Mr. Emerson's Wife

by Amy Belding Brown

  I found Lucy in her chamber by the fire, mending one of Sophie’s black woolen stockings. When she saw me, she leaped up, spilling the stocking and spool of thread to the floor.

  “What’s happened, Liddy? You look like a ghost!”

  I pressed one hand to my neck and held out the letter. My voice, when I spoke, was hoarse. “Mr. Emerson has asked me to marry him.”

  She raised her hand to her mouth and her eyes widened in shock. “Mr. Emerson?” she whispered.

  I nodded and took a deep breath. “It’s very flattering. But I cannot accept.”

  “Cannot accept!” Lucy’s cry reminded me of the mewl of an injured kitten. “What do you mean? Why couldn’t you accept a proposal? Especially from someone as remarkable as Mr. Emerson? I can’t think of anyone who would suit you better.”

  “Lucy, I hardly know the man. We’ve had two conversations. I can’t imagine what precipitated his offer. Perhaps he was drunk.”

  “Drunk! Mr. Emerson?” She tore the page from my hand and examined it. “A drunken man doesn’t write such fine words! If only Charles had written such lines to me!”

  I turned away at the mention of Charles, for I could not bear her look of mingled loss and love. “You know I have no desire to marry,” I said, crossing to the window overlooking my snow-covered garden. “I’m entirely satisfied with my life here in Plymouth.” I gazed down at the hummocks of snow. Buried deep beneath the white mounds were my roses, waiting for summer’s warmth and sun so they could bloom. I turned back to my sister. “You know better than any how poorly suited I am to marriage. My spirit is too independent. It’s why I refused Nathaniel’s proposal.”

  “Nathaniel was not your equal in intellect. But Mr. Emerson is! Liddy, imagine what it would be like to spend each day of your life by his side, discussing all manner of philosophies and issues! Meeting and conversing with his famous friends! Why, your home would be the center of philosophy in New England! You would have brilliant soirees every night of the week!”

  I could imagine the scene she described all too well. I had imagined it dozens of times since Mr. Emerson’s first lecture. I sighed. “I’ve never been able to submit gracefully to a man’s will. Even Father, when he was alive, couldn’t make me bend.”

  “Mr. Emerson isn’t asking you to submit! He merely begs you to love him!”

  “Yes. Begs me to love him. But what man understands the enormity of that request? Or comprehends the nature of love’s dependence?”

  “Surely if any man does it is Mr. Emerson.”

  I stared at her. She was right. Mr. Emerson was unlike any man I’d ever met. He was not afraid of new ideas and new ways nor did he discount his own flaws. Lucy’s face was flushed. I wondered if she had feelings for Mr. Emerson herself.

  “So what would you have me do? Write back and accept his proposal as if I were a silly girl without a thought in my head?”

  “Of course not! I’d never expect that of you! But you could at least welcome his offer to come and discuss the matter.”

  I looked out the window again, at the snowy drifts that covered my garden and the house roofs beyond descending in gray slate ranks toward the harbor.

  “As a courtesy, if nothing else,” Lucy said.

  “I’m too set in my ways to marry.” I slid the letter into my pocket, as if I might put it out of my own mind by hiding it from my sister’s view.

  “Set ways are a challenge to God.” Lucy repeated an aphorism our mother had often recited when we were children. “Perhaps you should pray on it before you respond. Seek God’s guidance.”

  “Of course.” I felt the sting of her words, for I had not thought to pray about the matter. “In fact, I will pray this very hour and then I’ll write to Mr. Emerson.” Yet my words were bolder than my heart, for, as I returned to my chamber there flashed in my mind the image of myself dressed as a bride that I’d seen in the looking glass. What if the vision had come directly from God?

  All my life I’ve been alert to portents and visions, convinced that God speaks as surely through strange occurrences as He does in Scripture. Yet there is always the difficult matter of discernment. Thus, it was not until Lucy’s words cautioned me to examine my heart through prayer that I knelt in my chamber to beg God for clarity in the matter of Mr. Emerson’s proposal.

  Sometimes God does not answer us in full, but merely nudges us in the direction of His choosing. When I rose from my knees an hour later, it was without the clarity I’d sought. God’s will was clouded and elusive. And it was in that state of uncertainty that I took up my pen and wrote to Mr. Emerson, inviting him to come to Plymouth and discuss in person his astonishing offer of marriage.

  HE CAME on Friday evening in the midst of a thaw, so that when he entered the parlor the first thing he did was apologize for his muddied shoes and splattered coat hem. Anna took his coat and I took his hand. He thanked me for letting him come and then stood looking at me for some time, simply gazing into my eyes, as if he might read the answer to his petition there. But that answer was not yet mine to give.

  I invited him into the parlor and offered him tea and cake, both of which he accepted with the eagerness of a boy. He sat on the sofa and I took the chair opposite him, which I had carefully placed some distance away. I sensed that, without care, I would quickly fall under the spell of his gaze and all the questions I’d so carefully prepared would fly from my mind like a flock of startled sparrows.

  “I trust you had a pleasant journey,” I said, stirring milk into my tea. “Your carriage didn’t get mired in the road, I hope?”

  “Not even once. Mere mud could not have stopped me in any case. I felt borne on a heavenly chariot.” He smiled and I felt myself awash in heat. Looking at him, I could not think how to begin. There seemed to be no graceful way to move to the question at hand. I drew in a deep breath and put down my teacup.

  “This is an awkward meeting,” I said. “But I must know why you proposed to me. We don’t know each other well, and I cannot fathom why you would choose me out of dozens of women—”

  “There are not dozens,” he said, smiling gently.

  “Nonetheless, your letter came to me as a bolt of lightning out of a clear sky. Nothing in our former conversations led me to expect it. And there’s much in it I do not understand.”

  He looked down into his cup, as if studying its dark contents. “I am not an impulsive man, Lydia. But the circumstances of my life have taught me not to postpone an action once I’ve made up my mind. I’m convinced that we’d make an excellent marriage.”

  “I’m flattered that you think so,” I said. “Yet marriage demands great sacrifices of a woman. It’s not an equal yoke.”

  He lifted his gaze; his eyes were blazing. “It would be up to us to make it one. This is a new age! Our marriage would not be bound by the old conventions. We would be companions—equal partners—in a quest for beauty and truth.”

  “Your words and thoughts rouse me,” I said, smiling. And though it was not intended as a smile of encouragement, I believe he took it as such. “I won’t deny that. Yet I fit well into my present pattern of life. I will forsake it only if you can assure me that you love me and need me enough to justify the sacrifice.”

  “I don’t think I’m capable of assuring you more forcefully than I already have. I want you to be my wife. I’ll answer any question you ask.”

  My eyes focused on the tops of his knees, which pressed against his trousers like small mountain peaks under the dark brown cloth. And then, because I could not continue shamelessly staring at his legs and because I knew that looking at him would dazzle and scatter my thoughts, I closed my eyes.

  He answered every question with what seemed to be complete candor. He appeared to have the utmost forbearance, and expressed no impatience at my repetitious and long interrogation. When I had finally run out of queries, I opened my eyes.

  “The truth is, Mr. Emerson, that I shrink from the labors and cares of managing a home. If you seek a house
keeper, I am not the wife for you.”

  He laughed. “We’ll manage together. A house is of small importance. What we’ve discovered in one another is a confluence of minds.” He paused. “And of hearts as well, I hope.”

  “Hearts.” Heat suffused my body and my shoulders ached the way they did when I had been dancing for hours. I looked at him and smiled carefully. “Still, marriage is a risk for me. What if we don’t find ourselves as compatible as you imagine?”

  “I do not believe that will happen, but if it does, I assure you I will keep my vows. Ultimately, I must answer to myself and God.”

  “As must we all,” I murmured.

  He drained his cup and put it on the low table between us. “Perhaps it will reassure you to know that I’ve been married before. I don’t take marriage lightly.”

  “Married before? I had not realized.”

  He stared into his empty cup. “Ellen died of consumption four years ago. She was very young.” I thought he was going to say more, but he continued staring down and did not continue.

  “I’m sorry.” My heart twisted in sympathy, for his face was a well of grief. “Are there—?” I did not know how to ask this gracefully, but I had to know. “Do you have children, Mr. Emerson?”

  “No. Unfortunately. Ellen was not strong enough to bear a child.” He raised his head—finally—to look at me again. “But I have hope that I might be a father. Should you accept me.”

  Children. My heart twisted again. My one regret in remaining single was that I’d never know the joy of holding my own child in my arms. I grew suddenly uncomfortable, as if the fire behind me had blazed up and scorched the back of my neck. I shifted forward. “Tell me about Ellen. Do I resemble her?”

  “No,” he said softly. “Nor would I want you to.” He moved, and for a moment I thought he was going to rise, yet he remained seated. “Ellen is dead and in the past, and my life must go on. And I would like you to be my companion on the rest of the journey.” He smiled—an infinitely sad smile, rooted in grief.

  His sorrow moved me more profoundly than his words. Thus it was not until that moment that I clearly perceived God’s hand at work in our association. I rose from my chair and spoke words I had not prepared—had not imagined I would ever say to any man—convinced that in answering Mr. Emerson, I was also answering God.

  “Yes,” I said. “I will be your wife.”

  4

  Conversations

  Connections which are likely to lead a woman into a sphere of life to which she has been unaccustomed, to introduce her to new and arduous duties—and to form a violent contrast to her previous life—should not be entered into, except at a mature age, and with great certainty that affection is strong enough to endure such trials.

  —LYDIA MARIA CHILD

  He did not kiss me.

  I had expected he would, for it is the custom when a couple pledges to marry. Instead, he took my hand and gently squeezed it.

  “My Queen.” He smiled. “I’m deeply pleased.” Then, instead of embracing me, he said, “I have a fancy. Forgive me if I presume too much, but will you allow me to call you Lydian?”

  “Lydian?” I thought suddenly of my baptism. Surely he could not know that in giving me a second name, he so vividly reflected that experience. Perhaps it was another sign of God’s imprint on our bond. “It has a pleasing sound. But why?”

  “The name suits you, with its twin connotations of musical harmony and beautiful ancient cities. It’s my notion—a thought that struck me after our first meeting, in fact—that your parents misnamed you. Lydia is a common name, after all. And you are the least common of women.”

  “Lydian,” I said again, testing the sound. There was a peculiar sweetness to it, a softening of the familiar syllables. “Your words are flattering. Yet the fact remains that you wish to take my given name and make it into a modifier.”

  He laughed. “You’d have me defend even the smallest point, I see. My intellect will soon be the keenest in New England when daily sharpened on your tenacity.” He tilted his head. “Would you like it better if we changed the spelling? Thus rendering an adjective into the most melodic of nouns?”

  “I might consider it.”

  He studied my face. “Perhaps the memory of those who named you Lydia is still too tender? I intend no disrespect to your father.”

  “No.” My hand was still in his, but now I was the one who clasped. “I want you to call me Lidian.”

  He kissed my hand before releasing it. “And I’d very much like it if you addressed me as Waldo.”

  “Waldo?” I tried the word on my tongue, tested it against the back of my teeth, but it felt whimsical and foolish. “No, I’m afraid I cannot.”

  “Cannot?” He looked bewildered. Clearly he hadn’t expected a refusal. “Why not?”

  “It lacks respect.”

  “We’re engaged. Surely our respect for each other isn’t bound to titles and formalities. Mr. Emerson is so formal. It lacks warmth.”

  “Warmth is no more bound to a name than respect.” I smiled, seeing that he perceived my meaning, for he made a hollow sound that I took for a laugh.

  I realized, though, that I’d touched a nerve, that my resistance discomfited him. I heard my mother’s voice, scolding me for the sin of obstinacy, pressing me to relent to this man’s will. But I couldn’t make myself say the assenting words and agree to call him Waldo. My tongue behaved as if it had cleaved to my teeth.

  After a moment, he said, “Think on it. I won’t press you to a hasty decision on such a small matter when you’ve so recently pleased me with an eventful one. There will be time.” His smile then embraced me, if his arms did not.

  When he departed, I sat by the parlor fire, watching the mantel candles burn down on their prickets. After a while Lucy came down, her shoes ticking on the stairs. She stood in the doorway and I watched her expectant smile collapse around her mouth when she saw me.

  “You refused him, didn’t you?” She moved into the room, hands whispering across her dress. “I thought perhaps, since he stayed so long …” Her voice slid into the hiss of the guttering candles.

  I looked up at her dark brows, so creased with worry. “No,” I said. “I accepted his proposal. I told him I’d be honored to be his wife.”

  “Liddy!” Lucy swept me from my chair, the knob of her right elbow pushing into my side, her long fingers compressing my spine. “How wonderful! I’m so happy!” She let me go and looked into my face. “But why the long face? I’d think you’d be in raptures!”

  “I don’t know what I feel,” I said. “I imagined an engagement would be different.”

  “Different in what way?” Lucy was doing all she could to tame her excitement, and though her face showed sympathetic concern, she could not keep her eyes from dancing.

  “More fervor, perhaps—isn’t a passionate abandon customary?”

  “Oh, Liddy, you’re just frightened!” Lucy’s arms surrounded me again, dragging me close. “I never thought I’d see you scared of anything. I’m the fearful one! But it’s natural—entirely normal—to be anxious about marriage. It will pass, I promise you. It’s only temporary. Soon you’ll be glowing.”

  I disengaged myself by turning sideways and stepping out of Lucy’s arms. “I’m very tired. I’m going to bed.” I moved toward the hall, my feet gliding across the carpet without my willing it, taking me away without a sound.

  Yet, at the door, I turned, and whispered, “Lucy, what have I done?”

  I WOKE AT DAWN from a dream I couldn’t remember, but the dream’s feeling remained—a sweet relief, an impression of assurance that I had been right to accept Mr. Emerson. My doubts of the night before had evaporated, and I laid them at fatigue’s door.

  Late that morning a letter came while I was ironing. I recognized Mr. Emerson’s writing at once, and hurried to my chamber, where I opened the envelope with trembling fingers. As though he had perceived my confused sense of deprivation, Mr. Emerson began by addr
essing his failure to demonstrate any sign of passion. He explained that his lack of ardor was actually a sign of the permanence of our relationship. He was convinced that our marriage would be founded on truth and universal love. The rest—the physical and verbal expressions of personal love—would come in due time. He promised that, if his schedule permitted, he would travel to Plymouth on Friday. Then he raised the issue of where we would live. He was resolved, he wrote, to make his home in Concord.

  I read the letter three times, focusing on each sentence and its meaning. His devotion to Concord troubled me. I could not imagine living anywhere but Plymouth.

  “But think of the influence you will have!” Lucy told me later that afternoon. We were walking back to Winslow House after calling on Mrs. Hedge, who had broken her leg in a fall on the cellar stairs. “To be the partner of a man who has the ear of multitudes! Why, you were made for this, Lydia!”

  “I have no desire for influence,” I said. “But I admit I’m excited by prospect of the evening conversations we’ll have together.”

  I had not yet mentioned Mr. Emerson’s fixation on Concord. Nor his alteration of my name. A great deal remained to be understood.

  HE CAME on Friday in the middle of the afternoon. When I met him at the door, he kissed my hand. His lips were soft—they tickled like feathers against my skin. “My dear Lidian,” he said, “you look very well.”

  I yielded to his smile—something at my center went soft and pliant. I wondered if I might be in love. We walked down to the harbor and I pointed out the stony circle embedded in Hedge’s Wharf.

  “It’s the base of the Forefather’s Rock. When they moved it to Town Square, it broke in two.”

  Mr. Emerson studied it, pressing his toe against the rock’s edge. “Perhaps that break is a metaphorical truth,” he said. “Mr. Webster made a monument of a myth in his oration of 1820. Surely the Pilgrims must have considered such a boulder an encumbrance rather than a stepping-stone.”