Mr. Emerson's Wife Page 8

  “But my dear lady,” Dr. Kendall finally said, “man cannot use nature to deduce moral principles! Morality comes from God and He alone—”

  “Nonsense!” Miss Emerson sputtered. “He’s arranged the universe precisely so His laws can be deduced!”

  Dr. Kendall tried again to speak, and once more, Miss Emerson cut him off, this time before any word had emerged from his lips.

  “What one requires is imagination!” Miss Emerson half-rose from her chair, as if the urgency of her discourse were so great she couldn’t remain seated.

  “Dr. Kendall hardly lacks imagination,” I said sharply. “If you’d permit him to complete his thoughts, you’d discover it for yourself.”

  “By all means,” Miss Emerson said. “I delight in discoveries!” And her eyes sparkled as brightly as a young girl’s.

  My stomach ached, and a painful ball had formed within my chest—a horror at the realization that this caustic old woman would soon be my relative. What sort of family was I marrying into that harbored harshness under the guise of honesty?

  Dr. Kendall quietly embarked on a lengthy explanation of his orthodoxy. Three minutes into it, Miss Emerson suddenly, and without apology, rose and left the room. I tried not to reveal my astonishment, but rearranged myself in my chair and encouraged him to continue. When he looked too bewildered to do so, I asked after his wife, and inquired into the health of Anne Miller, a widow who was chronically at death’s door. Moments later, I was startled to see Miss Emerson appear in the doorway behind Dr. Kendall’s chair, urgently beckoning.

  Frowning, I excused myself. When I stepped into the hallway, she rose on her toes and whispered, “Lidian, dear, I’m desperate for fresh air. Please come and take a walk with me.”

  “Now? But we have a guest!”

  “Oh, leave him!” Miss Emerson waved her tiny hand. “He’s a stuffy old man. I’ve worn out my patience with his antiquated notions. Come.” She patted my arm. “We have more stimulating conversations to share.”

  “I can’t leave Dr. Kendall!”

  “Of course you can! Men are forever leaving women to sit alone in their parlors. It’s time the tables were turned.”

  I tried to get my bearings. “I’m sorry, Miss Emerson, but I won’t walk with you now.”

  “Very well, then. I’ll walk as I always do—alone.” Miss Emerson’s eyes flashed, but whether with anger or mischief, I could not tell.

  WHEN MR. EMERSON CAME two days later to take his aunt back to Concord, I greeted him joyfully, delighted to be in his presence again, and relieved that my time with Miss Emerson had drawn to a close. As we walked down to the harbor, he told me of the enthusiastic reception of his lecture series before turning his attention to my week. He asked if I’d enjoyed his aunt’s visit.

  “I hope she did not try your patience,” he said.

  “She has a fine imagination. And I appreciate her candor.”

  He smiled in a way that showed me he understood what I was not saying. “Please assure me that she hasn’t altered your disposition to become an Emerson.”

  “She has not,” I said, “though I admit she gave me pause.” I smiled, but the truth was that I was increasingly excited by my new future. I believed that, as the wife of Mr. Emerson, I would be a woman of consequence whose words and deeds would be noted and admired. “Of our marriage, I have a pretty conceit.” I smiled into his eyes. “I picture the two of us sitting before the fire on a January evening, discussing the great works of Plato or Goethe late into the night.”

  “And then to bed?” he said in a low voice, touching the back of my neck very lightly. I shivered and glanced at him and the look he gave back to me was a challenge.

  “I also look forward to that,” I said boldly, returning his warm smile with my own. I’d never spoken so openly, yet I rejoiced in the growing candor between us. I believed our marriage would be a union of true minds, unlike any the world had ever seen.

  At dinner, I noticed Mr. Emerson’s unceasing deference to his aunt. I watched him rise, smiling, when she entered the room. I watched him listen raptly to every word she uttered. Even when he argued with her, he did so with the utmost respect.

  When he left the next morning to take her back to Concord, I stood in the doorway and waved him out of sight. I noticed a curtain move in the front window of the house next door and couldn’t resist the urge to wave once in that direction before closing the door.

  6

  Transformations

  That her hand may be given with dignity, she must be able to stand alone.

  —MARGARET FULLER

  We set our wedding for the fourteenth of September. That morning, I rose from a fitful sleep and stood some time at the window looking out into a steady, cold rain. The weather seemed an evil portent, combined with the events of the evening before, when my entire Bible class came to bid me farewell in a manner that felt more funereal than celebratory. I’d been deeply shaken when Alice Temple burst into tears and confessed between sobs that I reminded her of the vestal virgin who let her lamp go out.

  “You look as if you’ve prepared yourself for a living burial,” she lamented. Her words chilled and frightened me. And now morning had finally come, gray and cheerless and powerless to banish the apprehension of the night before.

  The possibility that I was about to embark on a disastrous union was not one I dared contemplate. My foot was set on the path, and I could not turn back. Yet I was unable to eat a morsel of breakfast, and told Lucy that I feared such a gloomy beginning to my wedding day was a bad omen.

  “What nonsense!” Lucy slapped butter onto her bread as if it were a disobedient child. “Who are you to translate God’s favor into weather?”

  Though I recognized the truth of her words, they failed to pacify me.

  Mr. Emerson was due at noon, but by two o’clock he had not yet arrived. It was another unfavorable sign. I stood at the parlor window for nearly an hour, distraught as I watched the long darts of rain score the glass. The road was muddy and dark. I prayed that only weather conditions kept him.

  When he finally arrived shortly after four, my anxiety evaporated and I greeted him with joyous relief. His coat was flecked with mud and he looked appallingly weary, yet I led him into the parlor and made him sit near the fire and drink a cup of tea before the ceremony. I took his hands, which were cold as icicles, and chafed them briskly between mine. He was gratifyingly appreciative as he described the long, wet ride from Concord. In his presence I always felt as if I had all the time in the world. So we sat, warming ourselves with the hot tea, and talked of his recent speech in Concord, on the occasion of the two hundredth anniversary of the town’s founding.

  “There were ten veterans of the Revolution,” he said, “seated right in front of me at the foot of the podium, and I was aware of them throughout—though I’ve always focused on someone in the back row, as that naturally elevates the voice so all can hear.”

  “I cannot imagine anyone having difficulty hearing you,” I said. “Your voice is always clear and commanding.”

  He bowed his head modestly, but I knew my words pleased him.

  “Tell me what you said. I would know my new home better.”

  As he spoke of Concord’s history, I became so engrossed that I didn’t mark the passage of time, and it fell to Lucy to interrupt us with the news that our wedding guests were beginning to arrive.

  I flew up the stairs to my chamber, where Sophia helped me into my gown. The soft muslin caught on one of my combs, yanking it and spilling my hair down my back and shoulders like a shawl. It seemed yet another ill omen and I frowned into the mirror over the dresser. My face in the mirror looked unfamiliar, as if a tragic pasteboard mask had been fixed to it.

  “Are you frightened?” Sophia asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I believe I am. A little.”

  Lucy entered then, her face flushed. “You look like an angel, Liddy!”

  I didn’t turn from the mirror, though I managed to
say, “Mr. Emerson is the angel.”

  “You’re clearly meant for each other!” She lifted my hair and caught it in my silver combs. “Everyone says so. Just yesterday, Lavinia White declared that you and Mr. Emerson had two of the finest minds in New England.”

  “How kind,” I murmured, securing my hair with yet another comb.

  At that moment a shaft of light escaped the heavy clouds and splashed into my chamber, washing it in a wave of gold. I looked out the window where, from a long horizontal gash between the clouds and the horizon, sunlight flashed across the roofs of Plymouth. Gold turned to lavender and finally to violet, while I stood mesmerized, my hands still raised to my hair.

  “Liddy?” Lucy’s voice seemed to come from a great distance—I wasn’t sure I heard her—it might have been Mother’s voice against my ear. “Mr. Emerson’s waiting.” Her words woke me from my enchantment and I perceived how late it was—the ceremony should have been long over. Where had I been? I fixed my final comb securely in my hair and left my chamber in a confusion of white muslin.

  As I started down the stairs, I saw Mr. Emerson ascending. And so we met on the landing, he took my arm, and we walked down together. Just as my vision in the mirror had foretold.

  DR. KENDALL PERFORMED the ceremony, as he had performed all the ceremonies of my life. Mr. Emerson and I faced him as he stood with his back to the fireplace and addressed the room of gathered friends and relatives. I found myself staring at the mantel, which Sophia had decorated that morning with evergreen boughs and a blue vase holding the last of my summer roses.

  Then—very suddenly, it seemed—Dr. Kendall pronounced us man and wife. I stared at the thin mouth out of which the momentous words had come. Though the ceremony was over, I did not move—could not move—for I was rooted to that single place, knowing beyond doubt that it was the fulcrum of my life. All that ever happened—both past and future—was hinged forever to this place and moment.

  It’s my nature to take such experiences seriously, to mine them for purpose and direction. I do not casually dismiss feelings. Thus I would have stood and puzzled for some time on the moment’s significance, had it not been for the flood of guests who swept down on Mr. Emerson and me, circling us in their excitement and good cheer. I was embraced again and again, given countless congratulatory kisses. Small gifts were pressed on me—flowers and handkerchiefs, a pewter sugar bowl and a painted green vase.

  Mr. Emerson was ever at my side, greeting people with his usual charm, blessing all with his smile. George Bradford, who had stood up for him during the ceremony, toasted us with a glass of claret, and teased Mr. Emerson for such undeserved good fortune.

  FOUR HOURS LATER, as I climbed into my four-poster bed beside Mr. Emerson, a spiderweb of fear enclosed my body and stopped my tongue. Perhaps every bride feels the same. I knew something of what to expect, but I could not imagine how the experience would be in any way pleasant. What filled my mind was the memory of Father’s hand upon my breast and thigh and his rum-drenched mouth covering my own. I had heard that some men were brutal and some timid and that the size of a man’s organ would determine how much a woman suffered. Yet I knew I had to open myself to my husband in order to seal our marriage and conceive a child. Thus I lay silently waiting for what was to come.

  “Lidian.” Mr. Emerson rolled on his side to face me. “I have something I must tell you.” He touched my waist with his hand. His fingers rested there, just above my navel. I felt them as small circles of warmth through my nightgown.

  I did not move. My heart was racing. I reminded myself—this is what God has ordained—and sent up a small prayer of preparation.

  “Lidian,” he said again, and I realized with surprise that he was searching for words. “Like most men, I’ve had some experience in these intimate matters. But there’s something I must confess.” He paused and I could hear him swallow. “Ellen and I never consummated our marriage. She was too ill—we were both afraid that the exertion would weaken her. And we wanted no risk of childbearing.”

  I felt a burst of relief. My hand covered his. He slid his free arm beneath my shoulder and drew me to him. And then he began to kiss me—gently, tenderly, the way I had dreamed it.

  What I recall most clearly from that night was how he tried so hard to be gentle, how he stroked my hair away from my forehead and whispered, “Lidian, my wife.” And how, when he was finished, he displayed such astounding gratitude, as if what I had given him was not my body, but a miracle.

  WHEN I WOKE the next morning, Mr. Emerson was seated in the armchair by the window, staring out to sea. His face was unreadable, his skin shining in the morning light.

  I reached down with my hand. The place between my thighs was moist and sore. It seemed a strange sign and seal of love—this confusing mixture of discomfort and desire.

  “The sky is clear,” Mr. Emerson said, as if nothing had happened between us. “It’s going to be a fine day.”

  I watched him. He seemed so calm. I couldn’t detect any trace of the bliss I felt. Had not his sensibilities been transformed by the night’s events as mine had? I sat up. “A fine day?” I thought of what lay ahead—my departure from Plymouth, the long journey to Concord.

  “Come and see for yourself.”

  I rose and went to him. He settled his arm around my waist.

  “Look, the sun is shining. The world gleams after yesterday’s rain.” He smiled up at me. “Are you eager to see this new house that you are now mistress of?”

  “Of course.” I had yet to see the house where we would live; it was the custom that a bride not set eyes on her new home until she was safely wed. It was a practice I did not care for, but had conformed to it nonetheless, eager to avoid anything that might jinx our future happiness or call down the contempt of Mr. Emerson’s family. “You make me sound like a queen with my own realm awaiting me,” I said, laughing.

  “As indeed you are.” He rose and took me into his arms and kissed me. “A Lidian Queen.”

  Lucy had overseen the preparation of a sumptuous wedding breakfast. Tea and coffee were served with apple pie and strips of ham, sweet potatoes in a warm orange sauce, oatmeal and hasty pudding, biscuits and johnnycake and applesauce. I sat across the table from my husband and throughout the meal was aware of his gaze resting on me, ardent as his nighttime kisses.

  We did not break our fast in peace. A constant stream of visitors came to say their farewells. My aunts and uncles who had attended the wedding returned to embrace me once again, as if to reassure themselves that I was finally and truly wed.

  Mr. Emerson and I set out on our journey in midmorning. Most of my furniture had been sent ahead, packed in two great carts, but we carried my trunk of clothes and a few other personal things in the chaise. Mr. Emerson held my hand as we rode, the pressure of his fingers quickening my palm.

  We reached Concord late in the afternoon. The sun was low and the air, which had been warm all day, turned cool and crystalline beneath the still-blue sky. Tiers of saffron light lay across the fields, broken by the long shadows of trees that grew beside slanting rail fences. We passed an orchard on our right—red fruit winked brightly among the darkening leaves. Clouds clotted the western horizon, their edges silvered by the sun. The trees on the hills were already shrouded in darkness.

  We passed houses I recognized from my first visit: a small brown hut with a listing chimney; a two-story brick home set well back from the road; the charred posts and beams of a burned barn. Mr. Emerson, who had been telling me of his delight in Montaigne’s essays, said, “We’re almost there,” and I felt my stomach twist in a flutter of goosey anticipation.

  We rounded a narrow curve and the road grew level and straight, running between two wide fields bounded by woodlots. Ahead, on the left, I glimpsed a white house between the trees. I pressed the heels of my hands hard into my waist in a vain attempt to quiet my rebellious insides. Mr. Emerson had promised that I would like the house, and I’d believed him—had felt obliged to beli
eve him—but I was suddenly overwhelmed with doubt. What if he hadn’t noticed crooked-set windows, or overlooked a missing pantry? What if the dining room wasn’t large enough to hold my mahogany table? Or the bedchamber too small to contain my four-poster? What if the stair balustrades were broken or wobbly?

  Suddenly the trees opened and the house came into full view. Mr. Emerson slowed the horse. We turned beneath a row of horse chestnuts, went through a gate into a grassy yard, and drew up in front of a small portico. He slipped the reins and settled back in his seat.

  “Welcome home,” he said.

  My stomach clamped down hard. My home is Plymouth. I thought, the words beating in my mind with the fervor of drums, but I did not say it, for at that moment I couldn’t speak. I stared at the house, at the long white clapboards and twin chimneys. I knew from Mr. Emerson’s letters that the building was L-shaped, but from my angle in the buggy seat, it looked like a two-story box. It was neither as elegant nor as large as I’d expected.

  Beyond the fence to my left lay an unkempt field, and behind the house the land dipped, then rose again to a low ridge occupied by a large brick house that, even at a distance, I could see was sadly in need of repair. I caught the bright glint of a stream twisting through the field. A few young birch trees grew at the water’s edge. The landscape looked raw and barren—the low hills a drab brown in the dwindling light.

  “You’re unnaturally quiet,” Mr. Emerson said. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”

  I managed to find my voice. “It’s a handsome house. How could I be disappointed? Is the inside plaster and lathe still exposed?”