The Revelation of Louisa May (5 page)

He reached out to help her up. “I rather think you stepped in front of me. This was your fault.”

Feeling ridiculous and at a disadvantage, Louisa clambered to her feet, ignoring his outstretched hand. “I disagree. You were riding recklessly. This road is used by children and livestock, all moving at reasonable rates of speed. If you aren't careful the next time, you'll kill someone.”

He took a deep breath, as if to control his temper. Louisa recognized the technique; she often used it herself with varying degrees of success. “Young lady, I beg your pardon,” he said, his tone suddenly courteous. “What I did was unforgivable.”

“I do pardon you,” she said, knowing she should apologize in her turn, but he had put her back up.

His lips twitched, perhaps to resist smiling at her rudeness. “My name is Russell Finch,” he said. She inclined her head, acknowledging the introduction but still wary. In her experience people did not go from rude to ingratiating without a hidden motive.

“I'm from Concord originally,” he said. “I'd be very grateful if you can tell me where Henry Thoreau might be found.”

“Henry Thoreau?” she repeated, eyeing Finch. She didn't like the look of this stranger. He could ask her until doomsday before he would get any information from her about Henry. “I've heard the name, but I don't think I know him.”

His pale gray eyes stared her down in return. “Really? Unless Concord has gotten much bigger in my absence, I find that hard to believe.”

She shrugged and started walking, leaving him behind. She heard him mount his horse and come up behind her at a decorous pace. “Well, thank you, Miss . . .” He paused, looking down at her from the saddle. “I don't think I heard your name.”

“That's because I didn't tell you,” she replied, keeping her eyes forward.

There was a long pause and then he suddenly shook the reins and kicked his horse. Louisa coughed from the dust thrown up by his galloping horse. She scowled after his disappearing figure, wishing she had been even more discourteous.

Careful to look in both directions, she crossed the road and made quick work of the quarter mile to the Emersons' house. At the white fence, she paused, looking up at the familiar and beloved house. Mr. Emerson lived in a proper home, with servants and carpeting and stoves that warmed every room without filling them with smoke. Best of all was his library.

She climbed the steps to the front door and let herself inside. Long ago the family had insisted Louisa treat the house as her own. How she wished it were! The front hall was filled with paintings and statues, with pale flowered paper on the walls. Lidian Emerson, Mr. Emerson's wife, had delicate tastes, and she ordered the paper from a fancy store in Boston. Louisa loved how the pattern repeated across the walls, never varying, always predictable. She and her sisters had painted designs on their walls, with uneven results.

Mr. Emerson's library was to the right and she knocked softly.

“Who is it?” The familiar deep voice sounded wary.

“Louisa,” she answered.

He responded at once. “Come in.”

She pushed open the door and stepped into her favorite room, her sanctuary and refuge from the chaos of daily life at
the Alcotts'. Here, she could read as much as she pleased and no one ever bothered her. It was also Mr. Emerson's office and even as a little girl, she had been one of the few people he tolerated in the room while he was working. Every time she came into the room she glanced at the sofa with the legs shaped like elephants. She smiled, remembering how she used to burrow into its depths, intent on discovering the secrets in the novels of Sir Walter Scott and Charles Dickens.

In the center of the room, seated at a round mahogany table, Mr. Emerson was writing in his sprawling illegible way, fitting only five or six words to a line. From long practice, she waited until he finished his thought. She admired his profile as he wrote. Not quite fifty, Emerson was an imposing figure of a man who carried himself like a statesman.

With a flourish, he finished the sentence and pushed away his morocco leather writing pad. His eyes lifted, and he smiled at the sight of her.

“Louisa, my dear, thank goodness it's you. I thought it might be that Edith Whittaker woman.”

“Ah,” she said, understanding his suspicious greeting. “Has she been a frequent visitor?”

“Too frequent. While it is gratifying to be so admired, it can be tiring.” He looked at her slyly, peering down his large nose that somehow fit his face to perfection. “I wager she has not yet worn out her welcome in your father's study!”

Louisa didn't hide her answering grin. “Not yet. At least not with Father. Marmee, however, could do with a little less of Miss Whittaker's company . . .”

Emerson chuckled. “And how are you?” he asked. “Have you already finished the book I gave you?”

“No, sir,” she said. “
Jane Eyre
is so wonderful that I am rationing it. I read a chapter a day, unless I have lost my temper. Then I must wait another day. At this rate, I may never finish.”

“That's your father's preaching,” he chided. “Self-denial is all very well, but not at the expense of your true self. Your temper is part of what makes you a splendid person.”

Louisa tilted her head to one side. “So you think I should finish the novel?”

He grinned wickedly and his deep-set eyes glinted with enjoyment. “I'm trying to give you a sound philosophical reason for doing so.”

“Just in case I have to justify my actions?” She felt her own smile broaden. “I'll do exactly as you say, particularly as I'm dying to find out what happens to Jane and Mr. Rochester.”

“But if you don't need a new book, why are you here, my dear?” he asked, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

“Marmee sent me.” She took her seat. “Last night I found a ‘package' who is to stay with us for a few days while his family makes the journey North.”

Emerson's grin faded and he leaned back in his chair. “I see,” he said, in a flat voice.

Louisa had long ago decided that Mr. Emerson was the finest man she knew. But there was one part of his personality that she could not reconcile herself to: Dedicated as he was to the freedom of all men, how could he not be involved with the work of the Underground Railroad? His wife, Lidian, and his closest friends were active participants, but Emerson held himself above the fray.

There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence. “Mother thought you ought to know,” Louisa said finally.

“Your mother is a wonderful and caring person,” Emerson said thoughtfully. “But I wonder if this is one burden too many for her. How will you feed him?”

Louisa sighed. “Marmee is going to New Hampshire for the summer to work. So it falls to me.”

Emerson's eyes rested on her with kindness mixed with exasperation. “What are they thinking?” he muttered to himself. Louder, he said, “Let's dispense with these foolish circumlocutions and speak frankly. What if you are caught sheltering a fugitive? Your father could be prosecuted—maybe even you, too. Then what would become of you all?”

“It's a risk we accept,” Louisa said. “It's not enough to just talk about the abolition of slavery; I think that we must also act to make it so.” She cringed a little, watching his face for his
reaction to what could be interpreted as criticism of Emerson himself. She breathed easier when he began to laugh.

“Louisa, you are the daughter of both your parents. You have your father's idealism with your mother's practicality. How old are you now? Only fifteen and already a force to be reckoned with.”

Louisa's face grew warm. At home she was never praised like this. Even her mother's encouraging words were often tinged with her father's disapproval.

Emerson went on, “Tell Lidian about your slave and that Mrs. Alcott is going away. She will help all she can. Especially if there are children.” A brief shadow crossed his face then flitted away. But Louisa knew he had been thinking of his own little boy, Waldo, who had died of scarlet fever six years earlier. Waldo was never far from his thoughts.

He waved his hand toward the back of the house. “Queenie is somewhere about. I'm sure she'll be of great help to you.” Despite his irreverent nickname for her, Emerson was very proud of his regal second wife.

Taking his words for her dismissal, Louisa left the study by the door to the dining room. It was empty, as were the kitchen and the parlor. She listened and thought she heard a rumble of voices upstairs. She hurried up the narrow back stairs. As Louisa rounded the landing where the stairs doubled back on themselves, she stopped short.

Lidian Emerson stood at the top, her back pressed against the wall. A man leaned over her, his hand braced on the wall above her head. They were talking in low voices, his lips near to her ear. He was dressed in clothes the color of the woods. It was Henry Thoreau.

When Lidian saw Louisa, she pushed Henry away, almost as if her hand completed the action without her willing it. She stood in a patch of sunlight coming in from a window set high in the wall. Although near fifty years old, she was considered a beauty, with wide-spaced brown eyes and porcelain skin. She was the kind of person who couldn't tolerate any untidiness and even the part of her thick dark hair surrendered to her quest for order.

“Louisa!” Henry said, stepping away from Lidian.

“Louisa,” Lidian said in the exact same moment. “I wasn't expecting you.” She smoothed her already perfect hair, and turned away from Henry to face Louisa.

Louisa's eyes traveled between the two, wondering at their odd behavior. They were acting as if Henry shouldn't be there. But when Henry wasn't writing he earned his living doing odd jobs, including tending the Emersons' garden and minding their chickens. When Emerson had gone to Europe the year before, he had asked Henry to stay in the house and take care of Lidian and the children.

“A ‘package' arrived by rail last night,” Louisa said, relishing the conspiratorial language. “Mr. Emerson said I should tell you.”

“What kind of package?” Lidian asked.

Since Louisa didn't actually know any other Railroad terms and there was no one to overhear, she answered straightforwardly. “A solitary man, but there are more to come.” Louisa explained about George's circumstances. “Mr. Emerson thought you would be able to help with the children.”

With a sharp nod, Lidian said, “I'll put some clothes aside and start gathering the supplies they'll need.”

“Where is he staying?” Henry asked. “In the barn?”

Louisa nodded.

“I'll come back with you and meet him.”

“You were my next stop.”

“Be careful . . . both of you.” Lidian warned.

“Of course, my dear,” Henry said. His hand started toward her but she moved away.

Louisa frowned and turned to hurry down the stairs. Henry followed her outside, moving as effortlessly as she did. They had always had that in common—neither was happy sitting still for long, unless they were writing. It would have been better if she had found him some distance away so they would have longer to talk. Her best memories of childhood were of following Henry into the woods around Walden Pond.

“Louisa,” Henry began. “About what you saw earlier . . .”

“What?” Louisa answered, brow slightly furrowed. “I didn't see anything.”

Henry's face was flushed and he ran his hand through his thick black hair. “I was talking with Lidian . . . Mrs. Emerson.”

A twinge of unease stirred in Louisa's stomach. She didn't want Henry to be confiding any secrets to her. “You're very kind to her. I think she's had a hard life. It's not easy to be married to a philosopher if you aren't trained to it,” she said, thinking of her mother.

Although he clearly had intended to talk about something else, Henry couldn't resist ribbing her. “You think you'd be a suitable wife to a philosopher? You'd never stop pacing around the house or having arguments for the fun of it. There'd never be a moment's peace.”

“That's not true,” Louisa shot back. “I understand the need for conversation and high-minded thought. And you forget, I'd be writing, too. Lidian told me once that she thought of writing, but she's forgotten that in her quest to be the perfect housewife.”

“You're unfair to her. She is a great help to Emerson in his work as well as managing the house and children. He doesn't appreciate her. Louisa, her life is harder than you think.”

Louisa patted Henry's arm, as if patronizing him would keep him from admiring his best friend's wife. “I'm glad she has a
friend
to sustain her through her struggles.” Her tone lightly underlined the word “friend.”

“You make her sound pathetic. She's really very joyous,” he said, tugging at his necktie. “And very lovely.”

“For a woman of her age,” Louisa conceded.

“She's only fifteen years older than I am,” he said, starch in his voice.

Louisa felt the heat rush to the roots of her hair. If Henry wanted to confide in her, she was going to tell him exactly what she thought.

“She's Mr. Emerson's wife,” she said. “Our patron, your friend.”

“I know,” he moaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose furiously. “I've admired her for so long. From a distance,” he insisted. “She is Waldo's wife and must be above reproach. But today she was all of a sudden approachable and so kind to me. . . . I don't know why I'm talking to you like this. Sometimes I forget how young you are.” He gave Louisa a sharp look. “You must say nothing!”

“I don't gossip,” Louisa said, bristling at the suggestion. After an excruciating minute, she trusted her voice enough. “Why are we talking about Mrs. Emerson?” she asked. “We have so many more interesting topics to discuss.”