Mr. Emerson's Wife

by Amy Belding Brown

  There was a round of laughter and more banter on my husband’s renowned ungainliness. I found myself sipping my tea and gazing past Henry into the fire, wondering how either of us could pretend that our tryst had not permanently fissured the landscape of our lives.

  I DID NOT SEE Henry again until the evening he lectured at the Lyceum. Mr. Emerson and I sat with the Hoars, the Minotts, and the Channings; together we took up an entire row of seats. The night was cold; there was frost on the church windows. The vestry was well lit and we sat far forward, so I easily detected the strain in Henry’s face as he took his place behind the podium. He arranged his papers and looked up at the audience. In that instant, our eyes met. He seemed momentarily to forget himself, then his shoulders gave a little jerk, and he looked down again at his papers.

  “I’ve entitled tonight’s discourse ‘Ancient Poets,’” he said in a voice that was unnaturally thin. “These great men—Homer, Ossian, and Chaucer—are the first teachers of the poetic form, and any modern poet must examine and heed their practices.”

  He glanced up at the audience. It was fortunate that he was the only speaker that evening, for I could not wrench my gaze from his face. While he did not have Mr. Emerson’s skill in delivery, the words he spoke rang with earnest authority. I sat, mesmerized, by the music of his language. I leaned forward, my back taut as a harp string. His voice did not wash over and soothe me as Mr. Emerson’s had when I first heard him lecture, but instead filled me with a fiery excitement that was not unlike the agitation I experienced in conversation with Henry. When the lecture ended, I was the first to applaud.

  I wanted to speak with him. I stood and took some time arranging my shawl, hoping the group of men and women surrounding Henry would quickly adjourn. I caught a brief glimpse of his head between the shoulders of two men. He was turned in profile to me, listening intently to a woman’s question. I was struck by his resemblance to Mr. Emerson. It was not the first time I’d noted this likeness, but it had never before disturbed me. Now I felt oddly deceived, as if he had in some manner disguised himself.

  “Come, Lidian,” Mr. Emerson said, taking my elbow. “The hour grows late.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “I thought you’d want to congratulate Henry on his performance.” I said.

  “I’ll speak with him tomorrow. Tonight is Concord’s chance.” He smiled and, with a small movement of his hand, turned me toward the door and swept me cleanly from the room.

  Henry returned to New York early the next morning. His coach must have rumbled past my chamber window while I slept, for I did not wake until the sun was high in the sky and the children had long since tumbled cheerfully from their beds.

  A strange lassitude overcame me that day, a deep fatigue that rest or sleep did not alleviate, and that continued unabated for many days. By the time three weeks had passed, I knew the reason.

  I had embarked on my fourth pregnancy.

  24

  Quandaries

  In love and friendship the imagination is as much exercised as the heart.

  —HENRY DAVID THOREAU

  I had not imagined I would bear another child after Edith. Not only had I passed the age of forty, but relations with my husband had cooled so that it seemed most unlikely. Yet the signs were unmistakable—my breasts were sore and heavy; I was dyspeptic and weak with lethargy. And I had missed my regular menses.

  Still, for several weeks I tried to convince myself that my symptoms were due to illness. I felt tired all the time and so depleted that I thought only of my craving for sleep. Then one night I dreamed that I was walking by the river and met Henry carrying a basket. I stooped to look into the basket and saw a sleeping babe. I awoke in a wash of perspiration. Gray light formed a spiral on the ceiling. I stared at it, overwhelmed by a drowning sensation that began in my chest and fell rapidly through my torso. I was not sick at all. I was expecting a child—a child that might be Henry’s.

  I placed my hand on my stomach, as if it could warm the sudden chill that settled there. I had foolishly never considered the possibility that my single tryst with Henry might bear such fruit. My shame warred with my feelings of protection and love for the unborn child. I thought of the way my niece, Sophia, had dealt with her condition, and wondered—briefly—if I should do the same. I rejected the repulsive thought.

  TWO WEEKS AFTER Henry’s Lyceum lecture my husband informed me that Henry was returning to Concord. It was a cold December morning, just past ten o’clock, and I’d been driven from the kitchen to the parlor couch by the odor of roasting ham, which sickened me and made my head spin, as did all food odors before early afternoon.

  “He’s on his way back from New York this very day.” Mr. Emerson dropped into his rocking chair by the fire, and began to rock back and forth. The sight, combined with the spinning, increased my nausea to such a degree that I was forced to close my eyes.

  “He’s returning? Now?” I fought off the whirling sensation and opened my eyes. “Is he unwell?”

  “Somewhat.” He gave me his smile. “But I believe he’ll recover quickly once he’s living again in Concord.”

  I felt a bubble of joy. “I’ll ready his chamber tomorrow.”

  “There’s no need. He plans to live with his parents.” There was a darkness in his tone, a warning that I ought to have heeded. But the room had begun to spin again, and it was all I could do to remain upright.

  “This is a better place for him to write,” I said. “And we’re always in need of his repair skills.”

  “There are other considerations than his convenience and our comfort.” He began to rock more vigorously. “In any case, it is not your concern.” His eyes had turned flinty. “Right now I must return to my labors.” He rose. “I’m sorry you’re feeling unwell again, Lidian.”

  I had not yet told him I was with child. “I believe I will soon mend.” I said.

  He had already turned his back and walked away.

  The time would come when I would have to tell him. I wondered what I would say—and how he would accept the news. Would he be pleased at the prospect of being a father again? Would he bless me with his smile the way he had when I told him the first time I had conceived?

  Within a few weeks this new pregnancy would be obvious; the child would announce itself to the world if I did not. I had to tell my husband before people started gossiping. There were women in Concord who watched me—watched everyone—with savage scrutiny.

  First, I would tell Lucy. That would be easy—she’d be happy for me, gracious and sisterly. She would see the new child as a blessing, a means of healing my grief. And perhaps her own. She would buoy me up and give me the strength to tell Mr. Emerson.

  And then—somehow—I would find a way to tell Henry.

  EARLY THAT JANUARY, Bronson Alcott and his family abandoned Fruitlands and returned to Concord. Matthew Lovejoy kindly offered them lodging in his big farmhouse east of town. Rumor had it that Abba had threatened to leave him, for the children were on the verge of starvation and she was exhausted from shouldering all of the domestic labor for the group.

  I was gratified to have Bronson back in Concord, for he was one of my few admirers. I compared his mind to a magic carpet on which he carried all his friends, though his theories often led him to more exotic thoughts than I could endorse. Yet when he left Fruitlands, he was uncommonly despondent. When I learned that he had taken to his bed and lay there day after day refusing to accept food, I hurried to call on him, bringing with me a loaf of bread and a crock of hearty soup to nourish the girls. His daughter, Louisa, met me at the door and informed me that her mother was out.

  I kissed her and inquired after the health of her sisters. They were all quite well, she told me, as she led me upstairs to the chamber where her father lay. It was clear from her expression and the lightness in her step that she was overjoyed to be back in Concord.

  Bronson lay prone on the bed, covered by a thick layer of quilts. He was a tall man, even taller than Mr. Eme
rson, and the bed did not fit him well. It made for a comic effect, as his feet created a small tent on the footboard of the bed.

  “Lidian,” he said, pushing himself to a sitting position. “Welcome. I thought never to see you again.” He was silent a moment and then said, “Our endeavor failed.”

  “It does not matter.” I found a wooden chair in the corner of the room and dragged it close to the bed. “You did the best that you could.”

  He sighed. “I think we would not have failed had Henry joined us. I nearly had him convinced on one occasion.” I had not heard this news, nor was I certain I believed it. Bronson made a habit of jumping to unwarranted conclusions.

  “Henry’s just returned from New York,” I said. “No doubt he would have preferred many places to the noisy streets of that city.” Bronson’s long head, graced with its abundant fair hair, lay weakly against the wall. “What will you do now, my friend?”

  He was silent a moment. “I’d thought your husband might make some financial arrangement … .”

  “Arrangement?”

  “I’ve spoken with him about the possibility of purchasing a house for us, a place where we might live free of rent and landlords.” He smiled yet again, that benevolent, blessing smile, the smile of a saint. “He seemed amenable.”

  “Did he promise you this?”

  “Not yet, but I have hopes. He’s been generous in the past.”

  My back tightened in a spasm of resentment. Mr. Emerson was ever chafing at me for my lavish spending habits. Though I admired my husband’s generosity, I did not understand how he imagined that we might support not only our own growing family but Bronson’s larger one as well. Yet I knew he felt beholden to Bronson for his many profound insights, which had deeply influenced Mr. Emerson’s own philosophy. He believed Bronson Alcott to be the most philosophical man in New England.

  I became slowly aware that Louisa had been standing for some time in the doorway, her dark eyes taking in the scene.

  “Well,” I said quickly, smoothing my skirts and rising, “I have other errands. I’m glad to see you looking better than I’d imagined. I hope you will soon be up and about.”

  “No doubt I will,” he said. “With the good care of neighbors like you I’ll be philosophizing again in no time.”

  I turned to Louisa. “Give my best to your mother,” I told her. “And come and visit us. Mr. Emerson has an entire library of books for you to read.”

  A light leaped into Louisa’s face and she bounced on her toes. “I’ll come this very afternoon!” she cried.

  “You are welcome anytime,” I said. And I could not resist placing my hand briefly beneath her chin, in the same reassuring gesture my aunts had used when I was a young girl.

  BY FEBRUARY I had to loosen my skirt waists and move the buttons on my bodices. I knew I could no longer keep my condition from Lucy and so, one snowy afternoon while the children napped, I picked my way across Lexington Road to my sister’s house.

  She greeted me at her back door, her hands dusty with flour and her apron speckled with oil spots. The kitchen was permeated with the sweet, heavy odor of frying doughnuts, which instantly took me back to my childhood and the time when our mother had taught me how to roll the sticky dough into circles and lower it carefully into the black iron kettle filled with simmering fat. I recalled watching the circle of dough fall and hang suspended amid the translucent bubbles, then bounce suddenly to the surface.

  “What’s the occasion?” I asked, gesturing to the stove. I knew that Lucy rarely spent a penny except for necessities. “You appear to be planning a celebration.”

  She shrugged. “February’s a hard month. It wants festivity. Help yourself.” She pointed to the row of cooling doughnuts on the table, scrutinizing me as if she had not seen me in weeks, though we’d spent the afternoon together only three days before. “You look uncommonly well, Liddy. I believe you’re putting on some weight.”

  “That’s what I’ve come to tell you,” I said, seating myself on one of the chairs and picking up a doughnut. The outside was crusted a deep brown. I took a small bite. It was still warm and the spicy sweetness filled my mouth.

  “That you’re gaining weight?” Lucy peered into the kettle. “I agree, it’s an occasion. Everyone who loves you has been after you for years to put some meat on your bones.” She glanced over her shoulder at me. “You’ve always been much too thin, Liddy.”

  “Not the weight itself,” I said. “But the reason for it.”

  “Reason?” Lucy straightened and placed her hands on the back of her hips, stretching tall to her ease her back. “No!” She stopped abruptly in mid-stretch. “You’re jesting. Surely, you’re jesting.”

  I put down the doughnut and placed my hand on my abdomen. “It’s not a jesting matter,” I said.

  “Oh, Liddy!” Her hands fell to her sides. “Are you glad, then? How long have you known?”

  “I’ve suspected since before the start of the new year.”

  Lucy crossed the room and sank heavily into the chair beside mine. “So the child will come in summer?”

  “In August,” I said, though the truth was I did not know. “I haven’t told Mr. Emerson yet.”

  Lucy smiled. “I’m surprised he hasn’t noticed. He’ll be pleased, I’m sure.”

  “Pleased?” I felt oddly sleepy.

  “Perhaps another son?” Lucy leaned toward me and took my hands from her lap. “You look so well, I never would have thought—”

  “This child is unlike the others,” I said. “There’s a calmness—a completeness—about it I didn’t feel before. Not even with Wallie.”

  “The child will be a blessing. A healing,” Lucy said softly, looking into my eyes, forcing me to acknowledge her words. “I’m sure of it.”

  I found myself on the verge of tears—though a common condition in many pregnant women, it was rare for me—and I squeezed Lucy’s hands tightly. My tongue was unable to formulate any words, but my heart filled with a resounding Yes!

  The next afternoon, determined to tell Mr. Emerson of my condition, I found him in the dining room, fretting about the upcoming edition of The Dial. He had all the pages spread out on the table where he was shifting them from place to place, determining the best position for each article.

  “This will likely be our final edition,” he told me, moving a poem to the far end of the table. “It was all too short a venture.”

  “Final edition? What do you mean?” I knew how dearly he prized the magazine. It had become for him a community in print. And it had the added appeal of linking him to Margaret Fuller in a way that was both seductive and gratifying.

  “I mean we no longer have sufficient funds to carry on. Our sponsors are limited in means, and so it follows that we shall be, too.”

  “I had no idea. I thought you and Margaret—”

  “We’ve decided the time has come to furl the sails of our literary ship.” He frowned down at a page that was densely covered in writing, picked it up, scrutinized the words, then set it back where it had been.

  If The Dial were a ship, it was one they had launched eagerly from the harbor of their affectionate alliance. I wondered what Margaret would do with her time without the magazine to fume about. Would the friendship between her and my husband continue, though they now had less occasion to write? Or would lack of occasion make no difference? I suspected that their association had less to do with the magazine than Mr. Emerson believed.

  I wondered suddenly—did a secret part of me wish them intimate, imagining that it would justify my intimacy with Henry?

  I watched my husband move to the far side of the table, pick up three papers and place them in the table’s center. “I abhor dragging you from your work, but I have something I must tell you,” I said.

  He took another sheet and regarded me over the top of it. “The servants again?” I saw that he was not focusing on me but through me, as if I were so transparent he could study the painting on the wall behind my head. �
�Has Nancy been insolent?”

  “It’s not the servants.”

  “Good.” He frowned at the paper.

  I no longer recalled the words I had planned for my announcement. I fumbled with my pocket, which was empty, though I was certain I’d tucked a thimble in it just an hour before. “It’s about me. Us.”

  He picked up another sheet and held the two side by side. “I wish Thomas had limited his remarks to the three pages I asked.”

  “Mr. Emerson,” I said, “kindly put those papers down and listen to me.”

  He looked startled and lowered the pages. “Tell me quickly,” he said. “I have a great deal to do.”

  I took a deep breath. “It seems I am again with child.”

  “With child?” I saw not merely surprise but anger in his cold gaze.

  “I know it is unexpected—”

  He rounded the table and came toward me. “You’re carrying my child?”

  “Of course it’s your child.” The words dropped from my mouth like coins from a torn pocket. I realized, as soon as I spoke that I’d misapprehended him. He’d not stressed the word my, but was only trying to grasp the import of my announcement. He searched my face, as if he might discover there the key to my reaction. I told myself that I had spoken the truth as I knew and believed it. As I wanted it to be.

  “Well,” he said finally, “I shall welcome this one as I have the others.”

  Which meant what exactly? Despite his warm affection for our daughters, he’d not spent much time with them since Wallie’s death. He dandled them briefly after dinner, but within a few minutes was always impatient to set out on his daily walk. Where Wallie had been permitted unhindered entrance to his father’s study, the girls were allowed inside only if the door had been left ajar. I wondered if that would change if the new baby were a boy.

  “The child will be born this summer,” I said. “Perhaps you could keep your lecture schedule clear for a few months. So that you will not miss this birth as you did the last.”