Mr. Emerson's Wife Page 4

  I wanted to laugh, but my fluttering heart would not permit frivolity. I was acutely aware of the warmth and pressure of his hands through my gloves.

  “You are too kind,” I said. “Yet surely you’ve heard thoughtful words from women before tonight. Or are you unaccustomed to hearing women express their opinions?”

  “On the contrary. All my life I’ve been acquainted with women whose brilliance eclipses my own.”

  “I find that hard to credit.”

  “You haven’t met my aunt Mary,” he said. “Miss Jackson—” He stepped closer. “Will you permit me to call you Lydia?”

  “If you wish.” I wondered if he could hear the thudding of my heart over the sound of the sea. “Though I’m usually called Liddy by my friends.”

  He frowned—the slightest crease of his forehead, his eyebrows tugging together briefly. “Liddy is a common name for a remarkably uncommon woman.”

  I withdrew my hands, frightened by the sudden weakness that coursed through my limbs. “I should go home,” I said. “My sister will be wondering what has become of me.”

  He gave a slight bow. “Forgive me. I’ve ignored the hour. You must be chilled.”

  Although I didn’t contradict him, I was not at all cold. Rather, my entire body was suffused with an unfamiliar heat. Despite my stated concern for my sister, I was reluctant to part from him. Yet I expressed none of these disordered feelings, but allowed him to escort me back up the hill to Winslow House.

  My frightened sister met me at the door. She grabbed my shoulders with both hands and pulled me inside as if the snowy night imperiled my life. It was only when I pulled away and turned back to the open doorway to thank Mr. Emerson that she realized I was not alone.

  “Mr. Emerson!” she cried, both hands to her face, her eyes gone wide at her own blunder. “Come in! Come in! Please, come in!”

  It was nearly midnight and I was certain that he was expected elsewhere. Yet the words of invitation were no sooner out of Lucy’s mouth than Mr. Emerson stepped across our threshold and into our parlor. Lucy, of course, did not ply me in his presence with the many questions she longed to ask, but stoked up the fire and sat in her chair while we continued our conversation as easily and naturally as if we had never ceased talking. It was nearly one in the morning when Mr. Emerson took out his pocket watch and marked the lateness of the hour. Still, he took his leave in a leisurely manner, thanking me for the pleasure of our conversation and declaring that he hoped we would soon meet again.

  As I closed the door behind him, I leaned my forehead against it.

  “Oh, Liddy!” I heard Lucy whisper behind me. “I think he admires you!”

  “Admires me?” I turned to face her. Her eyes were shining with excitement. “Please—I hope you aren’t suggesting he’s formed a romantic attachment.”

  “I know what I witnessed. Here, in our own parlor.”

  “A conversation, Lucy,” I said, moving past her toward the stairs. “You witnessed a conversation. One that has fatigued me. I’m going to bed.”

  THE SNOW CONTINUED to fall all night and by morning there was a two-foot drift against our front door. I stood at the window and counted the ship masts in the harbor. I wondered if the weather would delay Mr. Emerson’s departure, then abruptly dismissed the question. It was none of my concern. And, in any case, it was Monday and there was work to be done.

  I spent the morning in a frenzy of housecleaning, rousting dust and cobwebs from the corners of each downstairs room, polishing the fireplace andirons and what remained of Mother’s silver, dusting and waxing and buffing until everything shone. Sophia worked by my side, chattering about all manner of things, while Lucy went to market and supervised dinner preparations. I even pressed Frank into service and he was soon loading the wood box and sweeping the ashes from the fireplaces. When we finally gathered around the dining table at one, we were all too weary to enjoy the fish and fresh brown bread.

  Despite my morning’s labors, I had little appetite. Thoughts of Mr. Emerson continued to fill my mind. After dinner, I ascended the stairs to retire to my chamber where I hoped to better order my thoughts. My mind was full—too full—and wanted purging. This penchant for thinking to the point of exhaustion was a trait I’d inherited from my father, along with an unfortunate tendency to dyspepsia. The only cure I found was solitude and prayer.

  As I reached the landing where the looking glass hung, I reflexively started to turn from it—recalling, as I always did, Mother’s admonition against preening—when something in the glass caused me to stop in midstep and stare. Though it was my own form I saw there, I was not wearing my brown housedress, but a fashionable white gown with large, puffed sleeves. My hair was twined with flowers. I looked like a bride. The realization stabbed, yet even as I sought to blink it out of existence, I noticed that my form in the mirror was not alone, but was attended by a tall man in formal dress. A man who resembled Mr. Emerson.

  “No!” I cried out, dashing my hands against my eyes, for I didn’t believe the vision could be mine. Some dark enchantment was at work. I blinked again and saw the image fade. Relieved, I ran to my room and threw myself on my bed.

  I was ashamed of the vision. Mr. Emerson was surely everything that was noble and true and good that a woman might seek in a husband, but I had no desire to alter my single state.

  Did I? Did the vision indicate that I harbored secrets from my very self?

  The thought was absurd. I tried to convince myself it was a delirium of fatigue—I’d spent the morning in frantic activity, and had gone late to bed the night before. Yet I did not sleep, but lay staring at the swirls of plaster in the ceiling. I finally sought reassurance in prayer, begging God’s guidance. I received no relief from my distress. The vision lay seared in my mind like a brand upon the flesh of a slave.

  WHEN I FINALLY SLEPT that night I dreamed of my father. He sat at the head of the table in the dining room, just as he had at every meal until his death. Except there was no food on the table—only the crisp white cloth and one crystal goblet of water. He lifted the glass and took a sip, then slowly set it down and fixed me in his gaze. “It is time you learned to keep a house of your own,” he said. “I want you to master the skills of a wife.”

  I was standing at the far end of the table. “I have no interest,” I said. “I’m not well-suited to the role.”

  He rose, frowning. He seemed to take up all the space in the room. “Lydia, you have a rebellious and difficult nature. You must labor to subdue it.”

  “I don’t want a husband who is not pleased by my nature.”

  “You have a reckless tongue. It wants harnessing.”

  I woke suddenly, gasping in the darkness as the dream dissolved into a terrible memory of my fifteenth summer.

  It was night and I was in my chamber. I heard a heavy tread outside my door, then a thud and the door sprang open.

  “Lydia, I have been betrayed again.” My father swayed into the room and sat on my bed.

  “Papa, you should not be here.” I’d been sitting in my nightshift at the window, but rose when he entered, and stood, pinching my fingers together, while he listed back and forth on the bed.

  “Don’t cast me off, Daughter.” He fell back onto the mattress and closed his eyes.

  “You mustn’t sleep here.” I tried to pull him upright, but he did not respond. “Papa, please! You must go to your own chamber!”

  His eyelids fluttered. “You understand my nature, Liddy. You and I are the same.

  “You must go! Mother’s waiting for you.”

  He waved one hand dismissively. “She’s not waiting for me. She’s waiting for death.” His eyes popped open. He reached up suddenly and, grasping my shoulders, drew me down on top of him.

  I tried to rise, but his fingers grew as hard as manacles. Terrified, I began to struggle. He grunted and rolled over, pinning me beneath him.

  “I’m a man.” His words were gelatinous and garbled, as if a thick wad of wet cotton had
jammed in his throat. “With a man’s needs. And she’s not been a wife to me for eight years now.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and put my hands over my ears, but he pulled them away and pinned them beneath my back. A cloud of rum spilled from his mouth and covered me like a shroud.

  “Look at me, Liddy. Look at your papa who loves you.” His voice had changed to a thin whine and sounded as if he were close to weeping. He shifted, and his hand pressed my breast, then moved down my body to rest on my thigh. Its weight burned through my shift.

  I understood in some dim way that his caress was not intended for me, but for my mother. Mother, who was no longer available to him as a wife. Mother—whose illness kept her pure.

  I gave a sudden great thrust with my legs, and he rolled off me with a groan. I leaped from the bed, trembling with terror and disgust, but something held me long enough to watch him thrash and clutch himself. He peered at me with rheumy eyes and let out another moan.

  “Go to your own bed!” My voice was a hiss I didn’t recognize. “I feel no pity for you. Nor ever will.”

  I fled to Lucy’s room then, where I crawled into bed beside her, and for the rest of the night lay restlessly turning. By morning I had a fever and Lucy was easily convinced that I’d left my own bed in search of warmth.

  I kept to my chamber for a week, less out of illness than mortification. But when I finally faced Father over Sunday dinner, he displayed his customary dyspepsia and grumbled that I did not look as if I’d been ill enough to shun housework. I realized that he had no memory of the incident between us. His drunkenness had protected him from a proper shame.

  When he died of a fever the next August, I could manufacture no tears to mourn his passing. Yet the smell of his breath hibernated in my nostrils for years, stimulated to wakeful anxiety whenever I caught the scent of rum.

  I CAUGHT THAT SMELL on the cold Wednesday morning a few days after Mr. Emerson’s lecture, as Sophia and I entered the butcher’s shop. I took special care to notice that Mr. Fagan properly filled my order and that the mutton and beef cuts I purchased were fairly weighed. As we left the butcher’s, Sophia began fretting over her boots, which she claimed had grown too small. I was listening with only half my attention when we encountered Sarah Kendall coming out of the milliner’s shop. She wore a green bonnet in a flounced style I had never seen before. Though she was the minister’s daughter, she had always been excited by the latest fashion. Before I’d finished complimenting her, she began to talk about Mr. Emerson.

  “I hear he considered staying another night in Plymouth,” she said. “But the coaches were running and he left in midafternoon. Greatly excited, from what I’m told.”

  “Excited?” I said. “Where did you hear this?”

  “I saw Mary Russell in the dry goods shop just a few moments ago. She was glowing.” Sarah reached up to secure a bonnet ribbon that the wind threatened to remove. “I believe Mary has formed an attachment to Mr. Emerson,” she said, smiling. “She’s convinced he wants to marry, and I believe she hopes he’ll settle on her.”

  “She mentioned this to me after his first lecture,” I said. “I hope she won’t be disappointed.” I spoke the words sincerely, for Mary had been thrown over by a young man from Cambridge just the year before. “I think Mr. Emerson would be a good match for any woman. He has a fine mind and a great career before him.”

  Sophia hugged herself and began shivering so violently that I excused us and took her to the bakery, where I allowed her to select a loaf of currant bread as reward for her patience.

  That week brought its usual round of work and engagements. On Thursday I attended the Anti-Slavery Society meeting and on Saturday, George Bradford’s philosophy class. The discussion focused on Mr. Emerson’s two lectures, yet I found myself with uncommonly little to say. It was as if my tongue had vanished from my head and I could only listen to what others said. George gave me a quizzical look as I passed him on the way out and was about to speak, when Ann Carter approached and diverted his attention. I was relieved that he had not been afforded the opportunity to question me privately, for I have no doubt that I would have stumbled over my own words.

  That evening I experienced another unsettling visitation. I was seated at my desk in my chamber, recording the day’s thoughts and events in my journal. The south-facing window was cracked open to relieve the heat from the fireplace and an occasional gust of frigid air disturbed the curtains. It was during one of these gusts that I looked up at the window and saw Mr. Emerson’s face. He was smiling and his eyes were tenderly searching me. The effect was disquieting and exciting at the same time. I put down my pen and touched my forehead. The image faded at once, and I felt relieved, though I continued to puzzle over its meaning. But I could make no sense of it at all.

  3

  Proposals

  I please myself with contemplating the felicity of my present situation—may it last!

  —RALPH WALDO EMERSON

  On Monday morning Anna brought me a letter. I was in the dining room, sorting sheets for mending. When she came into the room, I did not at first pay attention to her.

  She coughed. “This just arrived from Concord, Miss Lydia,” she said.

  “Concord?” I put aside the sheet and took the letter, turning it in my hand. It was of fine paper, the address written in a strong hand. “I don’t know anyone in Concord.”

  “I paid the man and gave him coffee. He seemed weary from his ride.”

  “That was kind,” I smiled at her. “Offer him some pie, as well. And perhaps you’d be so kind as to bring me a cup of tea.”

  Anna reluctantly retreated as I broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

  Concord 24 January 1835

  To Miss Lydia Jackson

  I obey my highest impulses in declaring to you the feeling of deep and tender respect with which you have inspired me. I am rejoiced in my Reason as well as in my Understanding by finding an earnest and noble mind whose presence quickens in mine all that is good and shames and repels from me my own weakness. Can I resist the impulse to beseech you to love me?

  My hand began to tremble as I turned the paper over and studied the signature at the bottom: Ralph Waldo Emerson. I bit my lip and continued reading.

  The strict limits of the intercourse I have enjoyed, have certainly not permitted the manifestation of that tenderness which is the first sentiment in the common kindness between man and woman. But I am not less in love, after a new and higher way.

  “Miss Lydia?”

  I had neither seen nor heard Anna return but when I looked up, she was standing before me, holding the cup of tea I’d requested. “Is it bad news come from Concord, miss?”

  Rather than take the tea and risk spilling it—for my hands still shook—I bade her place it on the side table. “All is well,” I said, my voice nearly cracking with agitation. “I need a few moments of solitude. Thank you.”

  She left, slowly backing her way out the door. I knew her reluctance to leave was out of concern as much as curiosity, yet I experienced a profound impatience as I watched her out of the room. “Please close the door behind you,” I said. It was only when I heard the click of the latch that I turned back to the letter.

  I have immense desire that you should love me and that I might live with you always. My own assurance of the truth and fitness of the alliance—the union I desire, is so perfect, that it will not admit the thought of hesitation—never of refusal on your part. I could scratch out the word I am persuaded that I address one so in love with what I love, so conscious with me of the everlasting principles, and seeking the presence of the common Father through means so like, that no remoteness of condition could much separate us, and that an affection founded on such a basis, cannot alter.

  I raised my head, for suddenly I felt as if all the air had been sucked from my lungs. Though I’d not finished reading, I could no longer stay seated, but went to the window and swiftly raised it. I leaned out into the frozen afternoon and took
long, deep breaths. I tried to recall in detail the thoughts Mr. Emerson and I had shared as we walked along the waterfront the week before. They did not seem extraordinary in themselves, yet there had been something in the exchange that had made my entire body grow alert in a new and unfamiliar way.

  I found myself staring blindly at a small branch that had fallen from our linden tree onto the snow. It resembled a scrap of black lace that I suddenly perceived was in the shape of a question mark. I withdrew into the room and closed the window, though I continued to stand there as I finished reading, in case I might require another measure of air.

  I will not embarrass this expression of my heart and mind with any second considerations. I am not therefore blind to them. They touch the past and the future—our friends as well as ourselves, & even the Departed. But I see clearly how your consent shall resolve them all.

  And think it not strange, as you will not, that I write rather than speak. In the gravest acts of my life I more willingly trust my pen than my tongue. It is as true. And yet had I been master of my time in this moment, I should bring my letter in my own hand. But I had no leave to wait a day after my mind was made up. Say to me therefore anything but NO. Demand any time for conversation, for consideration, and I will come to Plymouth with a joyful heart. And so God bless you, dear and blessed Maiden, and incline you to love your true friend.

  Ralph Waldo Emerson.

  My address is Concord, Mass.

  My palms and fingers had left damp blots upon the paper. There was a cold spot at the base of my spine. Heat flooded my face. I moved away from the window and into the hall and climbed the stairs.