Afternoons with Emily (51 page)

Still, when his article “Amherst Educator Sees Each Child’s Unique Value” appeared, it was accurate and lucid. From the reactions
to this, and the
American Student
piece, and the news of the center, I suddenly acquired a professional correspondence.

Emily never once referred to Mr. Bowles’s article, although I was certain she must have read it. But I sent it to Roger Daniels
and received an immediate answer.

November 10, 1865

I am pleased to see that the world is beginning to take a serious interest in our serious foundation. Since this is now the
case, we must move forward.

I would like to meet you in New York directly after the New Year, as we have work to do there. Among other things we must
talk to the builder about the fourth-floor apartment on Washington Square. You and the staff working there should have a small
kitchen at the very least, and we need to settle various other arrangements. I feel we can do this better at the location,
working in tandem with Alan Harnett.

I would also like, with your permission, to arrange tickets for
Figaro
and
Orfeo.

And he closed with a postscript: “How strange — how lovely — to be looking forward to something!”

Mary Crowell and I continued work on transforming the laboratory at Amherst College into an ideal kindergarten space. Ethan
drew up plans for this as well. During one of Ethan’s visits at the beginning of November, Father requested that I arrange
to have a door made, connecting his library with the parlor. “Elena shouldn’t have to go out in the cold when she comes for
her myths,” he had said in explanation. “And you’re doing all that construction anyway.” Then he asked that Sam move his bed
downstairs. He slept in the library now, and Sam spent the night in Father’s old room. I knew what these changes meant: I
was witnessing him diminish.

I poured out my feelings to Roger and realized, as with Davy, we were using this correspondence to learn about each other,
both in what we wrote and then in how each of us responded to the growing wealth of information between us.

In response to my letter, Roger replied:

Your lovely long letter about your relationship with your father, and how it has evolved, was heartwarming to me. I understand
that you are afraid, that he is weakening. Did it help you to write? Often summing up for a friend can clarify one’s feelings.
I stand ready to listen, whenever you need me.

His insight touched me. He knew that I was fearing the worst, that which I could not face about my father. And this was disguised
by the fact that it appeared there was no need for this terror, for we seemed to have come to a plateau where father was neither
better nor worse. Only little things were signaling what was coming: among them his willingness to allow Dr. Bigelow more
visits, and that gentleman’s administering of digitalis. And then there was Father’s resignation, at midterm, from the college.

“Dr. Bigelow has extracted me from the department banquet and the farewell speeches in Greek and Latin.” He laughed. “We planned
it that way!”

Aunt Helen and I did everything as we always had, surprises for Elena, special treats to tempt Father’s failing appetite.
And so we continued until Christmas, and through the holiday, in a calm heightened by my certain knowledge that Father would
not see another.

In January 1866, as Roger had requested, I planned a trip to New York. As I packed I was surprised by the attention I gave
to my clothes: what dresses I should wear for meetings about our school, what evening gown would be best for the opera. I
decided upon the aubergine taffeta with a ruche neckline and caught myself wondering if this dress showed my coloring to advantage,
and then blushed that I had this thought. Roger and I are professional colleagues, I reminded myself. He and I were still
new in our friendship, and he was a man with complicated obligations. I was not sure where I should allow my thoughts to take
me.

In New York I was once again staying in the Harnetts’ tiny cottage. Father and Aunt Helen had thought it best that I be chaperoned,
so perhaps the attraction between Roger and me had been detected even if it went unacknowledged.

Alan and Fanny had given up one of their children’s rooms for me. The seventeenth-century Dutch colonists must have all been
miniature figurines, I thought as I bumped my high, absentminded forehead on the eaves of the house, but nonetheless I felt
at home, enjoying the prospect of what we hoped to achieve together.

And there was another prospect I was enjoying. Roger had arrived before me and had taken a suite of rooms at the plaza. He
had left a note requesting that Alan and I meet with him and Elliot Peck, a specialist in stained glass windows, at Mr. Peck’s
offices in Washington Square at our convenience.

“And I would like to call upon you in the evening,” he added, “when you feel refreshed from your journey.”

I had arrived too late for this to occur on my first night there, and I was disturbed as much by my twinge of disappointment
— what could it hurt to wait twelve hours? — as I was by my sense of relief; I felt almost fearful at the prospect of seeing
him, of his direct gaze, of looking into those amber-colored eyes. This was a relationship with rules I did not yet know.

The evening passed far less evocatively than it might have if I had spent it with Roger. I had a noisy but uncomplicated time
with Alan and Fanny and their babies. Julian’s little brother, Henry, was a cherub, and I was thoroughly happy being entertained
by those two and later enjoying a delicious small supper at which the three of us discussed our present and future plans.

The next afternoon, there was Roger: elegant, tall, and calm. Did I imagine that there was a bit of suppressed energy about
him? Could he also have been feeling the tension that seemed now to be constantly between us? Or was his restrained demeanor
merely his usual way?

He, professional as usual, got immediately down to business, asking Elliot Peck if we might have the use of a small table
for our papers and explaining that I had been concerned about our dark north-facing classrooms. Between us, we devised panels
of glass — small clear panes set in lead, covering entire walls. Now our kindergarten would be bathed in light, even on the
darkest day. We worked for hours, adjusting, debating, considering, yet the time flew by.

After the meeting, Alan, Roger, Mr. Peck, and I celebrated at a nearby tavern with ale and oysters. All through the meal,
I was aware of a strange contradiction in Roger. I sensed his attention, but it was deflected: he seemed almost to be avoiding
those intense gazes we had occasionally shared earlier. He brought the conversation around to the foundation a number of times,
as if he were retreating to the safety of our professional relationship, while Alan and Mr. Peck chatted on about any number
of personal things. Only when Alan and Mr. Peck discussed the latest performances at the Academy of Music did Roger refer
to anything of a more intimate nature.

“Miranda has agreed to join me for both
Orfeo
and
Figaro,
” Roger said. It was here that his eyes finally rested on me. I saw warmth and anticipation in those eyes, heightened, perhaps,
by the flickering gas light.

“How marvelous!” Alan exclaimed. “The notices for both have been spectacular.”

Roger and Mr. Peck accompanied Alan and me back to the Harnetts’ little house. I had longed for a few moments alone with Roger,
if only to better gauge his mood. Had I been mistaken? I wondered. Is his interest purely that of a lawyer and his client?
But as I was lodging with the Harnetts, even a few moments alone were not possible. My questions reverberated more strongly
after Mr. Peck — whom I had met only that afternoon — kissed me good night, while Roger merely bowed his head. Perhaps it
was the ale and my giddy sense of accomplishment: I shocked myself by taking his hand, rising up on my toes, and bringing
my lips to his cheek.

“Till tomorrow night,” I told him.

Before I could see his reaction, I spun on my heels and entered the little house, Alan following behind me.

As I prepared for bed, I marveled at my boldness. Perhaps Roger’s formality brought about a little rebellion in me. At the
same time, my feelings were completely confused. I admired Roger, I was attracted — and yet . . . What could we have together?
What future was there for us?

I drifted off to sleep pondering such thoughts, and of course no answer came.

I didn’t see Roger all the next day. Alan and I had a busy time together going over curriculum and talking to plumbers. Not
exactly a glamorous way to spend time in such a fashionable city! But Roger was never far from my thoughts. What would our
excursion to the opera be like?

He arrived in the evening, resplendent in white tie and tails, and nearly took my breath away. He was so much more than merely
handsome; his presence had a weight to it that made me feel I was in the company of someone very important — someone who took
up space.

His eyes told me he thoroughly approved of my violet silks and the ribbon I had woven through my curls. He had a carriage
waiting outside, and a tingle of electricity shot through me as he helped me into the coach.

“You look quite beautiful,” he told me after he had settled into the seat. “All eyes will be upon you tonight.”

I smiled, taking great pleasure in his approval. “That will make the soprano quite unhappy, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps you could learn to sing,” he teased. “Then the show will be able to continue when she storms out in a jealous rage.”

“If I sing,” I joked back, pleased with our easy banter, “the entire audience will storm out.”

We arrived amid clattering carriages, and I tried to remember all the details that both Emily and Sue Dickinson would enjoy
hearing. Sue would want to know all the latest trends and be sure she was keeping up, while Emily would relish her imagined
superiority over such frivolous doings.

We found our box and sat in the plush velvet seats. “I’ve never been to an opera before,” I confessed.

Roger took my hand and squeezed it. “Then I’m glad I suggested it. It is my pleasure to introduce you to something that brings
me great joy.”

I discovered that evening, and the evenings that followed, that there were indeed two Rogers. There was my steadfast and correct
trustee, who was always ready with an opinion, advice, or an ear but who maintained a professional distance. And then there
was my gallant friend, delighting in watching me discover the city and its pleasures for the first time. We were able to build
on the closeness we had achieved through our letters, and over our private dinners and excursions we talked about ourselves
intimately — as true friends. I heard about his childhood; he heard about mine. I suffered with him when he related more of
his war experiences; he consoled me in my several losses. We were never without conversation.

I realized that Roger’s circumscribed demeanor was not due to a lack of attraction — rather, it was precisely that attraction
that made him distant. He was protecting me and my reputation. He is a married man, I reminded myself each night as I struggled
to fall asleep in the Harnetts’ close and crowded house. He has an important position with my foundation, which should never
appear to be compromised. He was formal out of respect — and it made me like him all the more. I knew I would be sorry when
my New York business was completed — all too soon.

When I returned to Amherst, I heard through Mrs. Austin that Emily’s aged dog, Carlo, had died. I was visiting at The Evergreens
to be introduced to Sue’s second child, a little girl named Martha. I was surprised that Emily herself had not sent me a note
on her dog’s demise. My feelings were mixed: guilty that Emily and I had become so estranged that she did not share this news
with me; relieved that I was not called to witness her grief in extremis. Sue and I wickedly entertained each other with possible
elegies to the old hound, mimicking Emily’s style at her grandest.

“Don’t be put out by Emily’s silence,” Sue said finally. “She has her hands full at the moment.”

“Really?” I asked, smiling down at Martha. “How so?” I couldn’t imagine what would keep her occupied other than her writing.

“They’ve lost their hired girl and have been unable to hire one on. All the household duties have now fallen to Emily and
Lavinia.”

“Is she writing?” I asked, handing Martha back to her fashionable mother. If Emily’s new responsibilities interfered with
her writing, she would be despondent.

“Less than before,” Sue admitted. “But it is hard to tell. It is possible she is simply sending me fewer of her poems. Martha’s
arrival . . .”

Here Sue trailed off, and I understood. Emily might be a devoted aunt, but she couldn’t keep herself from resenting how much
of Sue’s attention was fixed on the children. Despite all the years that had passed since Sue had been able to return Emily’s
undivided devotion, Emily seemed to resent it anew whenever Sue’s obligations and interests took her elsewhere. Perhaps this
was why I hadn’t heard from her lately; perhaps Emily was pouting over my deserting her for New York.

Well, if she wanted to be in touch with me, she would be. I would not allow her to make me feel guilty or force me to apologize
for the way in which my world was expanding, even as hers was narrowing.

In March, Ethan and Ann Mackay — very sensible, very kind — celebrated their first wedding anniversary. Their families and
their children — four sons and Elena — crowded Kate’s little parlor. For Elena, the occasion signified a new apricot velvet
dress and a ride on the cars. Since Father seemed stable, I had made the suggestion to Ethan and Ann that I remain in Springfield
while they took a brief anniversary trip. I could watch over the household, and it would give Elena a chance to know her brothers
again. In part this idea filled me with trepidation — what if she asked to stay on? — but when Ethan accepted my offer with
alacrity, I realized how strongly he must have wondered if we had done the right thing by keeping her in Amherst.