence I’d not fully comprehended. He was nearly thirty-one years old. It was time for him to draw apart from Mr. Emerson’s influence. I had read his book; I knew the life he celebrated in those pages could only be lived by someone unburdened by wife and child. He had become his own man. He was no longer Mr. Emerson’s. He was no longer mine.

  “You’ve changed,” my husband told me a week after his return as we walked after dinner in the garden. “There’s something serene about you—not your usual studied composure, either. This is different. New.”

  “Thank you.” I bent to pick a wilted rose from its stem.

  “It is an observation, not a compliment. Did something happen while I was in Europe?”