by Oak, B. B.
He gave out a sharp laugh. “That would not suit me at all! I came near to purchasing a farm a few years ago, and then realized it was better for me to live free and uncommitted. But I was not born into a farm family as you were, Adam. Farming is in your blood.”
“Yes, but Julia is in my heart and soul. I would be willing to give up far more than life on Tuttle Farm for a life with her. Besides, our situation may change.” I hesitated, then went ahead and expressed what was topmost in my mind. “If Julia became a widow, we could marry and stay right here in Plumford. I cannot help but wish for the passing of an elderly man who made his fortune trading in human lives.”
Henry studied me a long moment, his clear, luminous eyes like lenses on a microscope. “Be careful what you wish for, my friend,” he said.
With that, he bid me Good Evening and headed back to Concord, leaving me alone in the gathering dusk, smelling the fresh, growing grass.
JULIA
Friday, May 19
It is said that the full force of sexual desire is seldom if ever known to a virtuous woman. Well then, I can hardly claim to be virtuous. My desire for Adam has caused me to swerve so far from the straight path of rectitude that there is no going back. Nor do I even want to. I knew full well what course I was taking the first time Adam and I made love in December. And I have continued to willingly and wantonly have intimate relations with him nearly every morning since. We have done our best to be careful, following methods prescribed in Knowlton’s Fruits of Philosophy most diligently, but we have eschewed the most reliable method of all—abstinence. Therefore, I should be fully prepared to accept the repercussions that inevitably follow illicit unions such as ours. But what woman ever is?
I was on the verge of telling Adam of my condition when he rose from my bed this morning. But I said nothing at all as I watched him move about the room getting dressed, my very own animated Greek sculpture, as well-proportioned and muscular as those at the Louvre. Whenever I have asked Adam to pose for me he has refused, claiming he is far too busy to remain immobile for any length of time. Far too modest, I think.
Before going down to his office, he lingered at my bedside as is his wont, stroking my hand and playing with my fingers, and I was about to tell him again. But again I held back. I needed a little more time to become accustomed to this dramatic change in my life. And I wanted to come up with a plan to deal with it.
I remained in bed after Adam left me, contemplating what to do. I studied the cracks in the ceiling, as if there were answers in the pattern they made. Such a notion as that would not seem ridiculous to my friend Mawuli. According to him, messages can be read in all sorts of fissures—in timber, rocks, pottery, or wheresoever they appear. Of course Mawuli found it amusing to hoax me with tales as tall as he was, and I’ll never know which of his claims, if any, were true. My sole regret in leaving France is that I shall never see his dear old face again. At first sight I had found Mawuli quite ferocious-looking, but once I became used to his scarred visage I saw in it deep intelligence, compassion, and humor. Indeed, Mawuli was the only person I felt comfortable with in Cannes during my miserable marriage to Pelletier. My husband claimed that Mawuli was just his manservant, but I observed that he also served as Pelletier’s physician of sorts, mixing up strange concoctions for him when he was ailing. It was apparent to me that Pelletier held the African in the highest regard, for my husband was always at his best behavior when Mawuli was present. Never did Pelletier so much as raise his voice to me, much less his hand, when Mawuli was there to witness. Even so, I sensed Mawuli was fully aware of Pelletier’s many cruelties toward me. I think that is why Mawuli always did his best to entertain me with his fantastical stories and claims. Such as being able to read messages in fissures.
The only message I could read in the ceiling cracks this morning was that it was time to hire a plasterer. But I have no money to pay one at present. A good portion of what I received from the sale of my diamond ring went to purchase my passage home, and the small amount I have left is quickly diminishing. Portrait commissions have been few and far between, but I still maintain the hope that I will someday support myself with my paints and brushes.
Therefore, my immediate plan was to get myself out of bed and into my studio. And a good thing I was dressed and at work before nine, for who should come calling but Mr. and Mrs. Ruggles. The burly taverner apologized for their early visit, but of course I did not mind in the least. I smelt a commission and sure enough, as soon as I’d ushered them into my studio, Mr. Ruggles proposed that I paint his wife’s likeness. As I regarded the plump little woman, she made a great show of modesty, shaking her head and covering her face with her hands, but I could tell she was delighted with the prospect. So I quoted as high a price as I dared for an oil portrait, and Mr. Ruggles readily agreed to it. And because he had not quibbled, I readily agreed myself when he asked if I could paint Mrs. Ruggles in their private quarters at the tavern so that she would be close at hand when needed downstairs.
“Roos will be more calm at home, too,” Mrs. Ruggles put in.
“Roos?” said I.
“My parrot,” Mrs. Ruggles said. “I want her in the painting.”
“Will that cost extra?” Mr. Ruggles said.
I had half a mind to charge more. I am no Audubon, after all. But I rather like Mr. and Mrs. Ruggles and told them I would include the bird gratis. They, in turn, told me I could take meals at the Sun Tavern gratis whilst I worked there. It was a happy arrangement all around, and we shook hands on it. Mrs. Ruggles’s hand was rough and chapped from housework, yet decorated with an assortment of flashy rings. She smelled of lye soap and flowery perfume. I told her I would come to the tavern at her convenience, and she suggested tomorrow afternoon.
After Mr. and Mrs. Ruggles left I got right to work stretching and preparing the sizeable canvas they had requested for the portrait. I would not be painting upon it until I did preliminary sketches, but the primer needed time to dry.
No sooner had I completed this task than it was time to attend Ezra Tripp’s burial service. Adam and I walked together up the post road to what townsfolk call the “Newcomer Cemetery,” established when our ancestral graveyard behind the Meetinghouse ran out of space. I was surprised to see a good number of people already gathered around the open grave, for the Tripps had kept to themselves since moving to Plumford and made few acquaintances here. It turned out that except for Constable Beers, Justice Phyfe, and a woman who was Mrs. Tripp’s neighbor, the mourners were from Concord. Henry was there, along with Mrs. Thoreau, her two daughters, Lidian Emerson, and five or six men I did not recognize. I surmise they had come to honor Tripp for his work in the Underground Railroad, although there was no direct mention of that.
Henry did make a short speech, however, concerning our right and duty to resist our government when its laws, like those supporting the enslavement of a sixth of the country’s population, are unquestionably evil. He went on to say that the majority of men are without moral judgment, serving the government like machines with their bodies as soldiers and jailers and constables. He looked right at Beers when he stated this. And then he looked at Justice Phyfe and added that most politicians and officeholders, serving the government with their heads, rarely make any moral distinctions and are as likely to serve the devil as God.
Justice Phyfe lost no time rebuking Henry, declaring that he had come to Tripp’s burial out of sympathy for the murdered man and his family, not to be insulted by a rabble-rousing abolitionist from another town. He then offered his condolences to Mrs. Tripp, patted her young son Billy’s head, returned his high glossy hat to his own equine head, and marched out of the cemetery like a haughty racehorse. Beers followed in his wake like the ass he is.
Apparently the Tripps did not belong to any congregation, for no minister was present to give a benediction. Instead, Mrs. Thoreau led us in the hymn “Amazing Grace.” The gravediggers moved in after that and began shoveling soil into the grave pit. The dull th
ump of the clods hitting the coffin lid was a most depressing sound after the uplifting notes of the song we’d just sung. Henry went to Mrs. Tripp and told her that a collection had been taken up in Concord to pay for her husband’s burial and a mourners’ repast at the Sun Tavern. She seemed much relieved to hear it.
When our group arrived at the Sun, the men went directly to the taproom, and Mrs. Ruggles ushered us women, along with little Billy, into the ladies’ parlor. Festoons of fresh balsam fir, smelling of strawberries, hung from the rafters, and delftware pots of ferns and ivies were displayed on the mantelpiece and polished tabletops. The windows were graced with stiffly starched curtains. Observing our appreciative glances, Mrs. Ruggles beamed.
“No tobacco or nasty spitboxes allowed in here!” she declared proudly. “That goes for dogs too.” But apparently it did not go for parrots. When one flew into the parlor, making us gasp, Mrs. Ruggles clapped her hands in delight. “Here is my Roos come to be greeting you ladies,” she said.
The parrot, no doubt the very creature I’d agreed to paint, made dreadful screeching sounds as it swooped around our heads, and I for one was thankful I had not yet removed my bonnet. Mrs. Ruggles was greatly amused by Roos’s performance, and so was Billy. He had been solemn and silent during the burial service, but now he hooted with laughter.
“Come to Mama, Roos,” Mrs. Ruggles said and patted her upper arm. The bird did as bid, sinking its talons into Mrs. Ruggles’s sloping shoulder. “Please to be sitted,” she told us, gesturing to a large round table covered with a spotless white cloth and set with pretty, rose-patterned crockery. “I bring to you refreshments.”
She returned shortly thereafter (sans Roos I was happy to see), carrying a tole tray laden with glass tumblers, a painted jug containing cold lemonade, and a heaping plate of what she called Dutch pancakes but looked like French crêpes to me. She offered to bring us a decanter of spiced wine too, or perhaps a plate of meats, but cautioned that it would cost extra. I would not have minded a dram of wine splashed in my lemonade, but since none of the others spoke up, neither did I.
After Mrs. Ruggles left us, we all remained silent for a moment or two, and simply regarded Mrs. Tripp with sympathy. She did not seem inclined to eat or drink anything, so neither did we. Billy, however, dug right into a portion of pancakes and slurped up two tumblers of lemonade. When Mrs. Thoreau congratulated him on his fine appetite, he declared that his big brother Jared could eat twice as much as he and twice as fast. He then proceeded to tell us that Jared had set off for Ohio.
“He left two weeks ago, so I expect he’s already there,” Mrs. Tripp said, speaking up for the first time. She pressed her napkin to Billy’s mouth. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, honey.”
Billy wrinkled his snub nose and twisted away from his mother. But it seemed he was done talking and went back to eating. For a child under four feet tall, he truly had an amazing appetite.
“Food can be a great comfort during times of loss,” Mrs. Thoreau said. “Poor dear boy, to lose his father so suddenly.”
“He weren’t my father!” Billy shouted, ejecting pancake bits as he spoke.
Once again Mrs. Tripp pressed her napkin to his mouth, more firmly this time. “I told you to mind your manners, son. And since you can’t, you must leave the table. Go wait for me on the Green.” Billy seemed more than happy to comply and ran out of the room without a fare-thee-well to any of us. Mrs. Tripp looked about the table sheepishly. “I am sorry for my boy’s rude behavior, but he is only ten.”
“I should like to meet a boy who wasn’t rude at that age,” Mrs. Thoreau said, and we all smiled and relaxed.
The conversation lagged, however, for none of us really knew Mrs. Tripp or her husband. Usually Lidian Emerson can find apt things to say to anyone in any situation, but today she was uncharacteristically quiet. Neither of the Thoreau sisters are great talkers, nor am I much good at chitchat, and Mrs. Tripp’s neighbor seemed content to remain attentively mute. So it was left to Mrs. Thoreau to fill in the gaps of silence. Fortunately, Henry’s mother has a real gift for gab and a most sociable nature. And she deliberately kept to general topics of the blandest, most uncontroversial nature. For instance, knitting.
“Your shawl has a very interesting leaf pattern, Mrs. Tripp,” she commented. “I have never seen one such as that before.”
Mrs. Tripp managed a smile. “Why, thank you kindly for noticing it, Mrs. Thoreau. I concocted the pattern myself.”
She adjusted the dapple-gray shawl about her narrow shoulders and proceeded to describe the intricacies of knitting such a garment. As she went on about purling stitches together and skipping and slipping them, I own I had to clamp my teeth together to stifle a yawn. It occurred to me that Mrs. Tripp was as naturally loquacious as Mrs. Thoreau, and her long, solemn silence had been brought about by circumstances rather than inclination.
“It is a most difficult pattern to execute,” she blithely continued, “and I made sure to try it out on a smaller article first. I knitted myself a neckerchief in the same leaf design, and I must say it came out quite well. But Mr. Tripp did not approve of the color. He told me I was far too old to be sporting a neckerchief of such a bright red. So I gave it away to a young woman who was embarking on a long journey and had need for a warm scarf. And just as well that I did, for I’ll be wearing widow’s weeds from now on. I only wish I had kept those I wore to mourn my first husband. Now I’ll have to buy a new crape hat and a weeping veil and dye all my clothes black. Even this shawl.”
Dyeing her lovely shawl black seemed to be the last straw that Mrs. Tripp could bear, for she began to weep most plan-gently. We all did our best to comfort her but to no avail. She left with her neighbor soon thereafter, intent on fetching Billy and going home.
“Well, now we can talk more freely,” Sophia Thoreau said as soon as they were gone.
Her sister, Helen, nodded. “Best not to bring up the Underground Railroad in front of people who may be unsympathetic.”
“Yes, Mrs. Tripp seems most unsympathetic,” I said.
“I was referring to Mrs. Tripp’s neighbor,” Helen said. “We don’t know where she stands in regard to abolition. But we have been informed by people we trust that Mrs. Tripp is a fervent abolitionist. She and her first husband were most active in the UGRR back in Ohio, and when she removed here with her second husband, she convinced him to become active in it too.”
“I am amazed to hear it,” I said. “Upon first meeting Mrs. Tripp, I got the impression that she was completely against Mr. Tripp’s activities as a Railroad Conductor.”
“Perhaps that was the impression she wished to give you because you were a stranger to her. My daughters and I were also most circumspect with you upon first meeting, if you recall,” Mrs. Thoreau said. “It goes against my nature to be so reticent, yet the nature of what we do demands it. But now that I can speak freely, Julia dear, I wish to express my admiration of your resolute actions the other night. Henry told me how you prevented Mr. Cooper from being arrested and conducted him and his family to Acton. You did well!” She reached across the table and gave my hand a hearty squeeze.
Mrs. Ruggles returned to the parlor then, to inquire if we were in need of anything more to eat or drink. We said we were not, and she made a joke about Roos eating more than we did. She began clearing the table, making it plain that she did not wish us to linger, and we left her to her task.
The stage to Concord was waiting in front of the tavern, and I shook hands with Mrs. Thoreau and her two daughters in parting. When I then took Lidian Emerson’s long, cool hand, I held onto it and inquired softly if she was ailing.
“Oh, I am well enough,” she told me. “Considering.” I gave her a questioning look, and she pulled me aside as the Thoreau ladies boarded the stage. “I am leaving for Plymouth later today with my children. It will be best for all concerned.”
“I do not understand, Lidian.”
“Nor do I,” she murmured in a low voice. “I am
very confused. When I married Mr. Emerson I vowed to devote my every waking hour to him. And I have done so for thirteen years. But over these last nine months, I fear another man has begun to replace my husband in my children’s affections and in my very own heart.”
Had she not seen this coming when she asked Henry to leave his beloved cabin on Walden Pond and move into the Emerson home whilst her husband traveled abroad? Perhaps not, I thought, regarding her pale, virtuous countenance. If ever there were a saint in human form, it was Lidian Emerson. But human she was, and so was Henry.
“I have no wise counsel to offer you,” I told her, “for it seems I am incapable of behaving wisely myself when it comes to matters of the heart.”
Mrs. Emerson nodded. “I confess you have always seemed to me too impetuous, Julia. But now I better understand how strong emotions, even when they are misplaced, can sweep one into the most impulsive and wayward of actions. My only recourse is to flee from the temptation. I shall not return to Concord until my husband comes back in August.”
“Poor Henry,” I said, for I knew how much he cared for Lidian and her three children.
“Henry will be fine,” Lidian said most firmly. “He is the most self-reliant man alive.” With that she hurried to the waiting stagecoach.
ADAM
Friday, May 19
After Ezra Tripp’s burial we men separated from the ladies and settled at a table in the Sun taproom. No longer concerned about offending female sensibilities, the other men felt free to ask Henry and me to divulge the gory details of Tripp’s ruthless murder. Although they were all active in the Cause, and two were Conductors in the Railroad, we deflected their questions and revealed nothing to them. We have always made it our policy whilst investigating murder to tell others as little as possible.