Mr. Emerson's Wife

by Amy Belding Brown

I looked at him. “Its symbolism is its significance. It’s strange that you should mention Daniel Webster. I once had the honor of dancing with him.”

  He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Indeed. That’s quite a triumph. And what sort of dancer did you find him?”

  “Adequate.”

  He laughed. “I’m sure his talents are far superior to mine.”

  “Do you dance?”

  “Alas, no. I’ve heard of your dancing ability and you’d find my poor talents laughable, I’m sure.”

  “Perhaps I could teach you.” A gust of wind ruffled my bonnet and made the ribbons stream out over my shoulder.

  “I’d rather not display my inadequacies until we’re better acquainted.” His smile graced me again, encouraging mine. I felt washed in it, honored. It was small wonder people acted dazed in his presence.

  He took my arm and we continued walking along Water Street, following the curve of the shore. The storehouses and offices rose on both sides of the street, but we left the wharves behind us as we walked north. The sun was beginning to slide behind Burial Hill, throwing long spears of light over the water. A recent thaw had freed the ships from ice and they rocked smoothly at their moorings. I pointed to one with a dark green hull.

  “That’s the Columbus. One of my father’s ships. You can’t see the figurehead from here, but it’s finely wrought.” I turned to Mr. Emerson. “The cape billows as if a sea wind were lifting it. I used to think Columbus a very sad man, though. The carver made him look so wistful, as if he were longing for Spain.”

  “You have an uncommon way of looking at things, Lidian.” He was staring at me, the way a man stares at a complex puzzle he cannot cipher.

  “If you seek the common attitude in a companion, you ought not to spend time with me.” Fear lurked just beneath my bantering tone. Perhaps I had already lost what I’d never sought to gain.

  He laughed. “You misunderstand me. I mean that as a compliment. I consider myself most fortunate that you accepted my proposal and I’m earnestly seeking a home in Concord so that we may soon be man and wife.”

  I felt instantly ill at ease. His gaze made me blush, but his words alarmed me more. I dreaded the thought of leaving my home. I slid my arm from his and walked on, just ahead of him. “You still wish us to live in Concord, then? I had hoped that you might consider Plymouth.”

  “My dear Lidian.”

  He had stopped and stood waiting for me to face him. A shaft of sunlight illuminated his somber expression. “I thought I explained in my letter. Concord has cast her spell on me, and I can’t leave her if I’m to pursue the scholar’s life I desire. Plymouth”—he swept his hand toward Cole’s Hill, and I followed his gesture to the twin chimneys of my home—“is lovely, but it’s full of shops and streets. I require communion with nature—an expanse of fields and trees.”

  “But I’ve lived here all my life,” I said. “All my family are here. I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Especially not in a remote country village. How will we find like-minded people?”

  “They’ll come to us!” His eyes flashed. “We’ll create a country haven for scholars and philosophers! Our home—think of it Lidian!—will be a center of refinement and transcendent thought!” He reached for me and for a panicked moment I feared he’d forgotten himself and was about to embrace me there on the street. Instead he scooped both of my gloved hands into his. “I have so many plans for us!”

  I caught the spark of his excitement and felt a responsive thrill. I pictured myself standing at his side in a doorway, greeting philosophers and scholars. I turned to look at the water, though he had not released my hands. The sun had fully retreated and the sea assumed a gray cast—a sheet of wrinkled pewter.

  “I promise I’ll woo you to Concord,” Mr. Emerson said, pulling me back to face him. “We’ll make plans for you to visit as soon as possible. I want you to meet my mother and brother.”

  “Perhaps in the spring. Winter travel is so chancy.”

  “Early spring, then. March.”

  I laughed. “March is hardly spring, Mr. Emerson.”

  “It will be our spring, Lidian. We’ll make it so.”

  IN THE LAST WEEK of March I made my pilgrimage to Concord. Mr. Emerson drove a rented buggy that wobbled because of a loose back wheel, so that our comfort was as precarious as my emotions. The journey lasted nearly eight hours, through rolling fields that became snow-covered as we traveled west. The towns drew farther apart, and the houses shrank in size and charm. Once Plymouth and Boston were behind us Mr. Emerson grew loquacious, and I saw that he drew great ease from natural places.

  “What we’ll have in Concord, Lidian, is a kingdom of ideas. The wind in the trees and the melody of streams will be our concerts. Our shops will be the woods and meadows. Fashion and social conceit will hold no sway in our realm. Thought alone shall reign.”

  “A pleasant notion,” I said. “But Concord’s not the only location for such a kingdom. Plymouth isn’t all streets and shops. Nor is it without philosophers.”

  “Indeed it’s not.” He smiled. “I consider you chief among them. And I intend to keep you by my side.” He reached over and touched my hand.

  I felt a curious sadness. Mr. Emerson’s small attentions both delighted and unsettled me. Though I’d grown fond of the idea of marriage, I was haunted by the loss of my independence, which I deeply cherished. “What puzzles me,” I said, “is why you’ve settled on Concord. You were raised in Boston. Surely you’re at home in the city.”

  “You forget that I used to visit my grandmother every summer and that my grandfather was Concord’s first patriot in the War of Independence. My roots are deep in Concord soil.”

  “Still, that doesn’t seem sufficient reason to tear me from my roots.”

  Mr. Emerson’s face became suddenly solemn—an expression I found oddly chilling—perhaps because his smile disappeared so completely—the smile that was otherwise always present. “I’m convinced you’ll soon be persuaded to my point of view, Lidian. Charles himself will convert you.” Charles, Mr. Emerson’s youngest brother, was studying law under a Concord judge, and planned to be married to the judge’s daughter as soon as he established himself. “Wait until you meet him! You won’t want to be separated from him any more than I do!” His smile returned and I felt an astonishing relief. “I’ve often entertained the thought that we might all live together.”

  “Together?”

  “Charles and Elizabeth, Mother, you, and I.”

  I stared at him. Did he truly mean to begin our marriage in such a large company? Did he expect me to keep house for so many? “That’s a great many to care for,” I said. “Especially when I’m used to only one.”

  “They won’t be a care, Lidian! They’ll be a community of like minds, surrounded by the satisfactions of nature.”

  “A community doesn’t have to live under the same roof. I’m already part of such a community in Plymouth. And I abhor the thought of being parted from my sister.”

  “Then she must move to Concord,” he said cheerfully. “We’ll find her a suitable house—it will be our first order of business!”

  I looked down and picked at a thread on the back of my right glove. “My sister cannot afford to live anywhere but Plymouth. She has no funds. Nor do I, for that matter.” I glanced at him and perceived the effort he made to conceal his surprise—his eyes shifting down, then sideways, his long jaw working.

  “I thought, because of the house you lived in—”

  “Winslow House came to us through our grandfather. It’s in sad need of repair. We’ll need to install a new roof before the year’s out.”

  “Still, your father was a shipowner. Surely he left you an inheritance?”

  “He did. A comfortable one. But last fall Lucy’s husband took it and fled. Where, we do not know.” Shame scalded my cheeks, but I forced myself to look at him. “We have a small bequest from our mother, but it barely meets our expenses. Without my help, Lucy cannot properl
y care for Frank and Sophia.”

  “I wasn’t aware of this.”

  “Everyone in town knows. I assumed George told you.” My mouth went dry. “I intended no deceit, Mr. Emerson. I didn’t imagine my marriage portion would be a concern. If you had expectations—”

  “I have no expectations.” His words were clear, almost hard, as if they crystallized in the air between us as he spoke. “Only that we share that love of the mind which drew me to you. And I won’t part you from your sister. Lucy must live with us in Concord. A large house will be our first requirement.” He glanced at the sky. “I detest talking of financial matters.” He drew a long breath before looking at me. “I’ll soon receive an inheritance from my late wife. One which will provide me with the means to pursue my philosophy and support a family as well. As long as we’re frugal.”

  “I’m well acquainted with economy, Mr. Emerson. But have you considered the ministry? There’s no nobler profession and it will yield a steady income.”

  “I’ve left the pulpit for good.” His voice was firm. “I won’t return.”

  “Surely you would if you required the income.”

  He nodded. “I go where my understanding takes me. I can no longer hold to foolish, outmoded doctrines.”

  “Foolish? What doctrines do you consider foolish?”

  He hesitated a moment before answering. “The divinity of Jesus. The sanctity of the Lord’s Supper.”

  “The Lord’s Supper?”

  “I don’t think it’s necessary. It devolves upon the authority of Christ. It’s my view that he didn’t establish the church—or any of its rites—to glorify himself. Nor did he even intend them to be permanent. Read the Scriptures. He continually pointed to God as the source of creation and redemption. Yet the church persists in making an idol of Christ. Thus—in my view—obscuring God.”

  As always, when Mr. Emerson shared his thoughts with me, I felt a rush of blood to my temples and a zeal for debate.

  “But the Lord’s Supper has the power to transform us,” I said. “The bread and wine are a window to God’s love.”

  “But that window could be anything, Lidian! The washing of feet, the singing of hymns, even a walk in the woods. It’s not the bread and wine that make the experience holy. It’s the awareness of intimacy with the divine.”

  A jay darted from the trees, shrieking, and Mr. Emerson turned his head to follow its flight. We were passing through a forested hollow—dark trees rose on both sides of the road.

  “Yet it’s surely the clearest window,” I said, eager to pursue the conversation. “I cannot believe you left the ministry solely because of this.”

  He glanced at me, his eyes bright, appreciative. “You’re right. There are other reasons.” He sighed. “I must tell you about Ellen.”

  The skin of my face felt suddenly brittle. “Perhaps this is not the time.” Though I’d been profoundly curious about his wife, I was not at all sure that I wanted to hear what he wished to tell me.

  “I fear there will be no better. I’ve known for weeks that I must speak of her. I must employ what occasion I can.”

  I carefully rearranged my hands in my lap. “Then I’m ready to hear.”

  He stared ahead at the road, and I saw his fingers tighten again on the reins, though our chestnut mare hadn’t broken her gait. “I met her in New Hampshire when I was fresh out of divinity school, traveling from pulpit to pulpit, earning what I could. In New Concord, I stayed at the home of Deacon Kent—Ellen’s stepfather—a good man. When I rode up to the house she was standing on the steps. It was a warm day and she was dressed in a blue gown, simply standing there, smiling—as if she were waiting for me.” He paused. “From the moment I saw her, I was under her spell.” He paused again, and seemed to be waiting for me to speak.

  “She must have been lovely,” I said.

  “She was. I wish you’d known her, Lidian. You would have been as charmed as I. She was a child of seventeen, yet she had the face and form of an angel, and the character of a saint.”

  I could not bear to watch his face as he spoke. I directed my gaze to the woods beyond. The air beneath the trees was dark, impenetrable.

  “I courted Ellen with total abandon,” Mr. Emerson said. “I couldn’t wait to make her mine. But there was a cruel darkness overshadowing my joy. She suffered from consumption even then, and though she rallied from time to time, she was often desperately ill. She hoped”—he paused and sighed again—“we hoped she’d recover—that a day would come when she’d have children. That we’d grow old together. But she died eighteen months after our wedding.”

  “Oh no!” I murmured.

  He nodded, still without looking at me. “She was a saint, Lidian. She died ministering to me. I knew she was in pain—terrible pain. And her attacks—so much blood—covering her head and chest! You’d not think a body could hold so much.”

  “I know.” I recalled Mother’s copious flows of blood clotted with scraps of her lungs. And there was the awful smell too—the rotting stench of death, which had so permeated Mother’s chamber that I could still smell it six months after she died. “My mother died of consumption.”

  He did not appear to have heard me. “Yet she sustained cheerful spirits throughout her ordeal. She was the picture of Christian resignation. An angel! A saint!” He took a deep breath. “She spent the last of her strength reassuring me!” His voice caught and he fell silent. The mare’s hooves made sucking sounds in the muddy road.

  “She’s at peace now,” I said. “You must believe that.”

  He glanced at me and his haunted expression told me plainly that he would never cease loving her. If I wanted to love Mr. Emerson, I must also love Ellen Tucker. I turned my face from him and bowed my head. My fingers clutched at my cape, as if they might wring some strength from it. I’d always been a woman of strong feeling. I didn’t know if I had sufficient humility to weave Ellen into the fabric of our marriage. But I knew that I must try.

  WE ENTERED CONCORD at dusk. The houses looked small and dreary, squatting in flat, open fields or pressed against the backs of hills. A few blighted trees stood like lonely sentries in the dooryards. Once a black dog crossed the road directly in front of our buggy, so close the chestnut mare shied into the ditch. Mr. Emerson tried to urge her awkwardly back onto the road with sharp, impatient snaps of the reins and much unhappy pleading. The horse obviously discomfited him. I laughed and told him that she wouldn’t bite.

  “I fear you’ve found me out.” He gave me an abashed smile. “I’m not familiar with animals.” Yet when I offered to drive, he would not let me, though it would have been a simple matter for me to encourage the mare by gentle words and a light flick of the reins. Instead, we sat in the ditch while Mr. Emerson continued to plead. It was some time before the mare decided to continue the journey.

  We came at last to the Manse, where Mr. Emerson and his mother boarded. The house was a plain gray box of a building, set well back from the road on the bank of the Concord River. We followed the drive between a double row of chestnut trees and drew up before the front door. Immediately a white-haired man threw open the door. He was stooped with age, yet he nimbly descended the steps and welcomed us with a smile and outstretched hands.

  “Mr. Ripley, may I present my fiancée, Miss Lidian Jackson?” Mr. Emerson climbed down from the shaking buggy, and extended his hand to steady me as I followed. “Lidian, this is Reverend Ezra Ripley, my late grandmother’s second husband.”

  “I’ve heard you speak, sir,” I said, as the minister clasped my hand, “when you came to Plymouth last summer. It was a great pleasure.”

  He smiled and tightened his grasp. “The lady certainly knows how to warm an old man’s heart, Waldo.”

  Mr. Emerson laughed. “Give her a chance and I warrant she’ll warm your mind, as well, sir. Lidian bows to no man in conversational skill.”

  Reverend Ripley laughed and finally released my hand, for which I was grateful, since it had begun to ache. H
e turned and clapped Mr. Emerson on the shoulder.

  “Congratulations, Waldo!” He looked again at me. “I know what a blessing to our town you’ll be, Miss Jackson. Your reputation for good works precedes you.” His face was kind, his eyes bright with intelligence. He gestured to the broad field beside the house and said that it was the very battleground where American patriots had first demoralized the British regulars. The field that evening was a white sheet spread beneath the black sky.

  The entryway was sparsely furnished—wide plank floorboards, a row of three wall pegs, pale green wallpaper. The hall ran straight to the back of the house, interrupted only by a narrow stairway on the left.

  “My dear,” Mr. Ripley said, addressing me, “you must be overcome with fatigue. I’ll show you to your room, where you can refresh yourself before tea.”

  I followed him up the creaking stairs to a small chamber at the back of the house, where he bid me make myself comfortable. “Rest while I gather the family. They’re eager to meet you, but they can wait an hour more. In the meantime, I’ll assure them that their hopes will not be disappointed.”

  When he closed the door, I sank onto the bed and pressed my hands to my eyes. Despite the good minister’s words, I despaired of impressing Mr. Emerson’s family. If they were all as brilliant and articulate as he, I’d quickly find myself tongue-tied. I went to the window and stared out at the night, tracing frost on one of the small panes. There was nothing to see out there—no lights, no houses or shops. The silence was staggering. It pressed against my ears, invaded my skull, and filled me with a dreadful unease. When Mr. Emerson knocked only fifteen minutes later, my discomfiture had become so oppressive that I eagerly joined him. Downstairs, we stepped into the parlor, where white candles burned in iron sconces between the long windows. The light blue carpet matched the drapes and the wallpaper of blue medallions. On the wall to my left hung a framed Bible etching showing Jonah cast up by the whale on a deserted beach. The sky was filled with forbidding clouds, but a single ray of sunlight slanted through them to touch Jonah’s head. I was well-acquainted with that touch of grace. And the terror of those clouds.