Mr. Emerson's Wife

by Amy Belding Brown

  “The snow defuses the light!” Henry cried, suddenly beside me. His face was radiant. He took the lamp, got down on his hands and knees, and scrambled into the cave. The snow seemed to swallow the light at first and then softly disperse it. It made me think of a rose opening for the first time.

  I laughed when Henry emerged, for snow scalloped his shoulders and matted his hair into the shape of a skewed halo. He wanted to see if, by sealing up the cave as tightly as possible, the lamp could be put out, or at least diminished, the way the sound of voices was inside the cave. Yet the wick burned as brightly as ever, no matter how tightly the cave was sealed, which seemed to utterly delight Henry.

  Later, as I knelt in front of the kitchen stove, chaffing Eddy’s hands, Henry came and knelt beside me.

  “You see, don’t you?” he said quietly. “The flame is not put out. Neither cold nor isolation can quench it. Even winter has no dominion over light.”

  THAT SPRING I became ill with a jaundice that so weakened me that I could no longer stand. I spent day after day in my chamber, drapes closed against the sunlight, while my skin assumed an alarming yellow pallor. Lucy did what she could and Elizabeth Hoar came often to lend her quick and gentle hand. But Henry was my chief comfort. He minded the children with care and affection; he oversaw the housekeeping, and attended to the guests who continued to visit Bush despite Mr. Emerson’s absence. In the late afternoons, he read to me—long, elegant books on Greek and Roman history, poems from the great English masters, and his own journal entries describing the beauties of the natural world. He denied me the newspaper, insisting that the sad business of the nation would only worsen my health.

  “When you’re well again, you may immerse yourself in that sorrow if you wish,” he said gently. “But now you must concentrate your attention on happiness.”

  He brought me wildflowers, Indian arrowheads, and small, smooth stones of many colors. He wrote to my husband, informing him of my illness, and reporting on various household matters. I wrote when I could, though for many weeks I did not have the energy to lift my pen.

  It was some time before I heard from Mr. Emerson. This saddened but did not surprise me. He had long since ceased to write to me except in the most perfunctory way. Henry, however, expressed indignation at my husband’s lapse of kindness.

  “You’re ill and I’ve informed him of the seriousness of your situation! There’s no reason why he could not promptly express his concern.” He refused to write to Mr. Emerson for many weeks, claiming that no matter how eminent a personage, a husband had an obligation to show some regard for his wife’s health and comfort.

  Henry’s anger affected me in a strange way. Though I was ashamed for my husband, and begged him to write more often, the infrequency of his letters helped to draw Henry back to me; his previous remoteness vanished. And so—sinner that I was—I encouraged Henry. I showed him my letters before I sent them, imploring him to discover what inadvertent phrase might offend my husband. In one I pleaded with Mr. Emerson to address me more intimately, more as a husband ought. His cool response was that such a course would be unwise, since I made a habit of sharing his letters with my friends and family.

  Angrily, Henry marched up and down the parlor, flinging his arms about like a marionette that had lost its strings and was no longer controlled by the puppeteer.

  “But you cannot deny the truth of his words.” I went to him and tried to still his arms with my hands. “Sharing is our common practice.”

  “Exactly!” Henry squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his palms against them. “He writes such words to silence you.” He dropped his hands and opened his eyes.

  “No!” I clung to Henry’s arm. “He writes to explain his actions. So that I might understand.”

  “Lidian.” Henry turned to face me. “You cannot deny that he neglects you. There is a cold indifference about him. He’s taken this tour with no thought for your convenience. He shows no proper sympathy when you’re ill. And he continues to pursue Margaret Fuller in Europe.”

  My hand fell from his arm. “What?” I said. “How do you know this?”

  He looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry. I should not have told you.”

  “Indeed you should if it is true!” My voice was on the verge of breaking. “I knew Margaret was in Rome, but I thought she was embroiled in some political situation. I did not imagine they might arrange an assignation!” Despite my weakness, I began to pace the room.

  Henry caught me by the shoulders and pressed me into a chair. “Calm yourself! You’re alarming the cat.” He gestured to the windowsill, where the gray tomcat, which had been sunning himself a few moments before, was crouched with his back to the curtain, his tail flicking angrily in and out of a beam of sunlight. I felt immediate regret and tried to rise from my chair to allay the creature’s anxiety, but Henry’s grip remained firm on my shoulders, so I could not move.

  It occurred to me that he was playing the part of my husband. That he was, quite consciously, doing what he would do and say had we been man and wife. I inclined my head so that my cheek rested briefly upon his arm.

  “Tell me,” I said, knowing even as I spoke how hypocritical it was of me to fret over my husband’s infidelities when I had been unfaithful myself. “I can bear it.”

  He closed his eyes. “My mother heard from one of her boarders that he’s to rendezvous with Margaret in Paris. He means to entreat her to return to America and live with you.”

  “Live with us?”

  “Oh, Lidian!” Henry eyes opened; his face was charged with compassion.

  “I ought to have guessed,” I said as my anger drained. “He has never promised to give her up. Yet from something he said before he left, I believed they no longer felt a strong attachment.” My hands dropped into my lap, and I found myself staring at them as they lay there, as if they did not belong to me.

  “I don’t understand why you stay with him,” Henry said. “I truly do not. He has so little regard for your thoughts and none at all for your feelings. You ought to consider leaving him.”

  I stared at him, wondering if he had lost all sense. “Leave him? How could I do that?”

  “Would it be so difficult? You’re a grown woman. You have resources, family and friends—”

  I cut him off. “Do you imagine for a moment I could desert my children?”

  “Of course not. You would take them with you.”

  “With me?” My shock deepened. Surely Henry knew that children lawfully belonged to their father. “How could I do that? The only place I feel at home is Plymouth; Mr. Emerson would know exactly where to find me.”

  “There’s a whole continent to the west. Land is plentiful. Anonymity is easily obtained.”

  “You can picture me as a pioneer woman?” I laughed. “You don’t know me as well as I thought. It’s a rare woman who has the necessary stamina and resolution, and I’m surely not made for the frontier. I’d perish in the first month.”

  “I was not suggesting you go alone,” he said quietly. “We’d go together. I’d gladly take you from your misery and help you find happiness there.”

  I studied the hem of my right sleeve. The black cloth had begun to fray. If I did not see to it soon, it would disintegrate into tatters. I wondered if my skills with the needle were sufficient to repair it. The meaning of his words finally penetrated my awareness.

  “Are you proposing marriage?”

  He did not answer at first, and his silence told me more than his words. “I’d not thought we needed that formality,” he said finally. “The West is a place of freedom.”

  “So you would rob me of my reputation—both past and future,” I said.

  “What do you care for your reputation? That’s the concern of vain women, of small-minded souls.”

  His words scalded me—I was suddenly and bitterly angry. “You do not understand the nature of marriage, Henry. Nor do you comprehend the situation of women. We own nothing but our reputations! It’
s the currency upon which our security depends.”

  “It’s your own lock which you fix to that cage,” he said. “I’ve sworn to take care of you. Have I not proven myself capable?”

  Each word was a blow to my heart. “You have proven that you can manage a home and keep it in good repair. You have proven that you are tender with children. But what warranty do I have that you would not turn cold as Mr. Emerson has once I agreed to your proposal? It’s in the nature of men to relish the pursuit. But their ardor quickly wanes once they’ve achieved their goal.” I could hear the fury in my voice, could nearly taste it on my tongue. “What assurance can you give that you will not resent me and my children as obstacles to your career, once you’ve burdened yourself with us?”

  He looked stricken, his sun-weathered face suddenly pale.

  “You see?” I went on. “You cannot give me any warranty, for you know the nature of men.”

  “I am not like other men,” he said in a low voice.

  “And I did not believe I was like other women, until marriage forced me into this mold. You have no idea—you can’t know—what marriage does to a woman. It is a kind of servitude from which there is no emancipation.”

  He was silent a moment. Too long a moment, I thought. When he spoke, his words were measured and slow, as if he were appraising each for size and shape before he said them.

  “There is always emancipation if one is willing to pay its price,” he said. “You misjudge me, Lidian. I know better than anyone what you suffer. And not merely for yourself. Your compassion for others is beyond compare. Of all the women I have met, I rate you most courageous. You hold fast to your principles, no matter the cost. You speak your mind and demonstrate your beliefs at great expense to yourself. You are—you have always been—my inspiration.”

  I shivered under the onslaught of his words. Here, at last, was what I’d yearned for—a man who wanted me not just on the periphery of his life but at its center. A man who knew me through and through and still loved me. I wanted nothing more than to rise and step into his arms, to feel the consolation of my heart beating against his. Yet I did not move. I had spent years disciplining my mind and body to ignore my own desires. Once again I forced myself into the stocks of my determination.

  “Your words are kind, Henry. But I don’t seek to be anyone’s inspiration. I seek only to do God’s will.”

  “I was being candid, not kind. And I know you do not believe that God wills your slavery.”

  I looked again at my hands, at the chapped skin and chipped nails. His words rang in my heart like the tolling of a great bell. I was unable to summon a reply, and so I sat silent until Henry finally turned and left the room.

  A TIDE TURNED that afternoon in our relation—there was a new distance between us. Henry and I still saw each other daily. We still sat across the table from each other at breakfast, dinner, and tea. We still frolicked with the children in the evenings, and still took them together on outings. Yet now there was a discomforting caution in the air. Though he was still my chief assistant and companion, I no longer opened my heart to him. Nor was he as candid with me. This unfamiliar wariness produced a curious effect—I became aware of the depth of my lust.

  My lust was not carnal. Though I’d enjoyed pleasure with him, it was not his body I desired. I lusted after Henry’s soul.

  28

  Nemesis

  In spite of Virtue and the Muse,

  Nemesis will have her dues,

  And all our struggles and our toils

  Tighter wind the giant coils.

  —RALPH WALDO EMERSON

  One evening in late spring after I’d put the children to bed, I began reading Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, which had been published more than two years before. I was soon so absorbed in the description of life on the Lloyd plantation that I did not hear Henry enter the parlor. I chanced to look up as I turned a page and found him standing in the doorway.

  “You’re reading Frederick’s book.” He did not smile.

  I nodded. “Yes, I can hardly put it down.”

  He came into the room and sat on the couch. He was hiding something from me. I was sure of it. I thought suddenly of the business of transport my husband had mentioned before he left for Europe.

  “Henry, please—tell me—” Here I paused while I tried to compose my thoughts into a sensible order. “I know you’re involved in some intrigue. Something that Mr. Emerson asked that you hide from me.” I watched his hands slide from his knees, where they had been resting, to the couch. They lay open beside his thighs, as if in supplication. Though he said nothing, I clearly read the dismayed question in his expression.

  “I overheard him speak to you that afternoon—when you were repairing the clapboards below my chamber window.”

  He closed his eyes and his head sank toward his chest. The gesture unnerved me. I dropped my book and went to kneel before him. I took his face between my hands. I meant only to raise his head so that he might look at me and see my tender regard. But he shook his head and his hands covered mine to draw them away.

  “Don’t,” he whispered. “Please.”

  But I was determined now to know the truth. “Just tell me. I’m more afraid of ignorance than peril.”

  “Waldo is my friend.” His eyes had fastened on mine. “You’re asking me to betray him.”

  “Betray him?” I wanted to push aside the wall of his resistance. I wanted to remind him that together we had perpetrated a far graver betrayal five years ago. Had he truly forgotten our tryst? “Haven’t we both betrayed him already?”

  He frowned and I saw something flicker in his eyes—a strange and urgent light.

  “Mr. Emerson need never know,” I said gently, and I waited for him to speak, my palms still clasping his face while his hands covered mine. The silence of the room grew suddenly oppressive. I had an urge to rise and flee—an urge that flooded me—then as swiftly ebbed.

  Then I did a strange thing: I rose on my knees, pulled his face close to mine and kissed him full on the mouth. I know I shocked him and, indeed, I shocked myself. Yet I felt him respond—his lips plainly welcomed mine—and my passion rose as the scent and taste of his breath mingled with mine. My hands slid from beneath his, fell to his neck and shoulders. I pressed closer, a movement that drove his knees into my stomach, but I did not care, for I felt his hands on my back.

  Suddenly, he broke away and leaned back into the couch cushions. I pressed my hands over my lips. I could not tear my eyes from his face, for I saw there a reflection of the stunned fear that filled my own heart.

  “I’m sorry!” I whispered. But he had closed his eyes and perhaps his ears as well. I let my arms fall to my sides. I did not understand how I could have done such a thing. It was proof that there was no goodness left in me. “Oh, Henry!” I reached to place my hand on his knee. His eyes blinked open and he stared at my hand—stared at it as if it were a repulsive insect that he discovered climbing his trousers. He got to his feet and crossed the room to pick up the book. It seemed odd for him to stand across from me in the room, while I sat on the floor.

  I stood up. I smoothed my skirts. My numbness—the numbness that I’d felt for weeks—had passed. I felt a rush of relief and then an overwhelming shame. “Henry, please say something.”

  His back was turned to me, yet I clearly heard each word he spoke. “You asked if I’m involved in an intrigue.”

  “Yes.” I wondered if I should go to him. I studied his back, noting that his shoulders looked less broad from that angle than when he faced me. It was a discomfiting perception—it had the ominous feel of a premonition. “Yes, I would like to know,” I said, my voice low, as if I were conspiring with him to perpetrate some abhorrent crime.

  He sighed. “For the past three years, I’ve been doing what I could to help slaves escape their masters.”

  “Slaves?” I’d heard rumors of an elaborate and secret system of transporting escaped slaves to safety in Canada, but i
t had not occurred to me that anyone living in Concord might be involved. “How do you do this?” I approached him and, since he did not turn, circled him so that I might observe his expression.

  “I transport them. I hide them in safe houses and I succor them. I do whatever I can to assure their freedom.” He looked at me then, finally. A flush instantly rose on his skin over each cheekbone.

  “I knew that whatever your endeavor was it would be noble,” I said. “I would like to help you. Surely there is some way I can be of use in this effort.”

  He regarded me thoughtfully. His gaze produced in me a most uncomfortable sensation—as if he did not know me. Had he already forgotten our kiss? His flush denied it, yet there was a remoteness in his eyes.

  “You can trust me, Henry—I assure you—I want only to relieve their suffering.”

  “My situation is complicated.” He still held the book in his hand. “I’ve been party to several schemes. Schemes for the purpose of ending slavery. In any way possible.” He glanced down at the book and then looked back at me. “By any means,” he said softly. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I was not certain that I did, yet I nodded. “I’m not afraid, Henry. If I were your wife, you would trust me.”

  It was an impulsive statement. As soon as I spoke it, I regretted having done so. I pressed my hand over my mouth and stared at Henry, expecting to see my own shock registered on his face. But he was not looking at me. He had turned, and was looking at the doorway into the darkened hall.

  I wondered what he saw. The children, I knew, were fast asleep, and the maid had retired to her quarters more than an hour ago. A faint chill crawled up my back, the sort of sensation I’d felt when I attended one of Cynthia Thoreau’s seances.

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  When he did not answer, I moved around him and stepped into the hall. I caught a flicker of something white in the darkness. I hesitated, still bathed in the uncanny chill. Wallie? All my faculties were alert to the slightest motion or sound. I took a step toward the stairs and there was an answering flutter and a small thump. I glimpsed a small foot.