Mr. Emerson's Wife Read online

  The family sat on straight wooden chairs. My first impression was that I had set foot in an alien land. I knew that country people had different customs, ones I did not understand. I felt like a broodmare at an auction. Mr. Emerson’s mother sat in the darkest corner of the room. Her hand, when I took it, was dry and cold, stippled with brown age spots. She spoke little, beyond inquiring about the discomforts of my journey, but I was aware of her scrutiny throughout the evening. Her eyes were the color of tarnished pewter and seemed to harbor a smoldering and inexplicable anger.

  “And this is Charles,” Mr. Emerson said, turning me toward a smiling young man. He had thick, fair hair—his nose was not as prominent as Mr. Emerson’s, but was classically Roman. “Be on your guard. His charm hides a dangerous wit.”

  Charles laughed. “Welcome to Concord, Miss Jackson. You must feel as if you’ve been exiled to the wilderness.”

  “Not at all. Concord’s a lovely village.” But I wondered that he had so quickly discerned my private sentiment and didn’t hesitate to name it.

  “A town is lovely insofar as its inhabitants make it so by their inner attractiveness,” Mr. Emerson said. “I believe Lidian will find it an amenable community.”

  “It’s certainly pleasant to the eye,” I said.

  “I’m glad that—despite his many shortcomings—my brother is able to interest a woman of quality.” Charles sent a grin in Mr. Emerson’s direction and then turned his full attention on me. “You’ve done us all a favor, Miss Jackson. Waldo’s demeanor is greatly improved in the presence of a lady.”

  Laughing, Mr. Emerson clapped him on the back. “She’ll learn my shortcomings soon enough, Charles. Let her enjoy the fantasy that she’s caught the choicest fish in the sea.”

  “But you cannot be the choicest, Waldo,” said a sweet-faced woman who approached us from the far side of the room. “That position is already taken.” She was nearly my height and her hair was a deep brown, but her most striking feature was her dark, luminous eyes.

  “Elizabeth,” Charles said, and took her arm in a gesture that was both casual and possessive. “You’ll make me blush.” I knew this must be his fiancée, Miss Hoar, whose intellect and charm Mr. Emerson had already mentioned.

  “I don’t think it’s possible for you to blush,” Elizabeth said, smiling. “You’re much too shameless.”

  “Miss Jackson, I’m sure you’ll forgive her romantic sparring,” Charles said. “From what Waldo tells me, the two of you do your own share.” He gave me a mock bow.

  Charles and Elizabeth charmed me as Mr. Emerson had promised. Charles’s sense of humor put me immediately at ease and his manner was even more captivating than his looks. He was clearly the family jester, always on hand with a witty remark whenever the conversation flagged. Even the dour Mrs. Emerson smiled at his comments. He had a particular way of looking at people that made one feel as if he were entirely amused at every word spoken.

  Elizabeth was as gentle as he was boisterous. Her dark, understanding eyes and sweet expression won me over at once. Warmth and generosity seemed to flow from her as naturally as clear water from a spring.

  Reverend Ripley retired soon after we finished our tea, but the rest of the company remained in the parlor, engaged in what soon became a conversation on marriage.

  “It’s a woman’s institution,” said Charles, and I perceived from his grin that he was once again teasing Elizabeth. “Her principal agency for civilizing the brutish male.”

  “Then you agree that men need civilizing?” Elizabeth regarded him with a pure, innocent expression, which caused a general laughter.

  “Yet surely the purpose of marriage is as solemn as it is agreeable,” Mr. Emerson said. “It’s a light affection which first binds a man and a woman, but if they’re wise they will build a deeper one on the truth of each other.” He looked at me. Tenderly, I thought.

  “Marriage is God’s chief means of perfecting us,” I declared.

  “How Swedenborgian,” Charles said.

  “It is my own thought. I’ve observed that couples are drawn together by a magnetism of weakness to strength.”

  “Including you and Waldo?” Charles asked.

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “Lidian and I have discussed this before,” Mr. Emerson said. “But I’ve not yet had the courage to ask who’s the weaker and who the stronger.”

  Charles and Elizabeth laughed.

  I turned to my fiancé. “We each have strengths that balance the other’s weakness.”

  He smiled. “And all this time I believed myself drawn to you by an affinity of intellect and opinion. I’m yet blind to your dissimilarities.”

  “You’re teasing me, Mr. Emerson.”

  “Not at all! I simply don’t see this matter from your perspective.”

  “But from an opposite one,” I said triumphantly. “Which exactly proves my point.”

  Charles laughed out loud. “You’ve certainly found your match, Waldo!”

  Mrs. Emerson spoke from the shadows. “It’s a match, perhaps, but a Petruchio one, from the look of it.”

  “Mother!” Charles looked as if he’d been the one stung, but I found myself smiling.

  “I don’t consider myself a shrew, but if I’m to play the role of Kate, I’ll do my best to play it vigorously.” I glanced at my husband-to-be. “I believe a man of Mr. Emerson’s intellect and renown can only profit by some dissent from his wife.”

  Whereupon even Mrs. Emerson joined in the general laughter.

  Throughout the evening there were many references to Ellen Tucker—in particular to her beauty and loving spirit. The family spoke of her as if she were still alive, gone on some extended and mysterious journey. I sensed that, despite the attempt to receive me warmly, I was being compared unfavorably to her.

  Elizabeth was the exception. She had not known Ellen, had only met her on one occasion, and confided later that she recalled a sickly and giddy young woman who’d seemed so unlike Mr. Emerson in temperament and disposition that she had difficulty crediting that he proposed. From that day, Elizabeth’s understanding sustained me. We became instant and fast friends.

  That first evening, after Mrs. Emerson retired, Charles and Elizabeth withdrew to one corner of the parlor, while I sat with Mr. Emerson by the fire. It was then that he showed me his miniature of Ellen. He took the small portrait from his coat pocket and put it into my hands as reverently as if it were a sacred relic. I studied the rosebud mouth, the dark hair parted in the middle, the thick curls framing the oval face, the pale, slender shoulders, the luminous eyes. They were astonishing eyes, pale blue and brimming with an intoxicating mixture of innocence and wisdom. They were so striking in paint that I was not surprised they’d captivated those who saw her in the flesh.

  “She was very beautiful,” I said.

  “Yes,” he whispered, closing his eyes as if I’d just spoken a prayer.

  ON THE LAST MORNING of my visit to Concord, Mr. Emerson suggested a quiet walk beside the river. The air was unseasonably warm, and the snow was melting, flowing in streamlets down the muddy banks and into the water. The ice had broken into irregular slabs and floated freely on the black water. Mr. Emerson put his arm around my waist. Instantly I felt myself softening inwardly; the sensation was one of dissolving and melting into a warm liquid, not unlike the snow beneath the warm rays of the sun.

  “Tell me, are the residents as unfriendly and backward as you imagined?” His voice was a smile.

  “Elizabeth is a delight,” I said, carefully shaping my reply, for I knew his intention and that he would soon press me again to agree to establish our home in Concord. “As good a friend already as many I have known since childhood. And Charles—how could anyone not love him?”

  “You have yet to mention my mother.” He was smiling and I was gratified that he was not offended by my diffidence.

  I stopped and turned so that I blocked his path. “I’m determined to win her love,” I said. “She’s your m
other, and warrants reverence on that account alone.”

  He lifted my hand and kissed it. “I don’t deserve such devotion.”

  In that instant I discovered the secret to pleasing Mr. Emerson. He required a discerning admiration. He loved me not for my nobility or intellect, but for the man he saw reflected in my eyes.

  5

  Encounters

  Hail to the quiet fields of my fathers.

  —RALPH WALDO EMERSON

  On a warm June afternoon as we strolled down to the harbor, I capitulated to Mr. Emerson’s desire to live in Concord. Ships rocked gently at their anchors, their masts black against the bright blue sky; behind us, the narrow streets of Plymouth climbed toward Burial Hill under graceful linden trees. Mr. Emerson held my hand and assured me that he’d begin at once to look for a house in Concord that I would like. I kept my eyes on his face, so sad at the thought of leaving my beloved town that I couldn’t bear to look elsewhere.

  When she heard the news, Lucy was as distressed as I, but hid her concern behind enthusiasm for my wedding preparations.

  “You must have a new gown, Liddy. Something which doesn’t emphasize your pallor. Gold perhaps, or light rose. Let’s go to Boston and look at the new fabrics.”

  “We can’t afford such extravagance,” I said. “I’ll wear what I already have.”

  “But everything is gray or slate-blue! Your wedding should be a festive occasion.”

  “I could wear the lilac silk Betsey loaned me.”

  “You’ve already worn it. Think of your station! You’re not marrying a farmer.”

  “Sometimes I wonder,” I murmured, for Lucy’s comment made me think of Concord’s wide and lonely fields.

  It was Sophia who suggested that, with some small modifications, my white muslin gown would make a fine wedding dress.

  “Set in some puffed sleeves, and it will be in the height of fashion,” she said. Her proposal delighted me and satisfied Lucy, who volunteered to do the handiwork herself.

  One of my duties before wearing the gown as Mr. Emerson’s bride was to receive his aunt. I’d heard Mary Moody Emerson whispered of in Boston circles for years. Famous for her peculiarities, she was a brilliant woman, though blunt to the point of rudeness, with a tenacity that intimidated all but the most stouthearted. Mr. Emerson was eager that we know each other.

  “She came to live with us after my father died,” he told me one evening as we walked in the garden behind Winslow House. My pink damask roses were in full bloom and their heavy scent sweetened the air. “I owe my education to her as well as my interest in philosophy. She was, in her way, as singular an influence as my mother.”

  “And what of your father?” I asked. “Was he not an able influence? It puzzles me that you never speak of him.” I was instantly sorry, for the look of hollow pain he turned upon me immediately raised the memory of my own father’s debasement.

  “He died when I was eight,” Mr. Emerson said quietly. “My only memories of him are”—he paused—“unfortunate.”

  I sighed—a sound that seemed to mingle my memories with his. “My own father was a complex and difficult man.”

  “I hope he wasn’t cruel.” He studied my face in such a way that I felt both protected and understood.

  “He was not always kind,” I admitted. “He grew worse after an accident in which he fell into a hold while inspecting one of his ships. It took him months to recover, and he was never the same after. He became a disagreeable and angry man.”

  He took my hand. “There are more correspondences between us than I dreamed, Lidian. But let’s not allow unpleasant thoughts to compromise our happiness.” And to my great surprise, he kissed me. His mouth was soft and warm. I tasted his breath—it was musky and sweet—and I drew it into my lungs, savoring it, as if it were a honeyed confection. A tide of desire swept through me—so forcefully my knees began to shake. When he released me I felt the need to grip his arm for support.

  “Your aunt,” I said, when I had regained a measure of poise. “Tell me more of her.”

  “What would you know?” He put his hand over mine, binding it to his coat sleeve.

  “I worry that she may not find me congenial. What if she doesn’t approve of me?” I pulled away and bent to pluck a dead bloom from its stem.

  He smiled. “She’ll approve. How can she not? You two are as alike as twins.”

  “Alike?” I rose and turned to him. This was the first I’d heard that I reminded him of anyone. “I’m flattered, since you admire her so much.”

  “As I admire you.” He leaned as if to kiss me again, but I turned to examine another blossom.

  “I’ll happily invite her to visit. Perhaps if she’s convinced that Plymouth will suit you, you’ll listen to her.”

  “Fortunately that matter has already been decided,” he said.

  The blossom suddenly came away from its stem and fell into my hand.

  “In any case,” he went on, “I doubt you’ll be able to convince Aunt Mary of anything. More likely she’ll convince you.” He laughed, a rare sound I had already come to love. It reminded me of the music of the sea, with its deep and complex undertones.

  I RECALLED his laugh two weeks later as I stood at the window watching Miss Emerson light from her carriage. She was the smallest woman I’d ever seen, as small as a child, and the way she darted up the walk to the door made me think of an excited bird. She held her head high and her blunt nose so resembled a beak that I had to suppress a laugh.

  The bird image remained with me even after she crossed the threshold, for Miss Emerson seemed to flutter and flap about in her worn cape until I relieved her of it. Her cap was too small to contain her hair. Or perhaps her hair was as wiry as her wit, and refused to be constrained by a fragment of linen.

  “I’m poverty-struck,” she chirped, “else I would have brought you a gift. But if Waldo tells me true, then you’ll cherish no gift more than a vigorous conversation. Which I mean to grant you.” She smiled up at me, her eyes shiny as black beads in her lively face. I detected a mischievous note in her voice, and was surprised by her uncommon candor and high sense of humor—a combination of qualities that first charmed and later embarrassed me.

  In the parlor she perched on the lip of her chair, her hands dancing across the black froth of her skirt, shoulders twitching, eyes blinking, gray wisps of hair escaping her cap. She spoke quickly, the words rushing from her as if there were not time enough left in the world to say all that needed to be said. I found it difficult to keep up with her sudden shifts in subject. It was not really a conversation at all, but a combination of interrogation and sermon. One moment she was lecturing me on the necessity for wives to zealously advance moral reform and the abolition of slavery, and the next she was asking my thoughts on the doctrine of the Trinity.

  Lucy and Sophia were also present, Lucy knitting a finely clocked stocking, glancing up every now and again to smile, while Sophia poured tea. She demurely handed a cup and spoon to Miss Emerson.

  “A handsome spoon,” Miss Emerson declared, examining the silver handle closely. “Such elaborately etched leaves! A testimony to your taste, Miss Jackson.”

  “It was my mother’s,” I said. “One of the few remaining.”

  “Oh, dear.” Miss Emerson placed the spoon daintily on her saucer. She looked as if I’d just announced the death of a favorite cat. “Why few? What has happened to the rest?”

  “I melted them down,” I said.

  Miss Emerson looked at me sharply. “In a moment of violent grief, no doubt.”

  I let her think what she would. “It is an act I’ve come to regret.”

  “I should think so.” She tapped her tiny feet on the carpet and changed the subject. “I’ve heard you are admired as a woman of Christian nobility. But marriage demands humility, you know. And marriage to Waldo”—she paused and rattled her teacup—deliberately, I thought—“will require courage.”

  Courage? I wondered at her meaning. “I’m c
ertain that God will provide what strength is needed. He’s never failed me.”

  Miss Emerson’s eyebrows vaulted toward the tangle of gray curls above her forehead. “Perhaps He has not tested you.”

  My shoulders tightened and I found it necessary to measure each word before I spoke. “I assure you, I’ve been tested many times. I’ve never sought a comfortable life.”

  “Yet it appears to be comfortable nonetheless.” She glanced meaningfully at the parlor drapes, as if she might find on them my spending ledger.

  “Appearances can deceive,” I said.

  “And reveal.” Her eyes narrowed. “Tell me, my dear Lidian, what does Waldo see in you? You’re not a great beauty.”

  It took me a moment to recover from this new assault, but I managed a smile. “You’d have to ask him, Miss Emerson. It’s as much a mystery to me as to you.”

  “Ah, but mysteries always have their reasons.”

  “Indeed. And what is more mysterious—or more reasonable—than God’s will?”

  Miss Emerson’s eyes narrowed and she rattled her cup again. “You dare suggest that God is the architect of this union?”

  “He’s the architect of all our lives. Is it even possible for us to escape His desire?”

  The tiniest of smiles tipped the corners of Miss Emerson’s mouth. I saw that I’d passed a small test.

  ON MONDAY AFTERNOON, Dr. Kendall came to pay his respects. As I served tea, Miss Emerson questioned him vigorously on his Sunday sermon, attacking it with a ferocity and determination that shocked me.

  “Theology ought to be open to every student of nature.” She spoke rapidly, stressing each word, as if all were of equal importance. “A mind can detect the infinite wisdom in the laws by which the humblest shrub grows and flourishes. If the weed, sprouting from rock, can seek the sunlight and be rooted in the earth, then how infinite may be the relations of man!” She inched forward in her chair as she spoke, propelled by small jerks of her hips, so that I feared she’d soon launch herself off the chair completely. Her feet twitched beneath her skirts. The movements became more pronounced as she continued to expound, and I could not take my eyes off her rhythmically bouncing hem and the periodic emergence of a black-slippered toe.