The House of Hawthorne (27 page)

W
e move into the first home we have ever owned, and are greeted by Ralph and Lidian Emerson and Henry Thoreau, who are delighted at our reentrance into Concord society.

The Alcotts called this ancient house the Hillside
because of its situation at the bottom of such a landform, but we have changed the name to the Wayside to honor those soldiers who marched past it on their way to the battles of Lexington and Concord. I have also begun the extensive renovations that will be needed to resurrect the old girl, as I affectionately think of her. I have hired men to paint and build, and on my own I have torn down dry-rotted wallpaper and supervised Una as she hung paper in Nathaniel’s study and in the dining room. I place
Endymion
in his study, and the work has never been more at home as on the wall of this old house. It is as if it always wanted to grace this room, and glows with a new feeling. I have had a sapphire
carpet laid in the study and an emerald rug in the dining room. It is shocking how a splash of green is like a spring bloom pushing through the brown earth, bringing vitality to the house. The carpets and paints draw out the colors in the Italian landscapes and the Grecian busts as becomingly as in a museum, and though the exterior of the Wayside still needs much work, I am proud to greet guests here.

“I must admit,” says Nathaniel, “I did not think it possible to make this drafty clapboard frame habitable, and suspected we would fare better in Thoreau’s Walden cabin. I never should have doubted the magic of your touch.”

“I will tell Louisa you said so,” I say, holding up a sheet of stationery. “I miss your sister dearly, as do the children. I told her she must visit us now that we are settled, and I will not hear of any more excuses. We might even encourage her to live with us permanently, instead of with distant relations in dismal Salem.”

“Good thought,” he says. “And please send Elizabeth my thanks for the books to add to our home library. Your sister is very kind to remember us.”

It remains unspoken that Ebe continues to remain aloof. I have given up hope that we will ever have a close relationship. She has taken up a small dwelling alone at the seaside, with a rent not too burdensome for us.

“Mary sends her and Horace’s best,” I say, pulling her letter from the stack. “They are pleased to see you gaining recognition for your work, and see our purchase of the Wayside as proof of our prosperity.”

“It will only take one visit for them to see that we prosper in
love, but not wealth, but if I had to pick one over the other, I would choose the former.”

“Indeed.”

Julian comes to the door with his face and hands covered in mud and a smile that graces his cheeks from one side to the other. He brushes his curls from his forehead in a gesture so like his father’s, I press my heart at the thought of how grown-up he is getting.

“I have dug up a hawthorn bush!” he says.

“Not from our neighbor’s yard, I hope,” I admonish.

“No, Mama. From the hill behind the Wayside. We may plant it in our front yard like we are planted in our own house.”

In the doorway behind Julian appear Una and the Emerson children, Ellen, Edith, and little Edward. Lidian also enters the frame, and I am pleased to see her so lively. I know one child can never replace another, but she seems to have found a new vitality now that another son has been born to her and Mr. Emerson.

“I hope you will join us at our gathering this Saturday,” says Lidian. “There will be many important and learned fellows who would love to mingle with Mr. Hawthorne.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I am sure we will be happy to attend.”

Just as I think with gratitude how blessed we are to have so many friends, and such ample society, I catch sight of my husband in the corner. He appears trapped, his face pale, his eyes shadowed. Unease vibrates off of him. I know that he fears there will be no stillness, no solitude in Concord.

As politely as I am able, I usher the group to the front yard for the ceremonial planting of the hawthorn bush. I squeeze
Nathaniel’s arm on the way out and note that he feels as stiff as stone.

All is hustle and bustle as we prepare for Louisa’s visit. She writes that after her trip from Albany on a Hudson River ferry, she will see the sights in New York City, and then take the train north on July twenty-eighth, to spend several weeks with us celebrating our housewarming.

Nathaniel’s
Blithedale Romance
has been released, and his publisher says he thinks they will sell out of the first printing. While I am very glad to hear this, I quake and shudder a little at what readers will think.
Blithedale
is nearly an autobiography, and Nathaniel’s chronicle of his time at Brook Farm and the devastating suicide of the Hunt girl resituated within the frame of the story are most unsettling. While Nathaniel read the novel aloud to me over many nights, I could not help but feel disturbed that Margaret Fuller was present on every page. I am further upset by the knowledge that my husband has begun working in earnest on Franklin Pierce’s biography, and I fear that his friend’s unpopularity among abolitionists like Emerson and even my own siblings will cause strife in our family.

I have distracted myself from dwelling too long on such thoughts by weeding the front gardens with the help of the children, and planting rows of dear flowers to welcome Louisa. After each blossom is laid in the earth, each of my angels and I kiss it and welcome it to our land. The children are charmed by the practice, and it settles my nerves.

Once I have swept the front walk and fluffed the sofa pillows, scrubbed the children to shining and checked on tomorrow’s dinner, I can finally rest and enjoy my excitement. Nathaniel reads aloud to us from his
Wonder Book
while I mend the baby’s socks. It is a pleasure to hear his deep, warm voice animate the text. There are no stories on this earth, even his own, that cannot be made better by his elocution of them. We put the children to bed with wishes for a blessed sleep and prayers for Aunt Louisa’s safe delivery to us.

Nathaniel is in good spirits the morning of her arrival, and while I dress for breakfast, he has the audacity to pat me on the behind. I am shocked and delighted, and when I turn to scold him through my smile, I am moved to see how like his Old Manse self he looks.

“You have lost years overnight!” I exclaim. “It seems I have married Endymion after all.”

I turn and regard myself in the looking glass, frowning at my wide hips, my spongy midsection, and the sneaky lines of gray hair that seem to reproduce overnight.

“I am afraid you have married a mortal after all,” I say. “I look very much my age.”

He comes up behind me and gazes at me over my shoulder in the mirror.

“My love, your face could not be more handsome, your eyes more kind, your figure more inviting than they are now. You are only improved since the first time I set eyes on you. Then you were a mere girl; now you are a woman.”

He kisses my neck, and I relish this moment. Something out
the window distracts me, however, and I am surprised to see Nathaniel’s old custom house friend William Pike walking up to the house, wearing a grave expression.

“What is Mr. Pike doing here?” I ask.

Nathaniel follows my gaze out the window, and in our reflection in the mirror, I see his smile evaporate.

“I cannot imagine,” he says, and in a moment, we are separated and his warmth is gone from my body.

While Nathaniel puts on his jacket and steps out of the room, I walk to the window and call down to Mr. Pike.

“Welcome,” I say, motioning him toward the house.

He raises his hand and nods, but looks very morose. I am filled with dread, and hasten to finish dressing and pinning my hair before hurrying downstairs. Soon the children have joined us as Nathaniel opens the door to Mr. Pike and offers him a seat, which he looks very much like he needs. I instruct the children to play on the pine path, and Una, sensing my unease, leads her siblings away, hushing their questions.

“Please,” says Nathaniel, as soon as they have gone. “What is wrong?”

Mr. Pike looks from my husband to me before he utters the terrible words.

“Louisa is dead.”

Nathaniel mutters a strained cry. I begin to sob.

“It pains me to bring you this tragic news,” says Mr. Pike. “A most horrific occurrence on the Hudson. The boat on which she traveled, the
Henry Clay
, apparently entered into a race with another vessel. At some point it caught on fire and split in two, and
the passengers had to jump overboard and swim for their lives. Louisa was one who did not make it to shore.”

I am breathing so fast and so hard I fear I will hyperventilate. My husband gasps and stands to lean on the mantel before staggering to the stairs. I move to follow him, but he holds up his hand and climbs to the second floor.

“I am so sorry to bring this news,” says Mr. Pike. He places his face in his hands.

In a moment, Una trails her siblings, who will not be kept away. When they see me in tears, they run to me for comfort and I must tell them. I break into fresh sobs, especially when I see their quivering lips and pained faces. Only little Rosebud does not understand, though she is sad to see her mama so upset. She crawls into my lap and buries her head in my dress. Una and Julian sit dumbfounded, sniffling and wiping their eyes at intervals, trying to comprehend that they will not get to see their beloved auntie Louisa now or ever. Just when I think I will collapse from grief, a thought seizes me.

“At least she is with Grandma Hawthorne now,” I say. The idea brings me such comfort that it is as if a breeze has moved through the room, and Louisa’s spirit has blessed us all with this knowledge. “She will never be ill, or cold, or tired, or sad in any way again. She will be in heaven with her mama. Is there any more restful place?”

Una stops crying and nods her head, but Julian cannot stop his tears. The poor dear has never known such sorrow.

After a time, I know we must eat the breakfast that has been prepared, which we imagined would be partaken amidst joyous
chatter and is now accompanied by tears and lamentation. I know better than to fetch Nathaniel, and I wonder how long he will remain upstairs. Mr. Pike cannot be persuaded to stay and eat, and leaves us with condolences and apologies.

“I want Papa,” says Julian, after Mr. Pike has gone.

“You must leave him,” says Una. “He has lost his sister and needs to be alone.”

I am quieted by my eldest daughter’s insight. Though not yet ten, she is a wise girl. Julian is only six, and must think on this awhile as he eats his eggs. Soon his face brightens.

“I know,” he says. “I will tell him what Mama said. Aunt Louisa is with Grandmama in heaven. That will make him feel better.”

Julian jumps from his chair and runs out of the dining room to the stairs. Una makes a move to stop him, but I place my hand on her arm. We listen as Julian’s footsteps pound above us, but then all is quiet. In a minute or two, Julian returns with a hanging head.

“Papa is gone,” he says.

“I am sure he is outdoors,” I say. “Probably walking his path. Let us finish, and I will keep a plate for when he is ready to come in.”

The rest of the day is passed in heavy silence, and I am weary by the time I tuck the children into their beds that night. I cannot help but imagine Louisa and her terrible watery death, the passengers screaming and burning around her, and the awful decision she made to jump, hoping that someone would rescue her while her skirts became so saturated with water that they pulled her down to the depths of the Hudson. And will her body
ever be found? Will she be rigid and blue like Martha Hunt, or lost at sea like Margaret Fuller? What is the source of this legacy of drowning among our friends and loved ones?

Nathaniel has been gone for hours, and I begin to worry. I step outside into the twilight, where fireflies wink in the grass, and the first stars appear against the pink and indigo wash of sky. It would have been such an enchanting night to introduce Louisa to the Wayside, and this thought nearly undoes me.

I redirect my attention to finding Nathaniel, and soon his figure appears as a silhouette on the hill behind the house. He moves among the trees, so removed from me that he is like a ghost. I take a step toward him, but something stops me. He wants to be alone, and I cannot bear his rejection of my comfort, so I will leave him on the hill to pace and mourn in solitude.