Miss Emily (31 page)

Daniel has not replied to Mr. Austin's offer, and I see now that he is shuffling his feet as if he means to leave the room.

“Well?” Mr. Austin says. “What say you, Mr. Byrne?”

“It is kind, sir, that you wish to aid me, but I would prefer not to be indebted.”

“Nonsense. I will retrieve the money from your lodgings when you are gone, and that will be the end of it.”

“So, you will give me five hundred yet take seven.”

Mr. Austin whacks the side of his desk with his buggy snapper, and the rest of us leap like scorched rats. “I am giving you your freedom, man. I am breaking the law for you.”

“You are fond of unusual financial transactions,” Daniel says. I try to catch his eye to warn him to stop.

“What do you mean?” Mr. Austin says.

“You paid a man to go to war for you, they say.”

“I hired a substitute. A perfectly legitimate arrangement.”

Daniel snorts, and I fear that Mr. Austin will hand him in if he does not temper himself.

“We gladly accept your offer, Mr. Austin,” I say, “and we thank you.” I look to Daniel for his agreement. He nods and sits slowly into a chair by the wall. I go to him and take the seat beside him.

Miss Emily Says Farewell

T
WILIGHT FINGERS
A
MHERST WITH HIS TAWNY GLOVE, AND
I wait, first for night, then dawn and, lastly, morning and my brother's return. Slowly, slowly, the Pelham Hills drag the evening dark down like a cloak. I sit at my desk, my hands across it, immobile. I listen to a whip-poor-will send out its obsessive call and remember that it can sense a soul departing and capture it as it flees. And what then? I wonder. What does the whip-poor-will do with its soul prisoner?

Patrick Crohan is no more. Word flew throughout Amherst in the late evening, and Father brought it home from town, where he met Mr. Bowles the newspaper man, who knew that Crohan sometimes worked here. Now that it is certain that Crohan is dead, the stars slip from their orbit and spin awry. And, alas, all of great Neptune's ocean cannot wash his killer clean. I almost hear the hiss of the tattlers as they pass the news, and the manner of death, back and forward between them. The gossips do not know who the culprit might be, and long may it remain so. My hope is that our family name does not get snared in their prattle. Then Ada will be safe. There is no better secret keeper than a Dickinson; we are able to close around our skeletons as snug as a shroud.

Before the news of Crohan came, I bade farewell to Ada at the chaise-house as she and Daniel hurried into Father's carriage with Austin.

“Be sure to live life completely, my little Emerald Ada,” I said. “I wish I had.” I gave her two heated soapstones for their hands. “Continue to think well of me though we will be apart.”

“Tell my uncle I am sorry,” Ada said quietly. “Tell him I will write.”

We embraced, and Austin bundled her into the carriage before anyone might see. Ada's face looked smaller than ever, and weary, at the carriage's oval window. She raised her hand to me, then put her fingers to her lips and let fly a kiss. I caught it in my fingers and put it to my mouth.

So they are gone, fugitives both. And until I see my brother, I will not know if they are out of danger. For myself, I mean never to go outside again. Out in the world, there is tragedy; it is safer for me to write about catastrophe rather than live it.

My mind cannot surrender the vision of Crohan staggering backward, holding his punctured stomach and lowering his head to try to fathom his wounds. And then, when Daniel pushed him and he hit the ground, Crohan lay so forlorn in the dirt, letting out soft, inhuman whines of pain. I am frantic to rid myself of these scenes.

To switch my thoughts, I turn my gaze around my bedroom; it lands on the pictures over my bureau of Elizabeth Barrett Browning and George Eliot. I remember a far-off conversation with Ada; she stood before the pictures and studied them, as if trying to discern why they were there.

“They must be some of your Norcross relatives, are they?” she
said. “Neither of them is a Dickinson anyway—I've seen all of them, and they are handsome people.” She peered closer at Mrs. Browning and Miss Eliot.

When I laughed at her remark, she was injured. I told her who the ladies were and that they were heroines of mine, and she accepted that and seemed to warm to them from then on, dusting their frames carefully. I look now at the pair of writers on my wall—are they
so
plain?—and wonder how they coped when their hearts were sodden. But of course I know the answer to that already. They turned to words, and so must I.

I rise and take Emily Brontë from her perch beside my bed. I leaf through the pages, hoping for lines that will hand me consolation. My eyes alight on:

No coward soul is mine

No trembler in the world's storm–troubled sphere

I see Heaven's glories shine

And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear.

Would that I had my namesake's faith in a heavenly God; would that I had her courage.

Inky night folds down over Main Street. I go to Mother to say good night. She is propped in her bed, looking jejune and tiny in her cap and nightgown. It not being the Dickinson custom to make inquiries where they are not invited, she does not question me about being out of doors today. I offer it to her anyway. She is a Norcross truly, and I can see that she would like to ask but is restraining herself.

“I went to Austin's office, Mother, merely to help him with something. Nothing of concern.”

“Oh, yes, dear?” she says, as if she does not know I was absent
for most of the day. “Vinnie might have aided him. Your brother knows you prefer to stop at home.”

“He asked for my assistance. He needed
me
specifically.”

“And did Austin's need connect to the fact that we no longer have a servant?”

I look at Mother, her gentle eyes, her innocent face; I am shy of upsetting her. “No, Mother, it did not. Ada has had to return to Ireland, for her mother requires her. And is she not right to heed that call?” I wonder if I have dashed fast enough in and out of the lie. “She sends her deepest apologies to you.”

Mother sniffs and pulls her sheet up to her neck. “I will sleep now, Emily dear. Blow out my candle.”

The night is large and looming; to keep from slumber, I wander the house from eyrie to cellar. In my conservatory the cape jasmine is as luminous as my dress and the calla lily trumpets in silence, its tongue poking obscenely at me. I run my fingers over its succulent petals and will Father Time to slash mightily with his scythe. Up to the cupola I climb, seeking Mother Moon, but she is under wraps tonight, as are the planets. If only I could see Polaris, a lodestar to guide Ada's way. I will miss her about the house; her talk was like music to me, easing my aloneness and affording me a peek into her alien world. I will miss her companionship and the light she brought to the kitchen. I leave my covert and descend to the dining room; the clock shows that it is not yet midnight. My candle throws a monstrous shadow onto the wall before me.

“How will I hurry the hours along?” I ask my penumbral self. She, of course, does not answer.

I go to the kitchen and search for a sweetmeat to liven me up. There is a box of caramel somewhere, if Mother and Vinnie have
not unearthed it and scoffed their way through it all. Ada and I made it but days ago; I melted chocolate, she poured molasses, and we took turns stirring as it boiled, both of us damp-faced and tropical from the fragrant steam. No more will we make caramel together or charlotte russe; no more will we fashion potato scones or soda bread. No more will we walk the garden side by side, talking of Ireland and of America, each learning from the other. It grieves me sorely, though I know that Ada had to go, for her own safety and that of her man. Austin has been politic, and it is good that he was.

But what will Sue make of it? Will she feel righteous now that Ada is gone? Will Austin tell her
all
that happened? I think not, for there is danger in spreading the news around, even within the family. There are secrets already between Austin and Sue; both of them have shared intimacies with me about former lovers that the other does not know of; both of them harbor romantic thoughts that dwell outside their marriage. But they are only thoughts, and Austin and Sue are each so proud and so eager to appear
right
that, for now, neither will budge from where they are, no matter what unhappiness ensues.

The box of caramel sits on a shelf in the scullery, and when I snap its lid, sweetness engulfs me. I sit on the stool that Ada used to stand on and hold the box in my lap while eating piece after piece. The first candies I devour, chewing until my jaw smarts, but once the craving for a sweet rush has been sated, I suck, letting them melt to naught on my tongue. Sugar-full at last, I sigh, feeling both enlivened and dull. I wonder if I should have one more piece and put the box back but then decide to take it, for who knows of its existence now but me?

I carry the caramels to the library and sit in Father's Windsor chair; the blinds are up and the curtains open, but I make no move
to close them. I shut my eyes and run my tongue over my teeth to undo the molasses fuzz. And it is thus Austin finds me at dawn: snoozing in the book room with a box of candy in my arms for comfort.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I rise, still half in sloom. “They are safe?”

Austin nods. “You waited all night, Emily.”

I blink to waken myself; through the library window I see that morning bruises the sky. “How were they, Austin? How was Ada?”

“Neither spoke on the journey. I drove hard. The moon was fully round and bright, a great pearl rolling across the sky. It seemed to overtake us, and I followed it all the way to the town of Dana. It was the damnedest thing.”

“I saw no moon last night. Are you sure?”

“It shone bright as a lamp, Emily.”

“And Ada, where is she? Will she fare well?”

“I left them with a Quabbin man, a good fellow from Dana.

He set off with Ada and Byrne while I was there. I watched them go. I instructed him to leave them in the North End. They are no doubt with their own people by now.” Austin shakes his head. “I must sleep, Emily.”

“Thank you, Austin. For helping them.” I choose not to tell him that Patrick Crohan is dead; he will find that out soon enough.

“Good night,” my brother says. “But I should say ‘good morning,' I suppose.” He turns to me. “Think no more on Miss Concannon and Mr. Byrne, Emily. They are gone from us and, at last, are none of our concern.”

“I suppose you are right. I will sleep now, too.”

I let Austin walk before me through the library. His back is
erect; his lofty head holds itself above the world as if he does not quite live in it. My brother leaves by the front door and is gone.

I climb the stairs and lie on my bed; light fidgets across the floor through the windows. My eyes sting from weariness, and I close them and beg for peace. Ada is gone, and her absence turns my thoughts inevitably to Susan. Later today I will ask her to come to me; surely she will oblige and find it in herself to listen well and give me cheer. Though she did not approve of Ada, for reasons of her own, she will understand that there is a gap in my life now that Ada is here no more.