The Revelation of Louisa May (17 page)

Lidian went to the window and stared out into the garden. “Henry planted those roses for me years ago, not long after we first met. Have you ever heard the story? He wrote me a poem, wrapped it with a bunch of tulips, and threw it at the window.”

Louisa shifted uneasily in her seat. The last thing she wanted to hear was a charming anecdote about the start of Henry and Lidian's relationship.

“I brought the poem to Waldo. He invited Henry in. And then they became such good friends. Waldo laughed that Henry worshipped me, but he didn't take it seriously. Waldo thought of Henry as
his
friend,
his
protégé.”

“You can't blame Mr. Emerson for being Henry's mentor!” Louisa blurted out.

“Do you know how difficult it is to be married to a great man?” Lidian asked sadly. “He wants a companion to talk to. But although my mind is good, it's not quite good enough to follow all of his ideas. The distance between us has grown wider every year.”

“I'm sure he doesn't expect you to keep pace with his work,” Louisa said, thinking that if she were married to a man like Mr. Emerson, she would be happy to learn at his feet.

“You Alcotts are all so clever. My husband would rather talk to any of you than me.” Lidian's tone was sharp, as though this grievance had festered for too long.

“I don't think Mr. Emerson wants you to be a philosopher.” Louisa was thoughtful. “He's proud of how good a mother you are and how well you keep his house.”

“That is all I am to him: a wife and a housekeeper,” Lidian burst out. “In pursuit of his giant intellect, my husband thought nothing of leaving me to go to Europe for a year. And then he had Henry move into the house while he was away! Only a husband who doesn't think of me as a woman would do that.” The tears brimming in Lidian's eyes spilled onto her cheeks.

“He was concerned for your safety,” Louisa pointed out. “And he trusted you.” She started to stand up. She had no patience with Lidian's self-pity. It wasn't enough that she had won a man like Ralph Waldo Emerson; she had to chase Henry Thoreau, too?

“I mean no offense, Louisa—but you are an inexperienced child.” Lidian reached out and took Louisa's hands and squeezed them tight. “You can't possibly understand. Your parents are still passionately in love with each other, despite all their troubles. But do you know how Waldo describes our marriage? ‘A sober joy.' ”

Nothing romantic there, Louisa thought. “Perhaps that's what marriage is. Building a life together and sticking to each other through the best and worst of times,” Louisa argued, pulling her hands away. “How could you think of leaving Mr. Emerson?”

“Leave him?” Lidian was taken aback. “I'd never do that. I'd be a pariah. And in any case, I don't want to.” She stood up
and went to the fireplace, toying with the figurines she kept on the mantel. “I found solace in Henry's company. He looked at me and didn't see the mother of his children or the perfect helpmeet. It was like being half frozen and finding a warm fire.” She sank into her chair and stared miserably at the floor. “But I was never unfaithful to my marriage vows. And I would never leave my husband.”

“So you are just toying with Henry's feelings?” Louisa asked in a faint voice.

“No—he knows I'd never leave Waldo or the children. But he loves me anyway. I've been trying to end our friendship, but it's so hard to give up. And then this awful man Finch arrived and he misunderstood what he saw . . .” Her voice trailed away.

The silence played out as Louisa studied Lidian, wondering if she was speaking the truth. And if she was, did it matter? Finch could still wreck Lidian's life. Louisa had believed the worst—everyone else would, too.

In the distance, there was a loud bang and Lidian started, knocking over a little china shepherdess.

“I hate those hunters. Waldo is always trying to ban them from our woods, but they don't listen,” she said, her hand on her bodice as if to soothe her heart. Louisa paid no attention as she considered her response to all Lidian had said.

“It's not my place to judge,” Louisa said slowly. “But I do wish you and Henry had been more discreet. This man Finch hates Henry and he will think nothing of telling Mr. Emerson your secret.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” Lidian said. “After I saw you in the woods, I came home and went to my room to lie down. I heard a knock at the door, but I had already instructed Maisie that I wasn't at home if anyone called.” She dug into her pocket and pulled out a visiting card. “Later, I found this on the table in the hallway.”

Louisa held out her hand, feeling like a teacher and Lidian an erring student who had brought some contraband to school. The white card had the name R
USSELL
A
LEXANDER
F
INCH
embossed on one side.

“Did he ask for you?” Louisa asked.

Dashing the tears from her cheeks, Lidian shook her head. “He asked for Waldo! Thank goodness he's visiting the girls in Boston. But Finch means to ruin me, I just know it.”

Louisa hesitated, then took Lidian's hand. “We won't let him. You've done nothing wrong.”

“I said I hadn't dishonored my marriage, but in my heart I was half in love with another man. Perhaps I deserve to suffer.”

“No one deserves the likes of Finch,” Louisa said. “Certainly not you and Henry.”

“And what about Henry?” Lidian cried. “I'm so afraid that he'll do something rash. He is so chivalrous, he might resort to violence. I'd never forgive myself if he did.”

“Henry is a man of peace,” Louisa protested. How could Lidian, who claimed to love him, not know that?

Lidian buried her face in her hands and said in a muffled voice, “I hope so—but there is so much at stake.”

“Fred and I will help you if we can,” Louisa promised.

Lidian began to protest. “I don't want Fred to know about this.”

Louisa held up her hand. “Fred was there today. He already knows.”

Lidian wrung her hands together.

“You can trust him; he's a gentleman. And he deeply admires Mr. Emerson and Henry.” Louisa stood up and smoothed her skirt with the palms of her hands. “We're working on a plan to get Finch to leave town.”

Lidian had also stood. She ran her hands over her hair, tucking away the stray bits that had escaped in her distress. Suddenly, she was restored to the Lidian Emerson that Louisa had always known, the unflappable housekeeper and well-respected wife to the great philosopher. “Thank you for your help.”

“Have courage, Lidian. But now I have to find Father.” Louisa quickly left the parlor, eager to be in the fresh air, away from Lidian.

Just as she left the Emersons' garden it began to rain. It was a heavy shower, the kind of rain that farmers love to see in spring. Louisa considered turning back. But almost as soon as it had started, the rain dissipated, leaving her hair dripping and her skirt heavy with water.

Halfway to the gazebo she heard the sound of someone charging through the woods, pushing branches aside and tripping over rocks. It was Fred. When she saw his ashen face she
cried out, “Fred! What's wrong?” A series of terrible possibilities ran through her mind. “Is it Beth? Is Father all right?”

Fred finally reached her, breathing hard. His eyes looked haunted.

“Fred,” she cried. “Tell me what happened.”

“It's Finch,” he said, still gasping for air. “He's . . . Louisa, brace yourself. He's dead!”

“Mercy on us! What has happened?” cried Jo,
staring about her in dismay
.

L
ouisa stood, frozen, her mind trying to absorb Fred's meaning.

“Louisa, didn't you hear me?” Fred cried, trying to catch his breath. “Finch is dead and your father is hurt.”

“Father?” Louisa's attention came into sharp focus. “Where? What happened?”

“The gazebo. Wait, Louisa, you mustn't go. It's not seemly. You get the doctor and I'll . . .”

“Get the doctor yourself,” Louisa said before Fred could finish his sentence. Then she was running, faster than she had ever run before. She hurtled into the clearing in front of the Emersons' gazebo, then stopped short as though she had run into an invisible wall.

Finch was lying on his back on the ground. He was perfectly, unnaturally still. His arms were spread out and a crimson stain spilled across his white shirt. A few feet away, her father was pushing himself up from the ground to his knees, one hand cradling the back of his head. Blood seeped through his fingers.

“Father!” Louisa cried, hurrying to him. “Let me see.” She peeled his hand away from his skull. A bump, swollen and bloody, nestled in his gray hair, which glistened with raindrops. “Can you stand?”

With Louisa's help, Bronson got to his feet. She was tall and sturdy, but she almost buckled under his weight. She helped him to a bench to one side of the gazebo's door. “Sit down. No, not there, it's wet. This spot is dry.” He sank to the bench and leaned back.

“Father, what happened?”

“I don't know. I was working on the door.” His hand made a half-gesture to a door he was building for the gazebo. It was unlike any other door in Concord, possibly in all of Massachusetts. Made of twisted boughs of wood from the forest and assembled in a fanciful sculpture, it was a more suitable
entrance for fairies than philosophers. “Someone hit me from behind. That's all I remember.”

“You didn't see Finch?” Louisa asked.

“Finch? That slave catcher you are so afraid of? Is that who he is . . . was?” Both of them avoided glancing at the body in the center of the clearing.

Louisa nodded. “Who shot him?”

“I've no idea.”

“You were alone?”

He looked her straight in the eyes. “Yes, I've been alone all day.” Louisa watched him carefully. She might not be as clever as her mother at spotting his evasions, but she was almost certain her father was lying.

He went on. “When I recovered my senses, I saw that man dead on the ground. Then you arrived.” He moaned at the pain in his head. “Now you know everything, so stop haranguing me, Louisa.”

Louisa slipped inside the gazebo and found her father's metal canteen hanging on its hook on the wall. “Drink, Father.” He gratefully sipped the water.

As she stood up, he asked, “What are you going to do?” He was being unusually meek, a condition Louisa attributed to the bump on his head.

“I'm going to make sure that Finch is really dead,” she said. “You sit and rest.” Opening his mouth to protest, he thought better of it and closed his eyes and let her get on with the grisly
task. She slowly approached Finch's body, hesitating, ready to draw back. She had never seen a man dead by violence before.

Finch's eyes were wide open, blue orbs staring blankly at the sky. His mouth was twisted in a grimace of surprise and anger. Gritting her teeth, Louisa placed her finger against his wrist. The skin was still warm to the touch but no blood pulsed through his veins.

With a sick feeling in her stomach, she examined the wound in his chest. A hole surrounded by black scorching, oozing blood. Then she remembered how she had heard a gunshot. She quickly searched the clearing, but didn't find a gun.

She returned to her father. “Father,” she said gently, kneeling at his feet. He opened one eye, wincing at the light. “Where's the gun?”

“Louisa, I told you. I don't know anything about him or how he was killed. It all must have happened while I was unconscious.” His voice rose an octave, and she regretted asking him anything while he was in this state.

“All right, Father, sit still.” She patted his leg in reassurance. “Fred is bringing the doctor. And the sheriff.”

Standing up, she put her hands on her hips and forced herself to consider the situation dispassionately. Her father's story was implausible to say the least. It was one thing to lie to his daughter, but what would the sheriff think? There was a dead body to account for; tough questions would be asked.
To protect her father from himself, she had better find the answers first.