Thoreau at Devil's Perch (21 page)

“Watch out, Mrs. Vail!” I enjoined, taking her arm and pulling her back to the sidewalk.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, looking up at me with dazed eyes. “Pray, how do you know my name?”

“I am Adam Walker.You met me briefly in Plumford. We were introduced by Captain Peck.”

The very name caused her to start weeping. She was clothed in black mourning, except for the pink hat, and this incongruity, along with her overwrought demeanor, made me fear she might have lost hold of her senses. But after a moment she collected herself, accepted the handkerchief I proffered, and daintily blotted her eyes with it.

“Yes, now I recognize you,” she told me. “You were the captain's closest friend in Plumford.”

I did not contradict her. Instead, I told her that I wished to relate something of a very private nature regarding Capt. Peck.

“Oh!” She pressed her hand to her breast. “Please go on.”

“Not here on a public street, Mrs. Vail. Might we go back to your residence?”

She shook her head vehemently. “There is no privacy
there
. Mr. Vail comes home shortly after three. Let us go to a coffee house.”

I did not think that a suitable place. “I share consultation offices with another doctor on Beacon Street. We can go there.”

“No,” she said. “I cannot wait to hear what you wish me to tell me. Mrs. Abner's shop is only a few steps away.”

In fact, it was right next door to the Old Corner Bookstore. We settled at a small table a good distance from the few other coffee imbibers in the establishment.

After we were served, Mrs. Vail pushed aside her coffee cup and leaned toward me, tugging at a slender chain round her neck. “Let us gaze upon his beloved features whilst we speak of him,” she said, bringing forth from beneath her bodice a richly engraved gold locket. She opened it with trembling fingers, and I beheld Peck's daguerreotype likeness in one compartment and coiled strands of his silver and black hair in the opposite one. I drew back slightly, reminded of how horribly Peck had been scalped.

Apparently Mrs. Vail had much happier associations concerning Peck's hair for she softly smiled as she regarded it. “Is it not lovely?” she asked me.

Unable to come up with a response, I merely nodded.

Realized she was referring to the locket rather than the lock of hair when she went on to say, “Gideon had it specially made for me out of Georgia gold, which he said was the finest gold there is. It is the work of the jeweler Pierre LaFarge.”

A vivid depiction of lovemaking sprang to my mind. It was not the fair Mrs. Vail's proximity that roused it, however, but the name LaFarge, for I recalled Peck stating that the artist who produced his erotica engravings was named thus.

“I wish I could display such a fine piece of jewelry on my person rather than keep it hidden beneath my bodice,” Mrs. Vail continued, “but I do not wish to provoke Mr. Vail. He cannot bear it if I even mention Gideon's name.”

“Your husband knows that you and Captain Peck were . . . ?”

“Lovers? He does indeed.”

“How long has he known?”

“Since our visit to Plumford. My tongue was loosened by a rum concoction I drank during the ball game on the Green, and I told him everything. It was a great relief!”

“Did you tell him before or after the captain was murdered?”

“Before of course. What point would there have been to tell my husband after my darling Gideon was forever lost to me?”

I had no answer to such a riddle as that and remained silent.

She continued, almost breathless in her eagerness to talk about Peck. “Gideon was too kindhearted to tell my husband himself. You see, they got on rather well. They had even formed a successful business together.”

“What sort of business exactly?”

“How should I know? Business is not a woman's sphere. But I do take credit for bringing the two together. And a good thing too, for my husband and I had accumulated a great deal of debt before Gideon came into our lives. He was like a heaven-sent angel. Is it no wonder I fell in love with him?” She did not wait for my reply. “Now you must tell me what you wish to relate concerning Gideon.”

Stalling for time, I took a sip of coffee. This would not be easy.

“Well, go on,” she prodded. “I think I already know what you are about to say, so you need not hesitate. I can bear it, I assure you.”

But I did hesitate. For if she really did know, why would she be smiling so wistfully? “What is it you think I want to tell you, Mrs. Vail?”

“The same thing Gideon tried to tell me the afternoon before he died. But just as he was about to, that ill-mannered Lieutenant Finch came slinking around the belvedere, disturbing our privacy, and Gideon was obliged to postpone his confession. Yet he had already confessed to you, his good friend, had he not?”

“He took me into his confidence because I am a doctor.”

She frowned. “He never mentioned you were a doctor, only that he had divulged his deepest secret to you.”

I nodded. “A secret he should have shared with you.”

“Yes, of course. But he never got a chance to, poor love! No matter. I guessed it the moment I laid eyes on him in Plumford. It was clear he was in pain, and I knew why.”

“Ah, you recognized the symptoms.”

“How could I not, doctor? I was suffering from the same thing.”

“I am very sorry to hear it, Mrs. Vail. How long have you experienced pain?”

“Oh, my poor heart started aching weeks ago.”

I had expected her to relate pain from a different area of her anatomy. “Only your heart?”

“Not only mine, but his! Although Gideon was the one who ended our relationship for the sake of my marriage, he could not endure being apart any more than I could. How ill he looked!”

“Yes, he was very ill, Mrs. Vail.” Obviously she did not know why, and the time had come to tell her. “His condition was irreversible.”

She sighed. “Love such as ours is indeed an irreversible condition. That is why I know Gideon wanted to ask me to leave my husband and remove to Plumford to live with him. Was that not the secret he shared with you?”

“No.”

She blinked a few times, as though waking up from a dream. “No?”

I glanced around the shop. A group of men at a table across the room were arguing vociferously about Manifest Destiny, and I knew I would not be overheard. “He had syphilis, Mrs. Vail. Do you know what that is?”

The horror and disgust transforming her pretty face made it clear that she did. “You lie!”

“What reason would I have to lie?”

“To punish me.”

“I do not even know you, Mrs. Vail. Why would I want to punish you?”

“My husband wants to. He put you up to this, didn't he? He paid you to tell me this scurrilous lie to make me hate Gideon. But I shall love him to my death!” She stood up so vehemently that the table tilted. The coffee cups fell off it and crashed to the floor. Customers stopped talking and turned to look our way.

“Calm yourself, madam,” I cautioned softly. “Please sit down and listen to me.”

Instead, she ran out of the shop. I had no choice but to go after her, for I did not want her love for Peck to be the death of her. I took her arm once again as she waited to cross School Street.

“Unhand me, sir.”

“Please, Mrs. Vail. Allow me to examine you in my office.”

“I will not!”

“At least allow me to question you in private.”

“No!”

Having no choice, I proceeded to pose extremely personal questions to her on the busy sidewalk as people jostled past us. Did she have fever? Muscle aches? Hair loss? A rash on the palms of her hands or soles of her feet? Lesions on her mouth, or any other parts of her body? She kept shaking her head vehemently, and I hoped it was in response to my queries rather than my persistent presence. As determined as she was to tug her arm free from my hold, I was determined to delay her until she had heard me out.

“Even if you have not noticed the symptoms I have mentioned, you must see a doctor to be sure you did not contract the disease from Captain Peck,” I told her. “If you will not allow me to examine you, I suggest you go to Dr. Eames here in Boston.”

As I was spelling out his name for her a police officer came down the street, and Mrs. Vail called out to him. “Officer, this man is spewing the most vile questions into my ear and will not let me go!”

“Release that lady at once!” the patrolman ordered me with as much authority as he could muster. As an officer in the daytime police force, rather than the night watch, he was most likely more accustomed to helping pedestrians cross streets than dealing with any sort of trouble.

I immediately let go Mrs. Vail's arm, and she immediately ran off. The officer clamped a beefy hand on my shoulder and called me a scoundrel and worse. Mrs. Abner bustled forth from the coffee house and informed him that I had caused the breakage of two fine cups and then run out of her establishment without recompensing her for either them or the beverages they had contained. I sputtered my apology for this oversight and settled my small debt, but neither she nor the officer seemed of a very forgiving nature. Indeed, I believe I was at the point of being arrested when a past medical school professor of mine appeared on the scene and vouched for my good character. When Oliver Wendell Holmes speaks, others listen. The officer released his grip, and Mrs. Abner showed more clemency. Dr. Holmes kindly invited me to join him in the coffee house, but I declined, for I had hopes of catching up to Mrs. Vail again. The crowded street had swallowed her up, however, and she was lost to me. I pray she takes my advice and visits a doctor. No matter that she has the character of a canary and the depth of a puddle, I feel sorry for her.

Posted my letter to Julia and felt better for it. What is wrong in letting her know how highly I regard her? Went back to my rooms and thought about her for the rest of the day.

Now it is well past eight. Lt. Finch is late in arriving, and I am beginning to doubt he will keep our appointment. Does he have misgivings about divulging too much to me as it is? Why should he unless he really is Peck's murderer? It is hard to credit the crime to him, for he had no motive that I can perceive. The cuckold banker had far greater cause to kill Peck. He does not seem mentally or physically capable of carrying out such a grisly murder, however. Finch, on the other hand, could manage it with ease. No
motive,
though. Unless . . . could Vail have paid him to do it? Finch is both in need of money and handy with a knife. He even justified murdering Peck by declaring that his death put an end to his suffering. Yes, he might well be the murderer after all.

Hear someone knocking on the front entrance. Must be Finch. If indeed he is a vicious killer, I am rather reluctant to go downstairs and open the door to him. A voice I recognize to be his now calls my name. T'would be prudent for me to ignore him until he goes away, I reckon. But curiosity compels me to let him in. Who knows what discoveries I will make once I hypnotize him? So if I am murdered tonight, here are my last recorded words:
Lt. Finch most likely did it
.

 

T
oday I received a marriage proposal from the Reverend Lyman Upson. Lors me! I would suit him even less than a hare would suit a tortoise. Two of God's creatures could not be more poorly matched than Lyman and I.Yet he is determined to have me as his wife.

He came by this afternoon and found me contentedly sketching in the garden. I wish I had remained there. But when he told me it was his birthday I did not have the heart to refuse his offer to go for a ride. I put aside my sketchbook and we set out, at his suggestion, for Devil's Perch. Small wonder he is drawn to that spot. Legend has it a minister of his ilk did indeed see the Devil there during a horrific lightning storm nearly two centuries ago. Hence the name. Along the way Lyman pointed out his fine house, set far back from the road on a quiet lane. He said he was happy he had no close neighbors to bother him. He asked me if I would like to view the house interior, and I told him I would prefer to keep to the carriage.

We continued up the road. I did not much care for his driving. He kept such a tight rein on his little bay mare that she had not the slightest liberty of movement. And he occasionally gave her a sharp cut of his whip for no reason I could discern. Napoleon is a far more obstinate horse, yet Adam manages him quite well with words of encouragement and a relaxed rein, keeping his whip in the holder. Not so Lyman. His whip is ever ready in his hand.

When I suggested he fold down the hood of his chaise so we could enjoy the fine day, he rebuked me for wanting to call attention to myself, and we continued onward shrouded from sunlight and eyesight. We came upon a dead raccoon lying in the middle of the road, and Lyman yanked back hard on the reins to halt his poor horse. “My lucky day,” he declared. He leapt out of the chaise, picked up the coon by the tail, and deposited the furry corpse right behind my seat. The smell of it was rather pungent. Alas, 'twas not
my
lucky day.

“Are you going to have made a coonskin cap like Benjamin Franklin's?” I asked him.

He adjusted the narrow brim of his proper silk stovepipe and told me he had no intention of doing any such thing. He was going to skin the animal and preserve the pelt for future use in the making of fishing lures. I recalled him mentioning this hobby once before, when he showed me a leather sack stuffed full of dead birds he had shot. At least he had not shot the raccoon. If I glanced over my left shoulder I could just see one of its tiny black hands curled in the most graceful of attitudes. I could not keep myself from looking back at it.

When we arrived at the top of the cliff I suggested we get out of the carriage to better take in the view. This time Lyman acquiesced, perhaps because nobody was about. Together we went to the edge of the precipice and looked down at the river below, where we had both seen the body of the young black man lying on the rocky shore two weeks ago. I waited for Lyman to propose a prayer in his memory, and when he did not, I did.

“He cannot be saved with our prayers,” Lyman replied. “God foreordained his soul to hell even before he was born, and there it now writhes in agony.”

“No! I do not believe that.”

“Surely you do not believe God would foreordain a Negro to heaven, Julia.”

“I believe we are all equal in God's eyes. And I do not believe God would decide beforehand where our souls will go when we die. Predestination makes no sense to me, Lyman. It is how we conduct ourselves in this life that should ordain our fate in the next one.”

“Only those God has already chosen for heaven will conduct themselves correctly on earth,” Lyman explained to me in a most patient tone. “As for us all being equal in His eyes, I am afraid you have misspoken, my dear. Such a statement implies that woman was created equal to man. Do not forget the Bible doth tell us that man was made
first,
in God's very image. God later took from man's side the material for woman's creation, and by the institution of matrimony she is restored to the side of man. They become one flesh and one being. Hence, in the eyes of the law, they are one person.”

“That person being the husband,” I said wryly.

“Of course. Man rules over woman as God rules over man. What reason is there for a wife to have a separate identity from her husband's, Julia? Is it not his duty to support and protect her? In return, she will rise to his requirements and satisfy him in every possible way.” Lyman smiled at me. Although his teeth are good, his smile lacks charm. “In every possible way,” he repeated.

I did not care for the turn our conversation had taken, and without further comment I strolled away.

Lyman followed me and continued talking. “A man should deliberate long and hard before making a woman his wife. He must consider whether her soul is worthy to hold communion with his.”

He waited for my response to that. I had none.

“Your reticence is to your credit, Julia,” he said. “It conveys to me that you have doubts concerning your own worthiness. But do not fear, my dear. Despite your youthful errors of belief, which I believe can be corrected in good time, I find you most worthy indeed.”

I realized he intended to propose to me and attempted to discourage him before he did. “You do not know me well at all, Lyman, and if you did you would see me in a different light.”

“I see you suffused in sunlight now, and you are flawless in appearance, dearest girl. Does not outward beauty reflect inward spirit? Are not angels beautiful?”

“I am no angel, I assure you. And such talk as this embarrasses me. Pray let us discuss something less personal.”

But he would not desist. “I feel an intense attraction toward you, Julia. And having been a widower for now a year, I am in great need of a wife.” He took off his high-crowned hat and his own high crown and mane of golden hair glowed in the bright sun. “Give me your hand in marriage, and let us become one flesh as soon as possible.”

Such a direct proposition as that left me no choice but to be equally direct in my rejection. “I cannot give my hand unaccompanied by my heart, Lyman. I do not love you.”

This seemed to perplex him. “Do you love another?”

I did not reply.

“I hope it is not Henry Thoreau who you are foolish enough to care for, Julia. After seeing you alone with him up here, I made inquiries concerning him in Concord. He has spent time in jail, you know.”

“Yes, I do know. He was jailed for one night because, on principle, he would not pay his poll tax.”

“And did he burn down a man's forest land on principle?”

“This I know nothing of, but I am sure Henry would never do such a thing deliberately.”

“Henry is it? So you are on familiar terms with him.”

“He is a good friend, but I am not in love with him, Lyman.”

“I will take your word on that. In truth, I cannot conceive of you giving your heart to such a homely bumpkin as Henry David Thoreau. Yet I have seen you in the company of no other men except for your close kin. Does the man you love reside in New York then? Or in Europe?”

“Stop interrogating me, Lyman. I have not told you I am in love with anyone, only that I do not love
you!
”

Even though the sun shined directly upon it, Lyman's countenance grew dark. “Jezebel!” he shouted, raising his hand. For an instant I feared he would strike me. Of course he did no such thing. He only brought his hand to his own cheek and stroked his closely trimmed muttonchop whiskers. “If you do not want me for a husband, why have you so cruelly played with my affections, Julia?”

“Pray give me but one example when I have done so.”

His response was to unbutton his black serge frock coat and silk waistcoat to reveal his linen shirt. Upon it, pinned in the area of his heart, was a shriveled red flower. I stared at it in bewilderment.

“Do you not recognize the rose you gave me, Julia ? Four days ago you picked it from a vine that grew on your grandfather's picket fence and tucked it into the buttonhole of my coat. I took it to be a symbol of your love for me and have not been parted from it since.”

How I regretted my impulsive gesture! “I gave you that rose because you looked so despondent that morning, Lyman. I hoped it might cheer you up somewhat. That was all there was to it.”

I turned away and began walking back to the carriage. Lyman yanked me by the arm to halt my progress, much as he had yanked the reins on his little mare. I glared up at him, hot anger coursing through me, and demanded he let go of me.

Instead, he grabbed my other arm too, pulled me to him, and lowered his face to mine. I twisted my head away so he could not kiss me on the lips.

“Good Day to you!” a male voice called out.

Lyman released me at once, and we swiveled around to see the peddler Pilgrim coming up the cart path. He tipped his hat to me and then regarded Lyman. They were of the same height, and their eyes locked.

“I know you,” the peddler said. “You are the Reverend Mr. Upson.”

“And I know you to be a tramp of no account.”

“True enough, sir. I am a man of little consequence. Yet I am neither blind nor deaf. I see and hear much as I tramp around, and I remember all of it.” Keeping his steely stare directed at Lyman, he then addressed me. “I am on my way to town, miss. Would you care to walk there with me?”

I could not accept without grossly offending Lyman, and I did not think he would attempt further familiarities with me. “Thank you, Mr. Pilgrim, but I will ride home with Mr. Upson. We were just going, were we not?”

Lyman nodded, picked up his shiny black hat, which he had dropped in order to lay hands on me, and placed it firmly on his head. Pilgrim watched us walk back to the carriage and waited as still as a sentinel till we drove away.

On the way back to town Lyman begged my forgiveness for his untoward behavior. Of course I gave it to him. Less harm had been done to me, after all, than to his own self-esteem. And it was partly my fault! At three and twenty I should be old enough to know better than to give a lonely widower a flower.

“I am comfortably well situated, you know,” he told me after we had traveled in silence for a mile or so. “Although I was forced to resign my pulpit in Plumford a few years ago, I do not need the support of a congregation to get by. I write tracts and treatises that are well received by right-thinking believers, and I am occasionally asked to lecture at Yale and Andover, if not at that den of iniquity called Harvard. I intend to write books that I believe might be as influential as John Calvin's works, so I do not lack ambition, Julia. Nor do I lack money. My first wife was left a small fortune by her father, which of course became mine when we wed. It is more than enough to support us, my dear, if you become one with me.”

He was renewing his suit! I stared at him with wide-eyed disbelief.

He smiled back at me. “I am not yet forty years old, Julia. I have more than enough vigor to take on a young wife, I assure you.” He slashed his whip across his little horse's rump. “And I am without any disease whatsoever. I recently had a thorough examination by a Boston specialist who assured me of that.”

“I am happy to hear you are in good health, Lyman,” I managed to reply. “And I hope you will find a suitable wife. But I am not—”

“No! Do not refuse me again today, Julia. My poor heart could not bear it. As for your own heart, I believe I know it better than you do. Although you do not yet realize it, you love me. I see it in your present distress. You are overcome by my declaration and need time to collect yourself. After your emotions become settled, I am confident you will be able to deliver the correct reply to my offer.”

Exhausted by his misdirected fervor, I did not protest further. All I wished to do was vacate the carriage, which I attempted to do as soon as Lyman stopped it in front of the gate. But he halted me by taking hold of my arm once again—more gently this time.

“Wait but a moment, Julia,” he commanded in a low voice. “I would like to call on you next Monday afternoon and receive a more considered answer from you. I promise I will stay away till then.”

That was at least a small reprieve. I nodded assent, and he allowed me to disembark from the chaise.

Of course my answer shall be the same one I gave him today. The only correct assumption he made was that his declaration had upset me. To calm myself before attending to Grandfather, I returned to the garden and picked up my sketchbook. I soon became lost in my work, drawing the intricate tangles of sorrel, calendula, and horehound in the style of Dürer. Suddenly I caught movement at the corner of my eye. A tall man stepped into the garden, and at first glance I thought him to be Lyman. When I realized it was the peddler, I smiled with relief.

“You came to town fast enough on foot, Mr. Pilgrim.”

“I trotted behind the reverend's carriage. I wanted to be sure you arrived home safely, miss.”

“Why would you doubt that I would?”

“Do you forget that I saw you struggle with him?”

“Struggle is far too strong a word. I am sure I am not the only female who ever resisted being kissed. I have forgiven the reverend his indiscretion. Indeed, I have dismissed it from my mind and wish you would do the same, Mr. Pilgrim. Pray forget what you witnessed regarding Mr. Upson's behavior.”

The peddler looked down at the ground and shook his head. “If only I could, Miss Walker.”

“My last name is Bell.”

“Is not young Dr. Walker your brother?”

This annoyed me far more than it should have. “He most certainly is not. We are merely cousins. I must go now and make tea for my grandfather. It is getting late in the day.”