Mr. Emerson's Wife Page 2

  “You are planning to attend Father’s reception for Mr. Emerson tonight, aren’t you, Lydia?” Mary touched my sleeve, her hand a clutch of bone and nail sheathed in ivory gloves.

  “Of course,” I said, though I dreaded the small, hot rooms of the Russell home.

  “We are so honored to have Mr. Emerson as our guest!” She leaned toward me, so close the brims of our bonnets rustled. “I believe he may be in the market for a wife,” she whispered. “You should have seen the longing on his face at breakfast this morning when he spoke of seeing his newborn nephew!”

  I had to smile. Mary was always setting her cap for a husband.

  “I cannot believe a man like Mr. Emerson would have difficulty finding a wife should he want one. I suspect he is more intrigued by ideas than by female wiles.” I patted Mary’s arm, detaching her hand from mine. “Get some rest before the reception. You look weary.” I pried Sophia’s hands once more from her bonnet strings and quickly made my way out.

  AT THE RUSSELL HOUSE, gaslight sconces flanked the door and light swirled from the front windows to pool on the snowy lawn fronting Court Square. Mary’s mother welcomed me at the door. I was surprised to find her up; she had spent the past month in bed, daily purged and bled by Dr. Roberts. Her pallor had yellowed alarmingly since her illness and her hand on mine was cold as death. She wore black crepe, in mourning for her youngest daughter, Mercy. As I stepped across the threshold, a suffocating wave of heat assaulted me, caused by the fires and close press of people. Ever since Mercy’s death, the house had been kept overwarm, as if the scorching temperatures might discourage further dying.

  Mr. Emerson sat in the front parlor, surrounded by admirers. I occasionally glimpsed the crown of his head and heard the gentle timbre of his voice, but could not imagine pushing my way through the tight-pressed bodies to meet him. Instead, I moved freely through the downstairs rooms, enjoying the warm sociability of the event. It was nearly ten and I was on the point of retrieving my cloak when George Bradford detached himself from Mr. Emerson’s side and approached me.

  “Don’t leave. Our guest of honor wants to meet you.” He held a glass of port in his right hand. “He asked particularly to be introduced.”

  “To me?” I searched his face to see if he spoke in jest, but his gaze was direct.

  “Have you no desire to meet him? Weren’t you impressed with his lecture? I thought certainly his words would move you.”

  “They did. Most assuredly. But I fail to understand why he would ask for me.”

  “Lydia, your reputation precedes you. I wrote him weeks ago of the woman in Plymouth whose brilliance of mind challenges his own.”

  “Surely not.”

  George bowed so that his face came near mine. “He seeks a woman’s companionship and conversation. You’d not deny him those simple pleasures, would you?”

  “He does not appear to be lacking them.” I smiled at the circle of women who sat attendance on Mr. Emerson. “From what I’ve observed, he’s been enjoying those very pleasures all evening.”

  George drained the last of his port. “He does not like superficiality. He wants substance in his social discourse.”

  “As do I.”

  “You make my point.” He placed the glass on a nearby table and took my arm. “Come. The hour grows late and Waldo is waiting.”

  I SAT IN the yellow wing chair that Mercy had embroidered in flowers and butterflies the summer before she died. I must have looked singular in my unfashionable gown. Singular and no doubt apprehensive, for the smile Mr. Emerson directed at me was so warm it seemed to heat my face. Beneath its force, all my thoughts immediately took wing and left my mind as empty as my drained teacup—an effect that intensified when the other guests mysteriously left the room and I found myself alone with Mr. Emerson.

  “George has spoken of you with great admiration,” Mr. Emerson said. “My determination to meet the woman whose mind is Plymouth’s shining light is in part what brought me here.”

  I was surprised to find myself blushing. It was not my habit to respond to flattery. “George has misled you,” I said. “I’m but a student of his. And a poor one at that.”

  His expression grew solemn and he inclined his shoulders toward me. “You ought not to succumb to false modesty, Miss Jackson. Not when there are so many who follow the habit of false pride.” His smile returned. “Tell me. Do you keep a journal?”

  “I do.” I thought of the small volume in which I’d jotted my thoughts for three years. “I have for some time. At George’s suggestion, in fact. He believes one must examine one’s life closely if any mental expansion is to be achieved. I’ve found it a profitable exercise.”

  “And satisfying as well, I hope?”

  I smiled over my teacup. “There is always satisfaction when the mind is stimulated to higher thoughts. Yet we must look beyond ourselves for instruction. It’s our duty to admit our deficiencies and seek the help of friends, is it not?”

  He was silent for a moment, and I did not know whether he were pondering my thoughts or composing his own. He studied me intently, as if his eyes could penetrate my skull and read my mind.

  “I used to think so,” he said finally. “I was convinced I needed instructors, but now I’m wary of attaching too much importance to the counsel of friends. The highest wisdom can only be attained by each soul for itself. Don’t you agree that the best teacher is solitude?”

  I placed my empty cup on the small marble table beside my chair before I answered. “If by solitude, one means reflection and prayer. An empty solitude confers no wisdom but emptiness itself.”

  “Well said!” He shifted forward in his chair and I felt a responsive clutch at my throat. It was gratifying to be the recipient of Mr. Emerson’s close attention. “Contemplation and inspired meditation teaches each soul its own highest wisdom. And ’tis the truest act of piety to do so. You must trust yourself undividedly. Who but God gives you the faculties of reason and intuition?”

  I’d never heard such ideas expressed aloud, though I had thought them myself in secret. This convergence of mind with Mr. Emerson seemed of great consequence. I wanted to hear more.

  “But when counting God’s gifts, one should not omit friendship,” I said. “Is it not our friends who give us spiritual aid in times of doubt and confusion?”

  “Exactly!” Again he moved forward so that he sat upon the very rim of his seat. “Spiritual aid is the most precious assistance anyone can offer. Yet how many friends settle for a common round of domestic hospitality and meaningless gifts?” He began to tap his knee with his right hand, though I sensed he was unaware of the gesture. “I hope you will not take offense if I tell you that your ability to express my own thoughts is uncanny. It’s as if you had been reading my journals.” He paused a moment, his head tipped slightly to one side as he studied me.

  The effect was disconcerting. Though his words were laudatory, I nonetheless felt that I was being measured against some impossibly high standard. I tried to compose my mind, to think of an appropriate response, yet he spoke again before I had the chance. “I would like you to read them sometime. Would you consider doing me that honor?”

  Some adversarial mischief was in me, for instead of acknowledging the elation that coursed through me at his words, I said saucily, “I’m not in the habit of reading men’s journals.”

  His smile disappeared. “I assure you, it’s not my custom to share them. I merely thought you might find an interesting association of our thoughts.”

  Instantly, I regretted my words. “Forgive me. In truth, I cannot think of a greater honor.” I touched his hand where it rested on his knee. It was the slightest contact, a mere brushing of the back of his knuckles with my fingertips, yet a shock raced through me—an electrical current that made the skin on my neck prickle. The expression on his face suggested that he, too, had felt it.

  I contrived to change the subject. “How long will you remain with us in Plymouth?”

  “I’m b
ound for Boston in the morning. But”—his smile reappeared—“I return here in a fortnight to lecture again. Perhaps you will attend.”

  “You may be sure of it,” I said. “Have you settled on a topic?”

  “Not yet. I’ve considered sharing some thoughts on marriage.” He signaled a passing servant for more tea, a discreet raising of his index and second fingers, and before I could protest, my cup was refilled. “What is your philosophy on the subject?”

  I nearly dropped my cup into my lap. It rattled noisily on its saucer.

  “I’ve discomfited you,” he said. “Forgive me. I long ago abandoned the custom of dissembling.”

  I picked up my cup. “Marriage is a complex subject, Mr. Emerson. One that should not be discussed lightly.”

  “I don’t ask the question lightly,” he assured me. “Swedenborg, as I’m sure you know, addresses the matter in great detail.”

  I looked straight into his eyes, to discern if he mocked me, but his gaze was direct. “I’m not a Swedenborgian,” I said.

  “I didn’t imagine that you were, Miss Jackson. The truth is, I sense myself to be in the presence of a singular soul. A woman who is not afraid to follow her own mind wherever it leads. I would enjoy accompanying her.” His smile had returned and his gaze seemed to concentrate a strange heat that suffused my face. “Please,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning toward me once again. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I’m genuinely eager for your thoughts.”

  I glanced into my cup, and felt a dim surprise to find it still filled with tea. For want of something to do while I composed my mind, I raised it and took a small sip.

  “I believe marriage is most happily rooted in the principle of balance,” I began. “The strength of one party should correspond to the weakness of the other. It’s God’s design that our closest associations should perfect us.”

  He regarded me with a curious intensity and, though the effect unsettled me, I went on, for I’d embarked on a subject to which I’d given much thought in the wake of my sister’s marital misfortune.

  “Each soul has its own relation to the universe,” I said. “And the task of discovering that relation is the burden of the individual. Yet in the best relations, another person of a dissimilar nature is present for counsel and correction.”

  I paused, for Mr. Emerson had begun to frown. “I find your argument paradoxical,” he said. “Don’t such dissimilarities create conflicts in a marriage? How can discord reflect Divine Will?”

  “It’s not God’s fault if a man and wife abuse his blessings. The true purpose of their dissimilarity is to strengthen and perfect each other, and so they must seek a higher law of marital harmony than is common.”

  “An intriguing theory,” Mr. Emerson said. “If I understand correctly, you propose that the marriage of opposites is an ideal condition—one to be embraced rather than opposed.”

  I nodded. “It’s a practical doctrine. It teaches humility, respect, charity, and patience.”

  “Yet you must surely admit that, while many people marry their opposites, the quality of relation you suggest is rare.” He was smiling again and his eyes seemed very bright, despite the low light.

  “Many couples are not truly united,” I said. “There is as much misery as happiness to be found in marriage. The union will be strong and happy only as long as love is balanced by principle.” I took another sip of tea, but it had gone cold. I placed the cup on the table.

  “Then you acknowledge the value of affection,” Mr. Emerson said. I thought I detected a hint of mischief in his eye, as if he meant to catch me out in some false or foolish doctrine, but I had seen that look before in the glances of men, and was undaunted.

  “Of course I do. Affection is wine to the bread of duty. It’s our duty to respect the distinctions of our own natures.”

  His beneficent smile assured me that I was not caught in any trap of his devising and I felt a pang of remorse for imagining that he meant to lay one. Before me sat—I was now convinced—the most direct and earnest of men. He was unlike any man I’d ever met—worlds away from Lucy’s husband, Charles Brown, who had so recently deserted her and his two children, Sophia and Frank, leaving them penniless and unsupported.

  Mary appeared suddenly at my elbow and offered another cup of tea. I came to myself, appalled at tarrying so long. I rose, scattering biscuit crumbs from my skirts onto the rose-embroidered carpet. “Mr. Emerson, I apologize for the late hour. I have taken too much of your time.”

  “On the contrary.” He had risen with me and was reaching for my hand. “I feel as if we’ve just begun our conversation.”

  “Yes!” I took his hand, or rather let him take mine, which felt small and warm when clasped in his long fingers. “Yes, that is exactly my own feeling!” And then—startled by my reckless confession—I left. No, I fled, for there is no better metaphor than flight for the sensation that overwhelmed me as I stepped out the Russells’ door and into the sea-charmed night. I felt as weightless and graceful as a bird.

  SOPHIA WAS WAITING up for me in the parlor. The fire had died to embers, but she was wrapped in a heavy blanket and perched on the sofa with her legs tucked under her, reminding me of the winter nights I’d endured in Uncle Rossiter’s house after Mother died. I’d been determined to model myself after Napoleon, who allowed himself only four hours of sleep each night.

  “Why aren’t you asleep?” I asked, though I knew it was a foolish question—the answer was written in her eager curiosity.

  “Tell me what happened! Did you speak with Mr. Emerson?”

  “For a considerable length of time. And stayed too late as a consequence.” I removed my cloak and laid it over a chair. “I meant to be in bed early so that I would be fresh to greet your mother and brother when they return tomorrow.

  “Mama will understand. You must tell me what Mr. Emerson said. Every word!”

  I laughed. “Would you deny me the chance to order my thoughts? Go to bed, Sophia, and I’ll tell you all my adventures tomorrow.”

  I took her hand and together we climbed the stairs to our sleeping chambers. I felt as if I were in a dream, one that delighted and surprised me, one from which I did not want to wake. Despite the cold, I found myself lingering at the window after I took down my hair and put on my nightgown. The half-moon hung over the harbor, casting a silver path across the water. I stood there a long time, watching the frost print leafy fronds on the glass. Thinking of Mr. Emerson’s smile.

  2

  Visions

  Beauty is of very small consequence compared with good principles, good feelings, and good understanding.

  —LYDIA MARIA CHILD

  Just after eleven the next morning, the driver of Lucy’s rented carriage reined the horses to a stop at the front door, and I ran down the steps to welcome my sister home. Frank scrambled out of the carriage first and dashed across the snowy lawn before I could catch him. His five-year-old body was as sturdy as his father’s and his bristle of brown hair reminded me of my brother’s at that age.

  Lucy looked weary as she stepped from the carriage and paid the driver. I embraced her, pressing my warm cheek to her cold one, before urging her into the house.

  “Was your visit taxing?” I asked, responding to the dullness in her brown eyes. She had spent a week at the home of her in-laws.

  “Only to my heart.” She removed her bonnet and set it wearily on the table by the door. “I believe poor Mrs. Brown suffers more than I. Not one day went by but she wept. She feels a monstrous guilt on Charles’s behalf.” She peeled off her gloves and glanced out the window in time to see Frank dive into the snowbank beneath the eaves. “Will he never obey me?” She sighed heavily. “I told him to come inside immediately.”

  “I’ll send Anna to bring him in.” I guided Lucy into the parlor and settled her in the big chair by the fire.

  Though Lucy was four years older than I, the death of our parents in 1818 had struck her the harsher blow. I had taken on the role of
elder sister to both her and our younger brother, Charles Thomas. When Lucy married Charles Brown just two years later, I rejoiced, though I never cared for the man she chose. He had always seemed a shallow sort to me—boisterous and good-humored in the company of friends, but dour and domineering when at home. From the first I wondered what Lucy saw in him and it was only after his desertion that it occurred to me that perhaps she was simply desperate to escape the iron influence of our aunts. She had accepted the first proposal offered and, though she tried to convince me that she was in love with Charles, I doubted her attachment from the start. Lucy was always more womanly in both her nature and manner than I. Perhaps she did not trust that she could weather the storms of the world without a man’s arm to lean on. For myself, I was content with my single state, and wanted nothing more than to continue my life exactly as it was.

  I hastened down the hall and into the kitchen, where I found Hitty, our kitchen maid, scrubbing pots at the sink. I asked her to set out a tray of tea and cakes in the parlor, then went to fetch Anna and send her after Frank. Anna was our maid of all work and one of the two servants we now had the means to employ. I’d briefly considered teaching in order to supplement our income, but Lucy refused to allow it. “It’s bad enough that my husband was the instrument by which you lost your fortune,” she said. “I couldn’t bear it if you had to sell yourself as well as the furniture.”

  “Teaching is not selling myself,” I’d replied. “And we’ve only sold three pieces.”

  “Still, I’ll sell every stick before I see you forced to earning wages like a common laborer.”

  “Honest work is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Not in the eyes of God, perhaps. But in the eyes of Plymouth, common labor is not something Cottons do with pride.”