Mr. Emerson's Wife

by Amy Belding Brown

  I sat on the steps of the east entrance and gazed out across the moonlit fields. There was a haze in the air common to summer nights, and it had drawn itself around the moon like a veil so that a rich amber shimmer fell on the meadow grasses. A few stars pricked through the mist, but most of the sky was vacant and blank. Like my heart, I thought, and then censured myself for the sin of self-pity. I had much to be thankful for—my station and comfort in life, and particularly my children. As I bent my head and lifted my plait from my neck, where damp tendrils clung to my skin, I became aware of another sound I’d not yet perceived. It seemed to me, as I raised my head to search for its source, that it had been there all along—in the same way that the song of a common bird serves as background for one’s daily round. The melody was sweet and lilting yet it seemed in some way infinitely sad. Someone was playing a flute.

  I rose and, mindful of my unclothed state, started back inside. Yet before I crossed the threshold, the music ceased abruptly, ending on a high note that shivered in the air and raised gooseflesh on my bare arms. I turned in the doorway, sensing a presence, but my eyes searched the shadowy yard in vain. Then I heard my name—spoken in so low a murmur that at first I thought it was the wind. It reminded me of the time I’d sat on the hill behind my aunt’s house and heard my mother’s voice in my ear. That had been the voice of a ghost—for it happened ten years after Mother’s death—and this sounded so similar that I shivered despite the heat. Yet this voice was not my mother’s, but a man’s.

  “Henry?” My word trembled just beyond a whisper.

  “Here.” I heard the rustle of grass to my right and saw a dim flash of reflected moonlight. Then he stepped out of the shadows and stood before me at the bottom of the steps. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows and the braces of his trousers made parallel black stripes from his waist to his shoulders. He clasped his flute in his left hand while with his right he swept his hair from his forehead. Even though he was only a few feet away, his features were indistinct because of the hazy darkness.

  He said my name again in a whisper that I realized I was not meant to hear, hushed as the susurration of the horse-chestnut tree leaves above us. The skin between my shoulder blades tingled. I was acutely aware that only a thin cotton chemise lay between his eyes and my skin. I crossed my arms over my breasts, but knew at once that the gesture only emphasized my near-nakedness.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” I said.

  “Nor could I.”

  “Your music is lovely.”

  He gave a brief, abstracted nod. “Lidian, I couldn’t help but hear.”

  “Hear?” Something dropped into the well of my stomach.

  “Your quarrel with Waldo. I was out here, not far from your window.”

  I shook my head, my heart suddenly racing. I prayed that my flushed cheeks were not visible. “It’s not something I can discuss, Henry.”

  “I just want to help you. If there’s anything I can do—”

  “No. Please don’t talk to me now.” And, filled with shame, I rushed through the doorway and up the stairs to my chamber, where I crawled into bed beside my sleeping husband.

  HENRY WAS NOT at the breakfast table the next morning, and I supposed that he’d slept late, as was sometimes his habit when he’d been out walking at night. Yet Wallie informed me that he’d looked out the nursery window and observed Mr. Thoreau crossing the field, heading for the woods.

  Mary brought Ellen downstairs, still rosy and damp from her night’s sleep. I took my daughter and nuzzled her warm cheek. “Shall we take a walk with the children after breakfast? A stroll beside the river would be nice in this heat.”

  “Oh.” Mary glanced toward the window, frowned, and then looked back at me. “I’m sorry. I promised Mr. Emerson I would transcribe one of his essays onto fresh paper. Perhaps we could walk tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow.” I felt my smile drain away.

  “Or this afternoon if I’m finished with my work?”

  “Your work,” I said slowly. “I thought it was understood that you would help me with the children this summer. If you can’t see your way clear to abiding by our agreement perhaps it is time you went home to Plymouth.”

  “Surely you can spare her for an hour this morning before your walk, Asia.” Mr. Emerson spoke from the door to the dining room. I turned to face him. I wondered how long he had been standing in the hall.

  “I’ve spared her for the past five mornings,” I said. “And most afternoons as well. Perhaps Elizabeth could transcribe for you today. Or Henry.”

  He did not reply, but simply stared at me. This had become his habit in recent months—he refused to engage in a disagreement when others were present. It gave him the appearance of superiority, as if my words and thoughts were so slight as to be undeserving of a response.

  I turned my back on him and faced Mary, who looked wretched, as if she were on the verge of tears. “Take the children up to the nursery and feed them there,” I said, handing Ellen back to her. “And then get them dressed for an outing.” She did my bidding without a word, but I caught the glance she cast toward Mr. Emerson before she left the room.

  I faced my husband. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to that poor child?”

  “Doing? No. What am I doing?”

  “Feeding her infatuation. You spend hours sharing your new ideas and they are magic to her. She’s completely under your spell.”

  “Since when did you object to opening a woman’s mind to new ideas?”

  I would have answered had not the outside door suddenly opened. Henry stepped into the kitchen, carrying a spray of yellow and white wildflowers nearly as wide as his chest.

  “Henry!” Mr. Emerson face broke into a broad smile. “I was afraid you’d deserted us this morning. But I see you’ve been enjoying the outdoors. And brought some of nature’s glories back with you.” He reached for the bouquet.

  Henry’s glance flicked from my husband’s face to mine and back again. “They’re for Lidian.” He stepped past Mr. Emerson and pushed the blossoms into my arms.

  My husband watched me. I knew he felt rebuffed; I also knew that he would quickly forgive and forget Henry’s slights. Henry amused him, especially when he showed his pugnacious side. As if he had read my thoughts, Mr. Emerson laughed and clapped Henry on the shoulder. “And so they should be, my friend. Who can better appreciate a flower’s charms than my good wife?”

  “No one.” Henry was standing so close that I could feel the warmth of his arm through my sleeve, and the sensation brought with it the memory of the previous night’s encounter. I recalled the dark air lying damp and cool against my skin as I sat on the step and heard the sound of Henry’s flute. I remembered Henry stepping out of the shadows and whispering my name.

  I turned from both men and went to the pantry to locate a vase for the flowers.

  IN THE MIDST of breakfast that morning, as we partook of our mutton broth and corn cake, Henry put down his spoon and asked if he might take me and the children for a walk.

  “It’s a fine, bright day. And I recently discovered a new variety of swamp rose that you must see.”

  “That’s kind of you, Henry,” Mr. Emerson buttered a piece of corn cake. “Very kind. Lidian and the children have been eager for a constitutional.” He turned to me. “You see, my dear? Things arrange themselves quite nicely when we allow people to follow their own inclinations.” And he smiled at all of us like a king pleased with his court.

  We left the house an hour later. Ellen insisted on riding atop Henry’s shoulders while Wallie ran ahead and soon disappeared in the low brush that choked the path up Bristor’s Hill. I fretted that he might lose his way or fall and hurt himself, but Henry assured me that four-year-old boys were the most surefooted creatures on earth, and that Wallie’s sense of direction was unerring.

  Henry led us to a small cove on Walden Pond where we rested under a pine tree. Light glimmered off the water and touched the soft undersides of oaks along the s
hore. Hemlock branches swung above our heads, blocking the harshest rays of the sun and offering a pleasant green shade that soothed my eyes and cooled my face. Birds called from the trees and large black dragonflies darted back and forth, fascinating Ellen, who tried in vain to catch one. Later, she fell asleep on my shoulder, while Wallie busied himself building a castle by the water’s edge. Henry leaned comfortably back against the tree, gazing out at the pond. The only sounds I heard were Ellen’s gentle breathing, the lapping of the water against the shore, and the singing birds.

  “It’s quite peaceful,” I said.

  “I come here often.” Henry picked up a stone and turned it over in his palm. “At night sometimes I take my boat out on the pond and play my flute.”

  I thought of our encounter the night before.

  “Did you know that music charms the fish?” He turned to face me. I kept my eyes on Ellen’s head, where my hand caressed her fine baby hair. “They come up to the top of the water when they hear it and swarm all around the boat.”

  I didn’t know whether or not to believe him. It seemed an odd, unlikely truth, the sort of story he might tell the children.

  “I wish you could see it, Lidian. Let me take you out some night and show you. It’s an astonishing sight.” He tossed the stone up and caught it without looking, his gaze fixed on the pond. “No one would know.”

  I imagined gliding beneath the stars with Henry. I could picture him gazing at me as he rowed—his eyes filled with that blaze of admiration that I’d lately begun to prize.

  “Someone would know,” I said. “Such an adventure does not go undiscovered.”

  He shook his head. “I know the habits of everyone in the house, even the servants. I’ve observed and catalogued them all in my mind. I know when I may safely come and go unseen.”

  I felt a small shock at this confession—a tingle of electricity that purled up my spine. “I can’t, Henry,” I said. “Surely you know that.”

  He didn’t reply, nor did he look at me.

  “Which is not to say that I don’t want to.” My voice was no louder than the riffle of water against the shore.

  He continued to toss the stone for a while. Then, abruptly, he stood up, threw it into the pond, and brushed off his trousers. “I think it’s time we headed home,” he said. And without looking at me, he scooped Ellen up and settled her, still sleeping, against his shoulder, then whistled for Wallie, who came running as if he liked nothing better in the world than to be summoned by Henry Thoreau.

  15

  Recognition

  How much virtue there is in simply seeing!

  —HENRY DAVID THOREAU

  The Reverend Ripley died that fall, on a day the cruel north wind stripped bright leaves from the trees. Though I protested, Mr. Emerson took Wallie to view the body, insisting that the sooner the boy learned to face death, the better. When they returned, my son was visibly shaken, and though he did not weep, he refused to describe what he had seen. I read fairy tales to him in the nursery for nearly an hour to distract his mind before he complained of fatigue and fell asleep.

  I went downstairs and entered my husband’s study without knocking.

  “You should not have done such a thing,” I said.

  Mr. Emerson, who was, as usual, seated in his rocker, raised his head and regarded me with astonishment. “What ‘thing’ are you referring to?”

  “Requiring Wallie to look upon Reverend Ripley’s corpse! The boy’s distraught!”

  “He’s my son. He must be trained to understand all of life.” He took his pen from the inkwell. “Now please leave me to do my work.”

  I fairly screamed at him. “Your son? What of me? Am I nothing but an attendant now? A nursemaid to my own children?”

  “Lidian, you are hysterical. Go and lie down until you are in control.” He turned to his papers, and began to write.

  “I will not be dismissed in this manner!” I hissed. “I am your wife! If nothing else, you owe me the courtesy of your attention.”

  “I won’t discuss the matter until you’ve calmed yourself.” He did not look up. Short of flying at him in an unseemly rage, there was nothing I could do. I left; the only available satisfaction being the hard slam of the door behind me.

  The truth was, of course, that he owed me nothing. As a wife, I had no rights whatsoever—not to my children, my property, or even my own body. Least of all, a right to his attention.

  I went back upstairs and shut myself in my chamber for the duration of the morning.

  WALLIE’S FIFTH BIRTHDAY was a grand, cold day. An October wind had shredded the leaves from the trees and they lay heaped in bright piles in the yard. Wallie liked nothing better than to hurl himself into them. Ellen watched these proceedings with serious expectation, as if memorizing each leap he took. When she tried to duplicate his efforts she tumbled headfirst into the leaves but, undaunted, pushed herself to her feet and repeated her endeavors.

  That week, a traveling daguerreotypist came to town and set up a temporary studio in a tavern on the Mill Dam. Mr. Emory was a tall man with darting black eyes and limbs as thin as sticks. On shelves rigged from loose bricks and lumber, he arranged a display of forty daguerreotypes that quickly became a great sensation. Every man, woman, and child in Concord wanted to have a portrait taken. On a Monday afternoon, Mr. Emerson, Elizabeth, and I all went and sat solemnly while Mr. Emory pointed his remarkable lens at us. The experience was disagreeable, for it simulated sitting motionless in blinding sunlight. The next afternoon, Henry and I took Wallie to the studio for his portrait but, though I pleaded with him earnestly, he could not be persuaded to sit still.

  When we finally left the studio, all three of us were peevish and ill-tempered. As we walked back to Bush we encountered Henry’s brother heading home from Hosmer’s orchard, where he’d spent the day picking apples. He carried a sack of them, which he lowered to the ground when we stopped to talk. John Thoreau’s geniality often made Henry appear dour by contrast. Whenever he and John were together I was struck by their dissimilarity.

  John bent and tousled Wallie’s hair. “You look very handsome, young man. You haven’t had your portrait taken by any chance, have you?”

  Wallie poked out his lower lip and hung his head.

  “He’s feeling restless today,” Henry said, watching Wallie.

  “Well, maybe some apple picking is in order,” John said. “It will discharge the vitality.”

  Wallie looked up at John, his eyes filled with hope. “Can we go today?”

  “That depends on your mother, doesn’t it?” John said, unfolding himself and winking at me. He was taller than Henry, and his face was the kind that young women considered handsome, a fact to which he seemed oblivious. “Tell you what. Maybe, if you’re very good for the rest of the day, my brother will take you to the orchard tomorrow. With your mother’s permission, of course. What do you say, Henry?”

  Henry glanced at me and smiled. “I’d like nothing better.”

  The next afternoon, Henry and Wallie left immediately after dinner. When they returned at dusk, Wallie’s cheeks were as red as the apples Henry carried in his sack.

  A WEEK LATER, John Thoreau appeared on the doorstep after breakfast. Assuming he’d come to collect Henry, I informed him that his brother had left an hour before for Flint’s Pond. “If you hurry, you may be able catch up with him. He often stops to make observations along the way.”

  John shook his head. “I didn’t come for Henry. I have something for you.” From under his coat he drew a flat, rectangular package covered in brown paper and wrapped with string. This he handed to me with a small flourish of his wrist. “Open it.” He smiled broadly.

  “Only if you come in and share a cup of coffee with me.”

  As he stepped into the kitchen, I caught the scent of apples on his coat. He scooped off his hat and looked around the kitchen. “Where’s Wallie?”

  “In the nursery.” I gestured toward the door to the dining room. “Come
in and sit down, John, while I pour the coffee.”

  John sat in Henry’s chair and sipped his coffee from a white china cup while I unwrapped the package. My eyes widened when I saw what it was—a daguerreotype of Wallie gazing pensively into the distance. I turned to John in wonder.

  “Where did you get this? When was it taken?”

  “Last week, when Henry took him apple picking. On their way to the orchard I leaped from behind a tree like a bandit and spirited Wallie away to the daguerreotypist’s shop where I ransomed his freedom for a portrait.” His eyes flashed. “It was a grand adventure and ended happily, as you can see. Wallie had his trip to the orchard and you have a portrait of your son.”

  “But he said nothing about this! How did you manage to keep it a secret?”

  John’s smile was contagious, igniting my own. “Oh, I swore him to secrecy, of course. He was quite philosophical about it. He’s very much his father’s son.”

  Laughing, I again studied the portrait. “It captures his likeness so well I want to kiss the glass. How will I ever thank you?”

  “With another cup of your good coffee,” John said happily. “I consider it a privilege to be acquainted with such a fine young man—and his family.”

  Flattery was a nicety we avoided at Bush, seeking, as we did, to always be entirely honest in our words and deeds. Yet it was a pleasure to have John in the house, though there was something ordinary about him, a sort of run-of-the-mill good cheer that was not at all like Henry’s earnest generosity.

  We sat and drank coffee and conversed about John’s plans for the future. He told me that, since his health had improved, he was seeking a position as a schoolmaster in neighboring towns. I asked why he and Henry didn’t start up their school again, but he shook his head and said that Henry had had enough of teaching.

  “He’s better suited to poetry and philosophy. Which is why he’s living here instead of at home. And”—he smiled and set his cup on its saucer—“there’s the added advantage that our mother doesn’t plague him morning, noon, and night about the need to find a job to suit his education.”