Mr. Emerson's Wife Read online

  My feelings persisted and strengthened as the weeks passed. I knew—though I could scarcely bear to admit it to myself—that my attraction to Henry would soon reach a point where I could not continue to be in his presence daily without risking my virtue—and his.

  ONE WINTER DAY when Mr. Emerson was in New York lecturing, snow flew from dawn to dusk. Henry spent the morning writing and in the afternoon he shoveled a path to the barn and one to the road—two white corridors that drew Ellen outside without my knowledge—I happened to glance out the dining-room window to find her dancing along like a snow sprite. My alarm was mollified when I saw Henry following her. A few moments later he carried her through the east entrance like a trophy, set her down, and squatted to gently brush the snow from her hair and cloak.

  His cheeks were ruddy and his hair—which he’d neglected to cover with a hat—was more wind-tossed than usual. As he straightened and bade Ellen warm herself by the fire, I circled his waist with my arm and he instantly responded by circling mine with his. It was as natural and intimate a gesture as a brother and sister who’ve known each other all their lives. I looked straight into his eyes and found my own desire gazing back at me. We turned toward each other, my free arm half-raised as if to caress his cheek, and as we turned, my breast grazed his chest—the slightest contact, almost imperceptible. I felt an electrical heat course through my body, and I believe he felt the same, for we instantly dropped our arms and took a step back.

  It was only then that I became aware that Mother Emerson was not in her chamber as I’d assumed, but was sitting in a chair close by the dining-room windows. Nearly obscured by the curtain shadows, she stared at me with hard, black eyes.

  My hands felt as cold as the stones beneath the snow.

  The day after his return from New York, my husband began to voice dissatisfaction with Henry. He attacked him vigorously in conversation, and made disparaging remarks about his abilities as a poet. He remarked on his lack of ambition.

  “Henry’s presence has caused a certain inconvenience,” Mr. Emerson told me one night in our chamber.

  “Inconvenience?” My hand froze in the midst of brushing my hair.

  “He takes up too much of your time. Just this morning you spent over two hours with him in the kitchen.”

  “We were discussing my cats.”

  “Cats,” he said. “He ought to be attending his own affairs.” There was a new repugnance in his look that chilled me.

  I knew that Mother Emerson had told my husband what she’d witnessed that snowy day, and that he was offended by my conduct. I also knew that he would not accuse me of impropriety. How could he when he’d both propounded and demonstrated a new understanding of friendship between men and women? Yet I knew the incident rankled him, for a scandal could ruin his reputation as a moral philosopher. I prayed fervently for guidance, daily begging God to strengthen me so that I might resist the temptation of Henry’s presence. But each day when I greeted Henry at breakfast, I was persuaded anew that I could not tolerate an existence without him. His sympathy and encouragement—his cheerful intellect—nourished my soul in ways I could not live without. I began to believe that God had brought Henry into my life for this encouragement—this daily ration of joy.

  I woke in the middle of the night, haunted by the fear that Mr. Emerson would declare Henry no longer welcome at Bush. Yet I could not bring myself to speak to anyone of these matters. I should not have been so foolish as to think I could hide my thoughts and feelings from Henry. I doubt there was ever a man born whose skill at observation equaled his. He was always studying his surroundings, noting details others missed. So it should not have surprised me when he addressed me in the barn one snowy February afternoon after I had fed my chickens. He’d been repairing the leg of a kitchen chair by the gray light of a window, but when I came out of the chicken coop, he set down his tools and approached me.

  “There’s something troubling you,” he said. “You’ve hardly spoken to me in days.”

  I glanced at him then looked at the window where snow was painting white ruffles on the glass. “I’ve not been feeling quite myself,” I murmured. “A touch of the grippe.”

  He shook his head. “I ask nothing more of you than honesty.”

  I looked into his eyes, fearing the direction this conversation was about to take. My apron pocket still had a handful of grain in it, and I curled my fingers around the kernels. They were warm and silky, oddly soothing. I took a deep breath.

  “Mr. Emerson has suggested that you ought to look to your career.” It was all I could do to choke out the words. They felt as dry as the grain dust that coated my apron.

  “Career?” He gave me a startled frown. “I thought it was clear that I want to be a poet. I nurture no other ambition.”

  “I know.” I closed my eyes and turned away, though I did not separate myself by any further movement.

  He didn’t speak for some time, and when he did his words came slowly, each one carefully measured for meaning and effect. “Perhaps there’s some wisdom in considering other options. Our arrangement was for one year’s residence. I’ve stayed nearly two.”

  I whirled back to face him. “No. Henry! Your presence has been a blessing—to both of us. You surely know that.”

  “I know you’ve been more than generous. I fear that in my contentment I’ve allowed my occupancy to inconvenience your family.”

  His choice of the word inconvenience distressed me. Yet it was the same term my husband had used. Did he and Henry perceive even the most subtle nuances of their association in the same way? I took my hand from my pocket, cradling a few grains in my palm. “It’s not—it has never been—an inconvenience.”

  “But I believe it has to Waldo.”

  I looked at him and my resolve evaporated and, as the feed grains scattered like snow, I stepped forward and drew him toward me.

  “Don’t leave!” I murmured. “Please, I beg you!”

  I heard him make a sound halfway between a gasp and a groan and then his arms circled me. He turned his face to my neck and I felt his breath—warm and sweet as fresh milk—stir the hair at my temples. I felt his fingertips and palms on my back, radiating heat through my shirt. The embrace lasted no more than an instant, for Henry quickly drew away. Yet that instant felt as if it had fallen outside time and was not part of the ordinary world.

  I felt a throb of deprivation and loss. Then I looked into Henry’s face and saw that he was as shocked as I by the gravity of the situation. He picked up his hammer and went back to the chair, while I plunged through the door and ran to the house. As I shook out my snowy skirts under the portico of the east entrance, I recalled Mr. Emerson’s embrace on our wedding night. It had been an expected and even proper gesture—courteous and considerate. He’d held me and stroked my hair with the utmost gentility, and I’d felt honored and queenly. At the time I’d believed it to be everything I ever wanted in a man’s touch. But Henry’s embrace contained a hint of fire—a dangerous and unseemly passion I had never before experienced, and it frightened me profoundly.

  AT DINNER two weeks later, Mr. Emerson announced that Henry was to travel to New York on the first of May. He would serve as escort to Mother Emerson who wished to visit William, and he’d remain there as tutor to William’s young sons. I looked at Henry, who was smiling, though his pallor was gray.

  “How long?” I felt an unsettling weakness in the base of my stomach.

  “A few months at least,” Henry said, scooping a wedge of boiled potato onto his fork. “Long enough to give me an opportunity to explore the publishing world. I hope to find an editor for my poems.”

  “I wondered when your ambition would assert itself,” said Mother Emerson.

  I gave her a cold look, noting that she’d not touched the mutton on her plate. “Is ambition now to be the hallmark of a well-lived life?”

  “Certainly not.” The wrinkles around her mouth deepened. “Yet I’m certain Henry’s family would not want his e
ducation to go for naught.”

  “A poet’s education is hardly for naught,” I said, my voice sharper than I’d intended.

  Mr. Emerson turned to Henry. “We wish you well.”

  “Yes,” I said, “my prayers will go with you.”

  I don’t know if Mr. Emerson heard the ardor in my tone or detected the sudden flush in Henry’s face, but I perceived that the room’s atmosphere had grown intimate. Nonetheless, I dared another declaration.

  “I shall miss you terribly, you know.” I let my gaze meet his. “I cannot think how we’ll manage at Bush without you.”

  His eyes darkened and I immediately regretted my words, for it was plain I’d caused him embarrassment.

  “Yet it will be good for your career, Henry.” Mr. Emerson took another slice of mutton from the platter. “And we’d never want it said that the Emersons placed their own convenience over their friend’s welfare. Would we, Lidian?”

  I did not answer.

  “Lidian?”

  “No, the Emersons would never want that,” I said. I bore down on my knife to cut a prong of meat.

  Mr. Emerson nodded solemnly, “It seems we’re all in agreement that Henry has sojourned with us long enough.”

  ALL THAT MARCH and April my time with Henry poured away like milk from an overturned pail. Some days I felt this to be another death, one I did not think I could bear. Yet I said nothing to Henry but locked my anguish away and smiled.

  Two mornings before he left, when we retired to the parlor after breakfast, Henry read me a poem from his journal.

  “I wrote it the night before last,” he told me. “Did you see the moon?”

  I nodded. I’d not been able to sleep that night and was tempted to venture outside for a walk in my garden. Now I was glad I had not, for encountering Henry would have undone me. Instead I’d stood at the east window of our chamber and watched the moonlight pour across the fields.

  “It was bright enough to write by. I sat in your garden and these lines just came to me. As if I’d charmed the muse herself.” He glanced up at me with a smile so penetrating that I felt a blush climb my neck.

  “Please read it,” I said.

  He turned back to his journal. “‘Cans’t thou love with thy mind,’” he read. “‘And reason with thy heart? Cans’t thou be kind, And from thy darling part?’”

  “Oh, no. Henry—”

  He held up a silencing hand and continued. “‘Cans’t thou range earth, sea, and air, and so meet me everywhere? Through all events I will pursue thee; through all persons I will woo thee.’”

  I’d been holding my breath throughout his reading, as if I feared my exhalation would distort his words. The boldness of the poem shocked me, even as its sentiment echoed powerfully in my heart. It was sorrow and reassurance mixed together, the promise that our bond would remain unbroken by distance, as well as a sad confirmation of the fact that neither of us could be whole without the presence of the other. The recklessness of this declaration overwhelmed me. I knew my cheeks were flushed hot with the force of my agitation.

  “Waldo has already seen it,” Henry said. “He pronounced it well-crafted.” He lifted his head as if a breeze had just caressed his face. And then he smiled straight into my eyes.

  22

  Passions

  You must know that you represent to me woman, for I have not traveled very far or wide.

  —HENRY DAVID THOREAU

  The first of May dawned rainy and cold. Henry and Mother Emerson were supposed to leave on the morning coach, but flooding had rendered the road from Fitchburg impassable, so the coach did not arrive until late afternoon. By then I was both exhausted and distracted by the drawn-out grief of Henry’s departure. When the coach finally pulled up at our east entrance, a wave of panicked sorrow seized me. Despite everyone’s protests, I insisted on going out in the rain to bid Henry good-bye at the coach door. There I dutifully embraced Mother Emerson and pressed a small package into Henry’s hands—it contained a cloth pouch I’d made in which I imagined he might keep his flute.

  “Open it when you reach New York,” I said, my eyes saying what I could not say aloud—and think of me.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Now go back into the house. I’ll not have you catch a fever on my account.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the house, where Mr. Emerson watched from beneath the shelter of the portico. “I’ll miss you,” I said and extended my hand. But instead of taking it, he withdrew into the coach.

  “Go,” he said quietly. “Your husband’s waiting.” He closed the door.

  I turned and fled back into the house, past my husband and up the stairs to my chamber, where I fell on the bed. I heard the coach pull away from the east entrance and rattle across the yard to the road, and though I wanted to, I could not make myself rise and watch his departure from the window.

  After a time, I heard Mr. Emerson come into the room, but I did not turn to him. Let him think what he would of me, I no longer cared.

  HOW EMPTY the house was without Henry! I wandered from room to room, as if I might find him reading by some sunny window. I insisted the Prophet’s Chamber remain his room, and told Nancy I’d see to the cleaning myself. I found a particular peace in that room, with its simple desk and chair and cot, the one small window. Its intimacy moved me to pray, and I began to use it as my private chapel. Mr. Emerson had his study in which to exercise his intellect. I now had Henry’s room for devotion. If Mr. Emerson noticed, he said nothing.

  My body slowly collapsed around my loneliness. I fell ill with a fever that drained my vitality and confined me to my bed. On the days when I was strong enough I immersed myself in my children and garden.

  My husband began to express impatience with my illness. Infirmity and disease, he claimed, were tests of will and courage. During our evening conversations, he discoursed on how willfulness and spiritual hubris could become the sources of illness.

  Yet I knew his first wife had been ill all the time he knew her. He certainly did not disdain her weakness. Instead, it was her path to sainthood.

  A WEEK AFTER Henry’s departure, I wrote to him, sunk in a despondency so low that I feared I would not rise. In all the months of our friendship, I’d had no occasion to write, and my words were unnaturally formal, but I trusted that he would understand their import.

  I did not write of Mr. Emerson or the children, but only of my own sickness and despair. I felt myself sinking fast. I wrote of how a permanent darkness had descended upon me, that I was fated now to live in the shadows. My eyes could scarcely bear the sunlight. Though my garden thrived, I did not. I informed him of my attempts to find someone to replace him as handyman and gardener. I described my interview with Hugh Wheelan, a garrulous man whom I hesitated to engage, knowing that neither he, nor any man, could replace Henry’s efficiency and usefulness, not to mention his companionship.

  I received Henry’s letter two weeks later. Like mine, it was stilted—it did not convey the nuances that I understood so easily when we talked. Yet, it was alive with warmth and concern. He tried to persuade me out of the dark place where my soul had hidden. He encouraged me to hire Hugh, and pointed out the advantages it would bring to my garden. He told me of a tree that was popular there—a tulip tree—and promised me a sapling for my garden. Beneath his words, I sensed his homesickness for Concord. One sentence in particular cut to my heart: “I have hardly begun to live on Staten Island yet; but like the man who, when forbidden to tread on English ground, carried Scottish soil around in his boots, I carry Concord ground in my boots and in my hat, and am I not made of Concord dust?” I heard his stress on the word forbidden, and my heart ached.

  I wrote a very long reply. I told him of my confidence in his talent and my certainty that he would one day be known as a great writer. I reassured him that the trial he was undergoing in New York would strengthen and test him for the grand future for which he was destined. I described a dream I had the night after he left Concord, wherein
a great crowd of people sat at his feet waiting for him to speak. I wrote to him of how certain I’d been, upon waking, that it was a sign of his coming greatness, and that he must not abandon that bright promise, but hold it high, like a torch, to light his way. I tried to make my letter inspiring and cheerful, as his letter had been to me.

  His answer arrived in the last week of June. It was a cloudy, gray morning, promising rain. As I rocked Edith to sleep in my chamber, I looked out the window where men were baling hay in the fields, hurrying to bring it in before the storm. I saw a woman enter our gate from the direction of town, yet only when she was halfway up the walk did I recognize Cynthia Thoreau. I settled Edith in her cradle and went quickly downstairs, thinking she might have news of Henry.

  Mr. Emerson was already at the door. He was in unusually good spirits, for he invited Cynthia inside, though he usually had little toleration for interruptions.

  “What brings you to our door?” he inquired, smiling.

  Cynthia slipped her hand inside the pocket of her skirt and took out an envelope. “I was at the post office and Mr. Keyes told me that Henry had written Mrs. Emerson.” She gave me a long look. “I offered to bring the letter directly.”

  “How kind of you,” Mr. Emerson said.

  I took the envelope.

  “I’m sure my wife is eager to share it. Come, read it aloud, Lidian.” He headed for the parlor. “I’m hungry for word from our brave young Henry.”

  I stared after him. He could have no idea what might be in the privately addressed letter. Why did he press me to read it when he’d never before indicated an interest in letters addressed to me? Was he trying to embarrass me in front of Henry’s mother? My lips pressed tightly against each other. Let him hear which what he might—it would only serve justice if Henry expressed anger over his banishment. I sat on the couch and tore open the envelope while Cynthia settled in a rocker by the fire. My husband stood with his arm on the mantel, watching me. I unfolded the letter. My eyes quickly ran down the page and my heart leaped in alarm.