Ursula took it and laid it on an empty page in the herbarium, studying it intently. “Where did you find it?” She finally looked up, a small smile on her lips.
“I can’t recall,” Emily lied. “It’s pretty, but I can’t quite place it. The petals have an odd soft texture, and the stem is more wood than plant. What kind of flower is it?”
“It’s not a flower at all!” Ursula said triumphantly. “It’s an Indian pipe, and it’s a fungus.”
“I remember now,” Emily nodded. “I’d never seen one, but Miss Phelps described them.”
“Miss Phelps took me on special walks. Just the two of us.” Ursula shot a triumphant glance at Emily. “Once we went to a place called Amethyst Brook. There were dozens of Indian pipes there under the dead trees. They feast on the decay of other plants.”
Vinnie shivered. “How unnatural!” But Emily could see that she was just as fascinated as Emily.
“Amethyst Brook,” Emily repeated. “I’ve never been there, but I’ll have to visit.”
“Emily! Vinnie!” It was their mother, grown impatient downstairs.
“Coming, Mother!” The girls returned to the sewing circle.
“Ursula, sit with me,” Emily said as she settled on a sofa next to the fireplace. She pulled out a plain baby gown from her sewing basket and fastened an embroidery hoop around the front of the garment. “I haven’t seen you since term ended. How have you been keeping yourself?”
Ursula looked bored. “Mother took me to New York to buy some new gowns.”
“New dresses!” Vinnie sighed with longing. “Mother insists that we cut our own patterns. The dressmaker comes in two weeks to sew the dresses for us.”
From across the circle, Mrs. Dickinson called out. “Remember, Lavinia, to make your own clothes is a virtuous use of your time. And if our circumstances should ever change, you would know how to economize.”
“Is Mr. Dickinson’s law practice so precarious?” Mrs. Langston asked, oblivious to the raised eyebrows of the other ladies.
“Of course not,” Mrs. Dickinson said. “But I believe my girls should be trained for any eventuality.”
“The Frugal Housewife again,” Vinnie said.
Ursula looked puzzled. “Who is that?
“It’s not a person, it’s Mother’s second bible.” Emily explained. “The first is Scripture, the second is Mrs. Child’s The Frugal Housewife.”
“And you shouldn’t make just your clothes,” Vinnie said. “Soap, cheese, anything that would be more convenient to purchase, The Frugal Housewife would have you make yourself.”
Ursula looked horrified. “It sounds deadly.”
Emily laughed. “Remember the passage about young women? It seems we should not waste our time with education, because that only prepares us for a life of idleness. A diligent mother would school us in the domestic arts.”
“And to think I always envied you!” Ursula laughed. “Mother would rather die than have me wear homemade clothes.”
Emily and Vinnie exchanged amused looks.
Mrs. Hitchcock spoke loudly, as if to change the subject. “Has everyone seen,” she paused dramatically, “the Body?
“Don’t speak of it, dear,” Mrs. Dickinson said. “I’ve forbidden the girls to even think of it.”
“Our maid discovered it!” Vinnie said.
Mrs. Hitchcock leaned forward, her mouth half-open. “Of course! He was found on your property, wasn’t he?” She playfully tapped Mrs. Dickinson’s arm with her embroidery hoop. “The whole town is talking of it. I went to have a peek, but I had never seen the poor man before.”
In a high-pitched voice, Mrs. Langston said, “Oh, was a body found? I hadn’t heard anything about it.”
“If you want to see, you had better hurry,” Mrs. Gilbert said. “He’ll have to be buried soon. I made my husband bring me—I was afraid I would swoon. But the poor boy looked very natural. And so good-looking.”
Emily felt a sickness in her stomach.
Mrs. Dickinson shook her head sharply. “Please, not in front of the children. They are already fascinated with death. I recall last year when Emily’s friend Sophia died—she insisted on staying at her deathbed for days. Emily’s health suffered for months afterward.”
There was silence in the room as the ladies contemplated Emily, who blushed to the roots of her red hair, seething that her mother would bring up poor Sophia.
Mrs. Hitchcock broke the silence after a few moments and asked Mrs. Langston, “Are you enjoying your stay in Amherst?
Mrs. Langston’s cheeks were flushed, but she seemed to welcome the change of subject. “It’s quite wet, isn’t it? I daresay it rained in Boston, but I don’t recall there ever being so much mud in Beacon Hill.”
“You lived in Beacon Hill?” Mrs. Dickinson asked.
With a nostalgic sigh, Mrs. Langston nodded. “Our house was so convenient and our neighbors were quite famous.” She waited, and when no question came, she added, “Of course, it would be unladylike to tell you their names.”
Emily bit her lip and settled back to watch her mother deal with her guest’s unusual manners.
“Beacon Street is such a desirable address,” Mrs. Dickinson said. “Charles Street has lovely shops.”
“You’ve been there?” Mrs. Langston asked, looking slightly alarmed.
“You may not know, but my husband used to be the representative for Amherst to the Massachusetts Legislature. Did you live near the State House?”
“No. We don’t care overmuch for politicians. My husband says they are all thieves and liars.” She laughed. “He says they aren’t to be trusted.”
Emily nearly stabbed her mouth with her sewing needle when she covered her lips to prevent a laugh from escaping. Vinnie’s giggle was audible, while Ursula, mortified, stared fixedly at her embroidery.
Mrs. Dickinson blinked. Finally, she asked, “What brought you to Amherst?
“We didn’t have much choice,” Ursula muttered.
“Hush, Ursula!” Mrs. Langston snapped.
Emily glanced from mother to daughter.
“My brother lives here,” Mrs. Langston said. “We had lost touch, and I thought it important to spend some time with him.”
Emily carefully fixed her needle to the fabric and leaned forward. “Do you have a large family? Any other brothers?
Mrs. Langston glared at Emily. “Not any longer,” she said sharply.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t realize it was a sensitive subject.” By now all the ladies were staring at Mrs. Langston.
Shifting her weight in her seat, Mrs. Langston said, “I had another brother, Jeremiah, but he passed away recently.”
“How terribly sad,” Emily said. “How did he die?
Mrs. Dickinson inhaled sharply. “Emily, enough of these personal questions. Where are your manners?”
“He was killed while prospecting in the Dakotas,” Mrs. Langston said.
“Did he have any children?” Emily probed.
“No, unfortunately his only son died young.” Mrs. Langston pursed her lips and glared at Emily. “And now, if you don’t mind, I’d rather discuss something less upsetting.”
“Emily, enough,” Mrs. Dickinson agreed. “I declare you are becoming quite morbid.”
Emily could have screamed with frustration. How was she going to discover anything if her mother kept cutting the conversation short? She jabbed her needle hard through the fabric and inadvertently stabbed the fleshy part of her thumb. She stared as a drop of red blood dripped onto the white fabric and spread like a plague across her careful stitches.
I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size.
CHAPTER 13
“Emily, you’re bleeding,” Vinnie exclaim
ed.
“It’s nothing,” Emily said. She noticed that Ursula was staring at the bloody marks on the fabric, her face pale.
A knock on the door rescued Emily from being the center of attention. “I’ll answer the door.” She put aside her embroidery and jumped up.
“Not even a maid to greet your guests?” Violet Langston murmured, just loud enough for Emily to hear.
“Mother!” Ursula whispered.
Sucking on her pricked thumb, Emily left the parlor. A gust of wind tugged the oak door out of her hand so it slammed against the wall. A young man wearing oilskins stood there. His face was all too familiar.
“You!” Emily said.
He peered into the dark hallway. When he saw Emily, he stepped back into the rain. “You! What are you doing here?”
“This is my home,” Emily said.
Suddenly Mrs. Langston’s shrill voice broke the spell. “Henry! Come in out of the rain. What are you doing here?”
Henry pulled back his hood and, with a wary glance at Emily, leaned forward to kiss his mother on the cheek. “I arrived on the stage this morning. Father told me you were here, so I came to fetch you. I hope I’m not too early.”
“And who is this?” Mrs. Dickinson had followed Mrs. Langston into the hallway.
Mrs. Langston beamed. “Mrs. Dickinson and Miss Emily Dickinson, let me introduce you to my son, Henry Langston. He has just arrived from New Haven.”
She paused, waiting for someone to ask. Emily finally obliged. “Do you go to Yale, Mr. Langston?”
“Yes, I’m studying law.” He gave her a quick conspiratorial grin that thanked her for humoring his snobbish mother.
“And you only arrived today?” Emily pressed, giving him a hard look. His grin faded, and she could see a flush creeping up the back of his neck.
Ursula appeared in the crowded hallway. Seeing her brother, she squealed and ran into his embrace. “Henry!”
“Ursula, you’ll get your dress wet,” he said, laughing.
Emily felt a pang for her own absent brother. For the first time, she envied Ursula.
Mrs. Langston performed the introductions.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” Henry glanced outside. “But as I think the weather is clearing, I should bring my mother and sister home right away.”
For a few minutes, confusion reigned as coats were donned and umbrellas lost and found. Henry held the door open for his mother and sister. With him at their elbows, they picked their way down the muddy path into a waiting carriage. Emily stayed in the doorway while the other guests returned to the parlor.
“Mr. Langston,” Emily called after him. He closed the door of the carriage and came halfway up the path, almost as if he were keeping a safe distance from her.
“Yes, Miss Dickinson?”
She slipped on wooden clogs over her slippers and walked out into the rain, sheltered only by her inadequate umbrella. Her heels sank into the mud. “Now that we know each other’s names, perhaps we should be honest about a few other facts.”
“I beg your pardon?” He avoided looking directly at her.
“We both know that you didn’t arrive in Amherst today,” Emily said.
He glanced at the carriage. “It’s not necessary to mention that to my mother, is it?”
“Of course not,” Emily said. “Not if you meet me at the church at three this afternoon.” She pointed to the spire of the First Congregational Church up the hill. “I have something to show you.”
“I’m not sure I can get away,” he said.
“Then I’m not sure I can keep what I know to myself,” Emily replied.
“I’ll try to be there,” he said grudgingly, stepping through the mud back to the carriage. He swung himself up to the box seat and took up the reins.
After the carriage had turned onto the road, Emily couldn’t take her eyes off its tracks unspooling before her. They were quickly filling up with mud, but inside the imprint left by the right side wheel, Emily noticed a square mark.
“So there, Vinnie,” she murmured to herself. “We didn’t need to go looking for the wheel. It rolled right to our front door.”
Henry Langston was waiting at the top of the steps to the church when Emily arrived. They were alone—the rain had kept most of Amherst indoors. Neither was inclined to break the awkward silence.
“Why did you ask me to meet you here?” Henry finally asked.
“Why did you agree to come?” she countered.
He said nothing.
“You were in Sam Wentworth’s house yesterday,” Emily said finally. “And possibly a few days before that.”
“So? I’m his nephew.” He leaned against the wall, reminding her of Mr. Nobody when he had reclined against the wooden post in the stable. “You were the one trespassing.”
“Why did you lie to your mother?”
He stiffened. “If I choose to spend time with my uncle without my mother knowing, that’s my affair.”
“Were you there five days ago?” Emily felt like a lawyer in court, trying to pin down a recalcitrant witness.
“Why are you asking all these questions?” he complained. “I agreed to meet you because I was curious. You upset my uncle badly, and I want to know why.”
“I’ll explain, but first please tell me . . . five days ago?”
“I was there, but my uncle was in Northampton purchasing the carriage you saw this morning.”
“And did you give someone some of your uncle’s honeycomb?”
“How do you know that?” He stepped back. “Miss Dickinson, I begin to think perhaps you are a witch!” The expression on his face reminded her of Mr. Nobody’s— but this young man lacked Mr. Nobody’s insouciant charm.
“Mr. Langston, I need the answer to my question. It’s more important than you can possibly guess.”
He looked around, as though he was afraid they were being watched. “I gave some honey to my cousin,” he admitted.
“Is he your age? And of your build and complexion?”
“When we were younger, people commented we could have been brothers.”
Emily nodded. Hadn’t she been taken aback by the uncanny resemblance? “His name?” Her words hung in the humid air, their simplicity demanding an answer.
“I must insist you explain what my family’s private business is to you,” Mr. Langston said, bristling with suspicion.
Emily took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry to have to do this.” She turned to pull open the church door. Automatically, he stepped forward to hold it open. In silence, she led him to the basement vestry.
Her plan had seemed so simple the other night in the kitchen, but now she wasn’t so sure of herself. If her deductions were correct, she was about to subject Mr. Langston to a dreadful ordeal.
His eyes shifted rapidly from one corner of the dim interior to another until they lit on the table. “Is that a body?” he asked.
Emily reflected that he might be the only person in Amherst who didn’t know about the body in the vestry. News must not often reach Sam Wentworth’s farm.
Without a word, she led him to the makeshift bier. Studying Mr. Langston’s countenance, she gently lifted the cloth from the corpse’s face.
Mr. Langston gasped and recoiled. “Cousin James!”
“James,” Emily repeated, her suspicions confirmed. Finally her mysterious friend had a name, and she felt a weight lift from her shoulders. James Wentworth. The dead cousin, miraculously resurrected, only to perish again.
Henry Langston was staring at the body. His face was pale, and Emily could see beads of sweat on his forehead that had nothing to do with the sticky weather. How do you read guilt or innocence in a man’s expression? He seemed shocked, and that boded well. Besides, Emily knew for a fact that Mr. Nobody, or James as she should call him now, had been alive
and well when he left his cousin, honeycomb in pocket.
He stepped closer to get a better look. Then he whirled around and turned on Emily. “How dare you not warn me that my own cousin lay here?”
He loomed over her, and she stepped back involuntarily. Emily defended herself. “I wasn’t sure; I only suspected.”
“What is he doing here? He was fine on Friday.” He rubbed his damp forehead with the back of his hand. “I have to tell my parents that we’ve lost him again.”
“Again?” Emily asked, although she suspected she understood very well.
“We received word of his death months ago. You could have knocked me down with a feather when he showed up at Uncle’s door.” He groaned. “This will kill Mother.”
“She doesn’t know?” Emily asked, watching him closely. “What about Ursula?”
“Did they act as if they knew James was dead? Of course Ursula and my mother don’t know.” He sank onto a bench against the whitewashed wall. “How did he come to be here? Why hasn’t my family been told?”
“No one knew his name. He’s here to be identified. The whole town has come through looking at him, but no one recognized him.”
“The entire town?” He looked over to the body, as if trying to envision a line of sober townspeople. “But I’m not surprised that no one knew him. He only came to Amherst a few times to visit Uncle. And that was several years ago.”
“Your mother . . . ”
“Would never think of looking at a body—she’d consider it vulgar. And Ursula is much too squeamish.”
Emily nodded. This rang true. When Ursula had seen Emily bleeding from her little pinprick, she had nearly fainted. “Mr. Langston, there are many mysteries surrounding your cousin’s death.”
His eyes went to the body. “Do you mean to say that this was not an accidental death?”
“I fear not.”
He swallowed hard and looked pale. “In that case, I need to consult with my family. We may possibly need legal advice.”
She remembered that he was studying law.
“First you must talk to me,” Emily said firmly. “Your cousin was my friend, and I need to discover how he died. And why.”
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