The House of Hawthorne (28 page)

Louisa’s body is found, and Nathaniel travels to Salem for the funeral. Because of a miscommunication he misses the service, but is able to stand at her graveside and pay his respects with Ebe. It is probably for the best. Nathaniel is not one for a minister’s sermons.

The ensuing months, while we are supposed to be settling in our home, become darker and drearier. In spite of robust sales of
The Blithedale Romance
, Nathaniel cannot outrun his depression of spirits. I send him to the seaside to visit Ebe, and while he comes back in good physical health, I fear for the heavy veil over his soul.

I am devastated in January of 1853 by the death of my beloved
mother, and it is only because of my grief over not being able to attend to her in her final days that Nathaniel takes a break from his work. He comforts me with exquisite tenderness, and our little family resumes reading books and playing games by the fire. None of us needs to speak aloud how fleeting life is, and how we must enjoy one another to the utmost every minute we are in good health and one another’s company. We are still unsettled, however, so when Franklin Pierce is elected president and an appointment is offered to Nathaniel, we do not dismiss it outright, but rather weigh the benefits of traveling to foreign places in hopes of refreshing our minds and hearts. President Pierce would like Nathaniel to be the U.S. consul in Liverpool.

“England, Sophia,” says Nathaniel. “Just think of how often we have gone there on the words of Shakespeare and Wordsworth and Shelley. Imagine visiting the land from which my ancestors set out centuries ago. Here is our chance to unite the future with the past, and escape the pain we have here.”

“But what of the children?” I say. “Shouldn’t they grow up in their native land? Might it not be unsettling for them to be wrenched from their birth soil and made to travel over an ocean to foreign shores?”

The thought of Louisa’s and Margaret’s deaths by drowning sits between us for a moment until Nathaniel shakes his head.

“Perhaps our crossing and safe landing will right a wrong in our spheres. We will bring good from bad, and in the process our children will be granted an education through experience instead of just through the books with which you instruct them in small Concord.”

My heart begins to open to his reasoning, but I am still unsure.

“Dove.” He is at my side now, more animated than he has been for months. “Think of the creative stimulus. You will explore new landscapes that might become art. I will observe humanity that might become story. Our artistic fires will blaze once again!”

I think of my dry brushes and my longing for any kind of rekindling in my marriage, be it on a canvas or in bed. Nathaniel and I have become boarding mates. Our torch of passion is just a candle since little Rosebud came into the world, and the deaths of Louisa and Mother have snuffed the last flame. The thought of our love’s resurrection is tempting, and when it is partnered with the idea of our creative renascence, I cannot help but feel a soaring in my heart.

B
efore stepping on board the
Niagara
, I experience such dread that I do not think I will be able to climb the gangplank. While Nathaniel pulls me along, I cannot dismiss the feeling that Margaret and Louisa are moaning on the wind. The first day at sea is a nightmare of motion, but upon arising the next morning to clear skies and smooth waters, my soul finds rest.

During the weeks we spend crossing the Atlantic, the grief that has hold of me loosens on the breezes, and I am reminded of my favorable journey to Cuba. Introducing the children to the wonders of marine life and cloud formations consumes my days, and dreams of verdant fields and English gardens fill my nights. Watching Nathaniel pace the decks, hands clasped behind his back, I think how at home he is on the sea, and that his father must walk with him.

Upon our arrival, however, I am depressed to see that there is no poetry in Liverpool. Shakespeare did not write of this wretched,
dirty city. In fact, I fear that his words about all of England were only a fantasy, for the reality is Dickensian—gray skies, damp air, frigid people. The children wither in the city where there is no grass for frolicking and no fresh air to breathe, and a cough takes root in my chest.

Nathaniel’s reputation from
The Scarlet Letter
and
The House of the Seven Gables
—which were pirated and sold throughout England—in addition to his appointment as consul, have made him famous here. Although we receive many courteous invitations from important people, we have to decline almost all because of my ill health. Nathaniel is far too diffident to appear among strangers without me at his side, and I have the sense from our neighbors that he is gaining a reputation for aloofness.

My cough spreads to the children, and there is not a wink of sleep to be had in our small hotel rooms. Nathaniel is the only one in good health, but he suffers much on our behalf.

“Perhaps I should resign,” he says.

“How ridiculous,” I protest. “It will get better.”

But my cough grows worse, and we finally decide that the children and I will die if we stay in the city. Nathaniel makes arrangements for our crossing of the River Mersey, and reserves rooms at the Royal Rock Hotel, where we will live until we find a more permanent residence. He will commute to and from Liverpool each day.

My spirits are low as we pack up our belongings yet again and transport the children to the ferry station. I hold Rose, whose cough frightens me, and allow Una and Julian to cling to my skirts. We must look like candidates for the workhouse, so pale
and weary are we. I look up at the sky, imploring the sun to break through the relentless clouds, but it remains hidden.

The Mersey is as murky and brown as the Concord under unfriendly skies, and I cannot help but wonder what we could have been thinking to relocate our children here. They have behaved admirably under the circumstances, but how much can they be expected to endure? How much must we all endure? I am so melancholy by the time we approach the shore of Birkenhead that I do not know how I will settle our family at the hotel.

“Mama, Papa, look!” Julian is exuberant for the first time in weeks, and I follow to where his finger points.

A shaft of sunlight penetrates the gloom and shines on the ferry station. The clouds break in spots here and there, as if God were throwing on lamps to illuminate the town for our pleasure. Nathaniel and I look at each other and his face breaks into a wide grin, the effect not unlike another shaft of sunlight. We disembark with new vitality, and are further heartened when we arrive at the hotel, a charming angular building of old stone lined with pretty flowers and walking paths. Well-dressed men and women carrying frilly umbrellas nod to us in greeting, and the chill leaves the air. As soon as our bags are settled in our rooms, the children beg us to take them to frolic in the nearby park. There, Nathaniel and I draw together as we watch the little ones scatter about, half-mad with excitement to have grass for running out of doors. Rose is charmed by the stalls of smelly donkeys, and their handler allows her to pet their noses.

“You have not coughed for twenty minutes straight,” says Nathaniel.

“Nor have the children,” I say.

“Praise God!”

“Mr. Hawthorne, are you becoming religious?”

“I will become anything to have you all restored to me.”

He kisses my head and we settle on a bench where we may watch the children play.

“It pains me that you will have to go to that dirty city every day,” I say.

“Do not worry. I will be happy in spirit, knowing you are so well situated.”

“We should look for a permanent place close to the ferry so we may walk to this park after you have gone each morning, and be here to welcome you home each evening.”

“That will be grand.”

“You sound like an Englishman!” I say.

He laughs. “I do feel a deep ancestral contentment in these lands, but I have not forgotten America. Being thousands of miles from my native soil has made a patriot of me, in spite of the political bickering that divides our nation.”

“Do not tell me you want to return home already. Cough or not, I might not ever again consent to move.”

He does not reply, and I am left to wait and wonder how long we will stay before my husband sets his sights for other lands in his endless quest for a place he feels at home.

A luxurious carriage conveys Nathaniel and me to Poulton Hall, the country house of the president of the chamber of commerce,
Mr. William Barber. He lives at the stately redbrick ivy-covered estate with his two unmarried sisters and, rumor has it, many ghosts.

They greet us in the magnificent entrance hall sparkling with diamond-cut chandeliers and wall sconces, and I cannot help but spin around and gape at the mirrored panels, damask curtains, and gilded wallpaper. The misses Barber are delighted by my reaction, and must think me very quaint. They are all as in awe of my husband as I am of their house, and they soon forget me to praise him for his writing.

“It is a thrill to have a man of your talents in our home,” says Mr. Barber. “You do us honor with your visit.”

“Yes,” says Jane, the younger sister. “We know you are selective of the society you keep, so we are grateful to be considered worthy.”

“I am afraid Nathaniel has a reputation for being stingy with his company,” I say. “But I must take the blame for him. My ill health has prevented him from venturing out much. He is a devoted caregiver.”

“How honorable,” says Ann, the older sister. “I can see why being in your charming company would eclipse any gathering.”

I bow to her compliment, though I know she is just being polite. I am a toadstool in this house of English roses, but it is no matter. I am happy to be out with my husband, enjoying the hospitality of a wealthy English family.

While the women praise the genius who wrote
The Scarlet Letter
, I meet Nathaniel’s gaze to see that he is comfortable, and when he gives me a small smile, I slip away to peruse the
adornments of the four-hundred-year-old home. I am joined by Mr. Barber as I approach a fox reclining at the foot of the carved stair.

“Extraordinary how he sits so still,” I say.

Mr. Barber smiles. “My dear, he will not move. He is stuffed.”

I cover my mouth and feel my neck redden as my host laughs.

“I am delighted you thought him real. He was real enough before I shot him. In fact, I hope to add to my menagerie after my upcoming trip to Scotland.”

“My apologies for being so simple,” I say. “I hope you will excuse me.”

“I could not be more pleased with you, Mrs. Hawthorne. It is not often one meets such a warm and humble spouse of such a famous man.”

“You will find my husband far more interesting than me, if not in conversation, then in writing. He is usually very shy.”

We look over at Nathaniel and Mr. Barber’s sisters, who are laughing at some comment. Ann slips her bangled arm through Nathaniel’s, and begins to lead him to the back of the house, while Jane calls to us.

“Come, we will stroll the gardens while we still have light. Then we will introduce you to the ghosts once the sun goes down.”

I am surprised by Nathaniel’s ease in attending the sisters, and cannot help the pinched feeling in my stomach. How tall he stands now that he has been praised for his work. How much more at ease he is than the man who was pressed to the wall by female admirers in Connie Parks’s home, all those years ago. While I am glad for him, I dislike the jealousy arising in me.

Mr. Barber offers me his arm, and we follow my husband and
his admirers. The women are stately and elegant, and attired in muslin and rich silk. Jane wears a luscious black velvet jacket, and both are adorned with as many jewels as the chandeliers. I glance down at my frumpy brocade and stand a little straighter. Concord fashions will not do in English society, and I hope my husband’s income will allow us to dress as befits his station. Once we are corralled out of doors, my mind is lifted from trivial matters of dress and filled with the splendid beauty of the garden. Here is the England we had anticipated—the wide avenues, the luscious grasses, the fragrant flowers, the elegantly cut hedges. All dark feelings in me are replaced with calm, and when we approach one of the old oaks lining the lawn, I cannot help but walk over to it and place my hands on its great, sturdy bark, much to the enjoyment of the Barbers.

“Mrs. Hawthorne is a great lover of nature,” says Nathaniel. “The trees and flowers are her sisters.”

“A living Beatrice Rappaccini,” says Ann.

My, how she has prepared for this meeting!

“My own,” says Nathaniel.

I am touched that he would say such a thing, and smile over my shoulder as the rare setting sun warms my face. His eyes find mine, and I am at once reassured, knowing I am beautiful in the gaze of my love.

On our trip upstairs, Nathaniel takes my arm before the sisters are able to claim his, and as a result, they lead us like tour guides through the halls of their haunted house.

“This is the Martyr’s Chamber, where a woman was locked and tortured for her faith.”

We step inside and walk to a tiny attic window where barely a thing can be seen except sky. I am moved by how awful it must have been to die in this small room.

“Starved!” says Ann so close to my ear that I jump. “Wasted away to nothing. She cries at night.”

“How dreadful,” I whisper.

Nathaniel narrows his eyes and gazes around the chamber as if committing it to memory. I will not be surprised if this place finds its way into his fiction. We are soon heading down a hall that leads to at least twenty rooms, when Jane stops short, and we nearly run into her.

“Here!” she says, pointing to the crimson carpet with great gravity. “Here is where a man slit his own throat and died.”

“Found by his children,” says Ann.

I shudder and glance at Mr. Barber, who seems to be enjoying himself immensely. I, for one, would like to return to the elegant downstairs rooms to get away from these horrific spots.

“Speaking of children,” continues Ann, “it is said that three hundred years ago, some were murdered on this very floor, and they can be glimpsed in the moonlight, searching in vain for their dear mother.”