Nobody's Secret (2 page)

“Sometimes we have to endure unpleasantness to do the right thing,” Emily agreed, recalling more than one such occasion. “It’s often inconvenient.”

“Unavoidable, in this case.” His voice had an edge belied by his gentle manner. “But unpleasantness is the last thing a pretty girl like you should worry about.”

Emily’s forthright nature couldn’t allow such an untruth to stand. “I’m not pretty,” she said, matter-of-factly, as if it did not bother her at all. “I’m the plain sister.”

“How refreshing to meet such modesty, but I think it’s misplaced.”

Another item to add to his list of good qualities; he thought she was pretty. She crinkled her nose, wishing it wasn’t dotted with freckles. “That’s very kind of you, but I think you flatter me.”

“Better to flatter than to wound. That’s always been my maxim.” He pulled out his pocket watch, a gold affair with a “W” engraved on its back. His face displayed his consternation. “It’s getting late. Good luck with your bee hunting.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Have a good day, Mr. Nobody.”

“And you, Miss Nobody!” With a wave, he turned and strode away, disappearing into the hazy sunshine. Staring after him, she dabbed at her nose with a fingertip and licked it. The honey was full of clover, honeysuckle, and green apples, made by bees with discriminating taste. The hive must be nearby for the honey to be so fresh. Emily wished she had asked Mr. Nobody where to find it.

She lay down in the grass, arranging her body straight and comfortable. Mr. Nobody’s honey was indeed the missing catalyst for her experiment. Only moments later, a large bee landed on her nose. Eyes closed, Emily concentrated on every detail. The vibration of the buzzing tickled her nostrils. She felt certain she could count each one of the bee’s six legs. Its fur smelled of flowers. And all the while, her body quivered, wanting to flee before the sting.

Some keep the Sabbath going to church; I keep it, staying at home

Rain streamed down the windows. Translucent trails marked their passing like prison bars. A comfortable prison to be sure, Emily had to admit, with soft chairs arranged for conversation and needlework and books close at hand.

She arranged the sprig of lavender just so in the center of the flower press and screwed down the glass plate to flatten the flower. When it was ready, she would put it in her most private of notebooks.

Emily already knew what she would write in memory of her meeting with the mysterious Mr. Nobody:

There is a flower that Bees prefer.

She didn’t know which words would follow yet, but doubtless they would come to her.

With a sigh, she leaned her forehead against the windowpane, straining to make out the graveyard on the far side of the garden. On the whole, the Dickinsons were very fond of their home on North Pleasant Street with its ample rooms, wide-planked floors, and large, light-filled kitchen, but only Emily counted the graveyard as one of the house’s assets. She enjoyed walking up the gentle rise to commune with its inhabitants, who were all but forgotten except for the names on tombstones, eroded by wind and weather. One of her favorite places to sit and think was at the spring-fed pond at the edge of their property that adjoined the cemetery. But not in the pouring rain, and not with Mother so suspicious.

“Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, stop staring out the window. You aren’t going anywhere—not after you abandoned your sister yesterday!” Her mother was wrapped in quilts. Mrs. Dickinson half-closed her eyes, trying to ward off one of her devastating headaches.

“Mama, it’s all right,” protested Vinnie from her position in the armchair next to the small fire, a purring tomcat on her lap and
Godey’s Lady’s Book,
her favorite fashion magazine, in her hand. As Emily had hinted to Mr. Nobody, Vinnie was the pretty sister, full of health and blessed with an easy disposition. Almost three years younger than Emily, she was already more popular at school. Her chestnut hair was thick and lush. Mrs. Dickinson had only recently let her begin to grow it out. “I didn’t mind doing Emily’s share.”

Emily snorted. Vinnie had indeed minded, and had told Emily so in no uncertain terms the night before in their shared bedroom. But the Dickinson children always honored their alliance against their parents, much to the dismay of their mother.

“Nevertheless, it was unfair of Emily,” Mrs. Dickinson continued. “Today she has to make up for it. Have you finished dusting?”

“Yes, Mother.” Emily hastily retrieved the discarded dust cloth and rubbed at the window sash without conviction.

“And you’ve polished the tables?”

“Yes, Mother,” Emily said. Under her breath she whispered, “All the pestilence is swept away.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Dickinson was holding the
Hampshire Gazette,
the family’s preferred local paper. “I see your father’s business card is prominently displayed on the front page.”

Emily came to look over her shoulder.

Edward Dickinson
Commissioner in Bankruptcy,
Master in Chancery, Attorney
Amherst, Ma

“It looks very distinguished,” Emily said.

Mrs. Dickinson’s eyes were already moving down the page. “More news about potatoes. Our potatoes were fine; I don’t see this blight they keep writing about.”

Emily and Vinnie exchanged glances. Their mother was
quite capable of ignoring anything that didn’t directly touch her home or family.

“Girls, listen to this.” Mrs. Dickinson began to read from her favorite part of the newspaper, the Miscellany, where humorous and tragic stories were collected from all over the country. “It’s from Greenville, South Carolina.”

Horrors of Hydrophobia: The Greenville (S.C.) Mountaineer states that a slave in that vicinity, owned by Mr. Hiram Cosley, was bitten by a mad dog a few days ago. . . .Two of Mr. Cosley’s sons took a gun and went out for the purpose of finding and killing him. They had proceeded some distance from the house without finding him, when the younger brother (12 or 14 years of age,) started back leaving the gun with his brother. Before reaching the house he met the dog, which instantly sprang upon him, lacerating the back part of the neck in a shocking manner. The dog was killed, but the agony of the youth, both in mind and body, was distressing in the extreme. He begged his father to shoot him, and thereby avoid the horrid death of hydrophobia, which he supposed awaited him.

Vinnie had displaced the cat to move closer to the edge of her seat and Emily was pacing as though the suspense were chasing her about the room. Mrs. Dickinson stopped reading.

“Well?” Emily said. “What happened? Did he go mad?”

“Did the boy’s father shoot him?” Vinnie asked.

Mrs. Dickinson shrugged. “The story stops there.”

“That’s not an ending!” Emily cried with frustration.

Mrs. Dickinson carefully folded up the newspaper and put it aside. “The ending isn’t as important as the lesson. You’ll recall I’ve always told you to stay away from strange dogs.”

There was a knock at the door.

“I’ll answer it,” Emily said, exasperated. A moment later she returned, holding a folded square of paper. “Our neighbor, Mr. Banbury, did us the courtesy of bringing our post. There’s a letter from Father.”

“But we heard from him only yesterday,” Mrs. Dickinson said, taking the letter. “I hope nothing has happened in Boston. Perhaps his baggage has been lost?”

“Mother, he’s been at the hotel for three days. If his baggage were to go astray, it would have happened by now,” Emily said.

“I hate when he travels,” Mrs. Dickinson said. “Why would anyone want to leave home?”

“Mama, what does he say?” Vinnie asked, sounding almost as anxious as her mother.

“I don’t dare read it,” Mrs. Dickinson said. “What if it is bad news?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Mother! I’ll do it!” Emily took the letter from her mother’s hands. Her strong fingers made quick work of the wax seal that kept the letter private as it traveled through the mail.

Dearest Wife,

I am writing because I forgot to mention that Jasper needs to be reshod this week. Please send Emily or Vinnie with him to the blacksmith. Take him to Mr. Magee
in the center of town (not the smith on the north side of town). Remind our daughters that Jasper kicks. And when
they lead him on the road, have them beware of any loud noises that might make the horse rear up and knock them down. They should stay
to watch the blacksmith to ensure he replaces every shoe with new ones, but they must avoid breathing in the fumes from the smithy. I know you will not fail me. Do not worry overmuch, it is not good for your health.

With love,

Edward

Emily pressed her palm to her lips to stifle a chuckle. Her father’s letters were always the same. Don’t shirk your duty, no matter how perilous. Don’t endanger yourself, despite the risks that are all around us. And above all, don’t be anxious.

Vinnie and their mother looked relieved.

“If your father wants this done, we must do it immediately,” Mrs. Dickinson said. “Vinnie, you are better with animals. You should go.”

“But Mother, it’s raining!”

“I’ll go.” Emily knelt by her mother’s side. “I owe it to Vinnie for leaving her yesterday with all the chores.”

Vinnie snorted.

“Emily, you’ve only just recovered your health,” Mrs. Dickinson said. Emily had missed several weeks of school because of a persistent cough. Dr. Gridley, the family physician, had worried that it might be consumption. The dreaded disease had claimed many of Mrs. Dickinson’s relations, and she lived in fear that it would descend upon her children.

“I’ve been fine for almost a week. The fresh air will be good for me.”

Mrs. Dickinson glanced from her husband’s letter to the rain outside. Her face pinched with anxiety, she stroked Emily’s hand. “You’ll be careful?”

“Of course, Mother.” Emily jumped to her feet and took her cloak from its hook in the hall.

Vinnie followed with a scarf to wrap around Emily’s hair. “Don’t think I don’t know how you long to get out of this house,” she whispered.

“Would you rather go?” Emily said. At Vinnie’s involuntary glance toward her warm chair, Emily laughed. “I thought so. You’re worse than your cats. You don’t like getting wet.” Before her mother or sister could reconsider, Emily ducked out into the drizzle and picked her way across the mud to the small stable.

“Hello, Jasper,” she said, patting the horse on its withers. He skittered in his stall and tossed his head before she clipped a rope to his halter. “You’re bored to death, aren’t you? I can sympathize!”

With her father’s warnings about Jasper in mind, Emily avoided being trampled or knocked down as she led the horse out of the yard to head up the long incline toward the Common, the grassy square that formed the heart of Amherst. The mud made for tough going, but she was in no hurry to return home.

The drizzle became a downpour and Emily could barely see a yard ahead of her. She turned into the alley behind the row of merchants in the Common.

“Hello, Miss Emily,” the blacksmith said from his usual place by the hot stove. His body was shaped like a barrel, and his legs didn’t seem thick enough to support his weight. Shining with perspiration, he wielded a red-hot poker like a sword. To Emily’s amused eye, he seemed to be steaming in the damp air.

“Mr. Magee, how are you today?”

“Not too bad, for all that my rheumatism is bothering me a bit.”

“I’m sorry to have added to your labors, but my father would like Jasper reshod.”

“There’s one client in front of you. If you would be so kind, put Jasper in my extra stall next door. I’ll bring him back to your house for you.”

Thinking of her stuffy home, Emily said quickly, “I don’t mind waiting. I might go to the bookstore.”

He shrugged. “If you please, but be sure to tell your father I offered.”

Emily tugged on Jasper’s bridle to lead him back out to the extra stall. The rain, now a fine mist, felt cool and refreshing after the stifling heat of the smith’s forge. Without warning, Jasper, who had been a model of good behavior until then, balked at entering the narrow stall. She tugged and pulled, but nothing would persuade him to go inside.