Mr. Emerson's Wife

by Amy Belding Brown

  I relived the confusion I had felt at sixteen when I woke to find sunlight leaking in the curtained windows, my aunts moving quickly about the room, speaking in hushed tones across my mother’s still form. I remembered my terrible guilt, my certainty that I’d betrayed her. All because I could not resist the impulse to sleep.

  Now impulse had led me into a darker sin. I had dishonored my husband and, like Judas, had broken faith with God as well. And for what? For nothing as tangible as thirty pieces of silver. For passion and the solace of a tender embrace.

  Stooping beneath the barn rafters, I made my way to the loft ladder and climbed down. My legs felt shaky and ineffectual, my head feverish. I paused a moment at the bottom to steady myself and listened to the sound of Henry’s breathing. Behind me, the horse stamped and blew in his stall, then settled into silence. I turned and ran to the house.

  In the east entry I stood for a moment, letting the warm house air enfold and steady me. I pressed my hand to my chest, as if it might still my racing heart. I wished suddenly that I’d wakened Henry and we had talked.

  The parlor was dark, but a soft glow came from under the door of the study. I started toward the stairs, then hesitated and put my hand on the door latch, suddenly overwhelmed by a compulsion to confess my sin. Mr. Emerson seemed to sense my presence, or perhaps I rattled the latch, for I heard him speak my name as a question.

  I entered the study, and instantly regretted it. He sat at the circular table he favored, regarding me with a kindly smile, his writing papers spread before him. “I have disturbed you,” I said, wanting to retreat. “I’m sorry.”

  “Never mind.” He raised one hand to dismiss my apology. “You look unusually well this evening. Why didn’t you join our conversation?”

  I stood in the doorway, a profound confusion preventing me from proceeding into the room. I couldn’t possibly look well. I stood there covered with shame. Was this the absolution I sought? The lamp on the table illuminated the familiar contours of Mr. Emerson’s face in golden light, and I felt a rush of affection for him, a sensation I’d not experienced in months. It was a most untimely occurrence, but it drew me across the threshold and to the brink of disclosure.

  “You know how the heat of the fire fatigues me and the fresh air revives,” I said. My voice sounded surprisingly normal. Where was the repentance I had planned? “I’m glad your conversation was a good one. Is Elizabeth feeling better?” She had been ailing with a slow fever for several days.

  “She lacks her usual strength, but fortunately her ailment has not diminished her eloquence.” The fondness in Mr. Emerson’s voice was always present when he spoke of Elizabeth.

  I nodded. “I’m glad she’s recovered. When I called on her a few days ago, I suggested she take an hourly infusion of tansy, but I suspect she did not.”

  “Elizabeth is of an independent mind.”

  I looked down at the paper where his hand still lay, his pen stylus resting in the open V between his thumb and forefinger. “Isn’t it late to be writing a lecture?”

  “Indeed.” He nodded affably. “But this is a more agreeable task—a letter to Margaret.”

  “Oh.” Her name snuffed out my flicker of tenderness. I wished suddenly—fiercely—that I had not left Henry. “Then I shall leave you to your writing. Please give her my regards.” And I turned and swept from the room, feeling the oddest mixture of righteous fury and reprieve.

  I climbed the stairs to the nursery, where I looked in on the children and opened the windows to permit the circulation of cold air. I lingered there, gazing out into the blackness, my eyes fixed on the spot where I knew the barn to be. I pictured Henry asleep in the straw, and my mind flooded with a renewed tenderness so sweet it temporarily washed away every drop of guilt.

  That night I slept fitfully. Henry came and went through my dreams. In one, he danced with me beneath tall trees while Wallie and Ellen picked flowers at the edge of a long field. I heard the sound of a bell, and when I turned I saw it was not a church bell, but a tarnished silver bell hung on the neck of a cow.

  I woke when Mr. Emerson entered the room. I watched him place his candle on the mantel. He stood gazing at it, as if it held some strange fascination. His face held the unreadable smile that he so often wore. I closed my eyes and rolled onto my side away from my husband and back into my dream.

  I HOPED and expected to see Henry the next day, for I was certain his need for association after our encounter would be as fierce as my own. I was occupied with preparations for Thanksgiving, only four days away. I rolled out piecrusts for twenty pies, peeled onions and apples, pounded cinnamon sticks and cloves, and crushed an unusually large sugar loaf until my arms ached. I boiled cranberries and squashes, cracked eggs and melted butter, chopped citron and cut slices of candied lemon for a marrow pudding, and all the while my eyes kept stealing to the window, hoping for a glimpse of Henry’s familiar form coming across the fields. In the afternoon, a cold wind rose and twisted drifts of dry leaves into the air, spinning them like tops and dropping them suddenly. The clouds darkened and it looked as if it might soon snow. I set Ellen and Edith up at the kitchen table with a small bowl of flour and water and a handful of raisins and they happily tried to imitate me while I worked on steadily. I hoped that the reward for so much housewifely diligence would be a glimpse of Henry. But he did not come.

  I no longer entertained the thought of confessing to my husband. That impulse was entirely gone, swept from my mind as thoroughly as my broom swept our gritty floors in preparation for the holiday. My sin was no worse than his—his affection for Margaret was surely only the surface of a greater darkness. At the very least, his ardor canceled mine.

  The evening before Thanksgiving I cut branches from the hemlocks on the west side of our house and decorated the fireplace mantels and windowsills. I laid holly branches atop the window casings and arranged a vase of dried leaves and flowers for the table. I still expected Henry to appear at any moment, but Thanksgiving morning came without even a glimpse of him. As usual, we entertained a large number of people. Besides our immediate family, we welcomed George Bancroft, Ellen and Ellery Channing, and the entire Alcott family. Bronson and Abba had come with their children for a brief respite from Fruitlands, their utopian community—an experiment my husband had proclaimed a perpetual picnic. Bronson’s four daughters were a boisterous lot, particularly Louisa, of whom I was especially fond. She had recently slipped into my life like an autumn leaf blowing through an open door, so young I did not immediately recognize our kinship. In some ways we were opposites—she dark-complexioned and wild, I ghost-pale and known for my precise manners. Yet our hearts beat at the same furious cadence, and we both chafed at the restrictions of womanhood. Before I was fully aware of it, she had replaced Sophia in my affections, and I was determined to nurture her in every possible way.

  The Alcott girls ate with a zeal that betrayed their hunger, and even Abba and Bronson loaded their plates with several helpings of squash pie and applesauce. The dinner conversation centered, as it had so often of late, on the slavery question. Though all present agreed it was an abomination, there were different opinions on what action must be taken. Bronson spoke of the need to transform men’s hearts. “Abolition can only be accomplished through constant lecturing and philosophizing.”

  “If men’s hearts could be transformed through speech,” Mr. Emerson said, “I doubt we’d require any philosophy.”

  “Perhaps men ought to look to women for such transformation,” I ventured.

  Abba Alcott nodded as she helped herself to another slice of green currant pie. “I agree with Lidian. Transformation is a spiritual matter rooted in the influence of women.” Her right hand lay exposed on the linen tablecloth and I could not help noticing how blistered it was by cold and hard work.

  I felt a sincere compassion for Abba, especially since she’d moved to Fruitlands. The experience, I knew, had been a hard one, especially since the community did not permit themselves the u
se of any products of slave or animal labor. They regarded it as a form of slavery. Even leather was banned, and they wore only linen slippers, refusing the use of both cotton and wool in their clothing.

  I leaned toward Abba to address her privately. “How is the experiment proceeding?” I asked. “Are you well prepared for winter?”

  “I daresay we’re well-prepared philosophically,” she said. “And the girls and I have put by some food, but our crops were very poor and our harvest disappointing.”

  I murmured my sympathy and glanced again at the girls. They all looked too thin, especially Lizzie, the quiet third daughter. I wondered how much longer the experiment would continue. I knew Abba to be a fierce mother—she would surely leave Fruitlands before she allowed her daughters to starve. Yet I could see that lack of proper nourishment had taken its toll on her as well. I hoped it had not affected her mind. I felt a pang of guilt. I’d often advocated a meager diet for physical and spiritual health, yet it was clear that one could go too far when experimenting with simplicity. I was pondering how best to voice my thoughts on the matter, when the conversation suddenly turned to Henry.

  “I saw him walking just this morning,” Bronson said, addressing my husband. “He told me you had asked him to introduce the speaker at last week’s Lyceum lecture. I regret I wasn’t able to attend.”

  The piece of cheese I’d been swallowing thickened in my throat.

  Mr. Emerson wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I was unwell for a few days. My lungs”—he returned the napkin to his lap—“they complain at this time of year.”

  “Perhaps they long for Italy,” Ellery said, evoking a general laughter that I did not join.

  “When were you unwell?” I asked.

  He turned his imperturbable gaze on me. “The better part of these past two weeks. Hasn’t my cough sufficiently annoyed you?” He smiled.

  “I wish you’d brought it to my notice,” I said. “I purchased some new powders recently. They might have helped.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve decided to foreswear homeopathic cures for the present. They don’t agree with me as they do you. Usually the mere prospect of ingesting your remedy is ample cure.”

  There was more laughter, and this time I joined in, though it was at my expense. Yet I planned to remind him later of the many times my poultices and powders had effected a near-miraculous cure on him and our children.

  It was a conversation we did not have, for just after twilight that evening, as Mr. Emerson and I sat with the Channings continuing our dinner conversation, Henry walked through the east entrance and into our parlor. He sat on a low stool near the fire, rubbed his hands between his knees to warm them, and looked at everyone in the room but me.

  “You’re looking exceedingly well, my friend.” My husband leaned out of his chair to welcome Henry with a handclasp. “Thanksgiving must have been a hearty feast at the Thoreau home.”

  “The food was hearty and more than sufficient,” Henry said. “But it’s the music we play after dinner that sustains me.”

  “Ah, music! I think we could benefit from some.” Mr. Emerson looked at me. “Lidian tells me that it improves the digestion. Is there any chance you’ve brought your flute with you?”

  I knew—and I was certain my husband did as well—that Henry carried his flute everywhere. “I trust you’re not weary of playing, Henry? We would all be grateful if you’d offer us a tune,” I said.

  Since I’d addressed him, Henry could no longer avoid looking at me. When his gaze met mine, I felt an electric charge throughout my limbs.

  “You flatter me, ma’am,” he said. “I’m a poor player compared to my father.” His smile had vanished, leaving a strange expression that seemed to be a mixture of tenderness and grief.

  “It’s your music that we’ve missed,” I said, and immediately perceived a responsive flash in his eyes, a flicker of longing that told me he’d heard the meaning beneath my words. What I did not say—what I wanted to say and what I hoped he heard—was: There’s no music in this house without you.

  Henry bent his head briefly and then drew from his jacket pocket the cloth pouch I’d made for him and took out his flute. He had once told me it was carved of fruitwood, which made its music particularly sweet and fluid. He blew lightly into the end twice, and then placed his fingers with quick precision on the metal stops.

  He played my favorite tune—a sweet waltz called “The Garland of Love.” I saw the toes of Ellen Channing’s right foot lifting the hem of her skirts to the tune, and my own feet itched to join hers. Ellery had closed his eyes and dropped his head back, his face blissful with appreciation.

  I recalled that my French dancing master had once—as a reward for my mastery of a particularly difficult dance sequence—played his mandolin to accompany my steps. I had felt my legs and feet grow buoyant as I glided over the floor’s worn surface as lightly as an insect skims the water. I twirled past a window and through a spray of sunshine, followed my arms into a deep bend and pointed my toes, then pivoted back into the light.

  As I listened to Henry, the longing to dance overcame me so that I nearly rose from my chair. Only Mr. Emerson’s cool gaze pinned me to my seat.

  Henry finished his song and lowered the flute. As I joined the flutter of applause, my gaze was drawn to his hands. I was entranced by the way he held the flute, as if it were a young animal that required particular tenderness. I recalled those hands upon my skin, the way heat had collected under his fingertips and left loops of fire on my breasts and around my navel.

  I became aware again that my husband was watching me. I recalled my aborted determination to confess my sin to him. A dark fire of shame crawled up my neck and into my face. I put my hands to my cheeks, and it was at that moment that Henry also looked at me. The expression in his eyes was a naked mixture of adoration and anguish. I perceived that he’d been as undone by our encounter as I, and that his absence since that evening was caused not by his indifference, but by the conflict in his heart.

  It was Mr. Emerson who drew Henry’s gaze from me. “I’ve looked forward to your Lyceum lecture for weeks now,” he said. “I’m hoping to detect the changes New York has wrought.”

  Ellery chuckled and Henry swiveled on his stool to face my husband. “I fear you’ll find my city experience has only made me more contentious,” he said. “And more fixed in my opinion that Concord is the most agreeable place on earth.”

  I rose and excused myself to the kitchen, where I took my time fetching the tea. Nancy had been given the evening off, so I was alone in the kitchen, taking the cups from their hooks inside the cupboard, when the door opened. Startled, I spun.

  “Can I help you?” Henry said.

  “Oh, Henry!” I whispered and then, in shame, turned back to the cups, setting them one by one on the shelf on the shelf beneath the cupboard. Suddenly I hit one with my elbow. It spun into the air and seemed to hang there for a moment, in what could only have been an illusion, before smashing to the floor.

  I cried out and knelt at once to pick up the pieces. Instantly, Henry was beside me, scooping the shards into his palm. “No matter,” he said, his voice strong and quiet in my ear. “It’s only a cup.”

  “It was my mother’s china,” I said and burst into tears. I don’t know why I wept, for I’d never before felt an attachment to my mother’s effects. Yet the broken cup struck me as of immense significance.

  “Lidian, don’t!” Henry’s voice was pleading, urgent. “I can’t bear it,” he whispered.

  He touched my hands, pulled them from my face, and I saw that he’d cut the finger of his right hand. I started to rise to find a towel to bandage his wound, but he pulled me back beside him and would not release me.

  “This is my fault,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve betrayed you. And Mr. Emerson.” Though his eyes were wild with remorse, he looked directly at me as he spoke. “Yet I can’t bring myself to regret what we did.”

  I stared at him, barely able to spea
k. “Nor can I,” I croaked, finally. “But the blame is mine.” My knees no longer held me, and I collapsed against him, sobbing. “Oh, Henry, what will we do? What will happen to us?”

  “I don’t know.” His voice was just shy of a sob. He kissed the top of my head, just in front of my cap. I felt the warmth of his lips against my scalp. I heard the youth in his voice, and the terrible vulnerability of his innocence. I realized at that moment that I had to be the strong one. Much as I longed to seek comfort from him, to depend upon his gentle strength to untangle our situation, I knew that he needed my strength even more.

  I raised my head and drew my hand from his. “We’ll put it behind us,” I said with an assurance I did not feel. “We’ll go on just as before. Nothing will change.”

  I got to my feet, took my handkerchief from my skirt pocket, and dried my tears. He was still kneeling on the floor, staring at me in bewilderment.

  I took a clean towel from the basket by the pie safe. “Let me tend your wound,” I said. “I can’t have you bleeding all over my floor.” And I gave him a smile, to encourage one from him.

  He rose, holding the broken cup shards. I gestured to the table, and he opened his hands and tipped out the pieces. They lay there shining in the lamplight—a dozen small white daggers.

  After I bandaged his hand, we set the tea things on a tray and Henry carried it into the parlor. As I poured out five cups of tea and passed them around, Mr. Emerson inquired—in a tone of both concern and curiosity—about Henry’s hand.

  “Ah Waldo, I believe it’s your fault,” Henry said, his eyes sparkling. “Being in your company again has infected me with the notorious Emerson clumsiness. I dropped a cup while taking it from the shelf and complicated the gaucherie by stabbing myself with its remains.”