Afternoons with Emily (25 page)

I heard Kate laughing behind me. “Miranda, what’s gotten into you today?” she asked.

Quizzically I glanced at her. She pointed to the table, and I discovered what she found so amusing: I’d reversed the knives
and the forks. I hastily corrected the silverware, explaining lightly, “I was just working out some phrases.”

Kate placed folded napkins beside each plate. “Phrases to use in, say, letter writing?”

I flushed but couldn’t help laughing at my own transparency. “Something like that,” I replied. Together we headed into the
kitchen, giggling like conspirators.

For one entire week I was distracted and anxious. Was my letter to David Farwell appropriate? Foolish? Too distant? Too familiar?
Unless —
until
— I had a reply, I would not know.

At school, Lolly looked surprised when I gave the wrong answer in botany — one of my better subjects. I gave a small shrug.
“Just thinking about things . . .” I trailed off, hoping Lolly would fill in the gap herself with whatever made the most sense
to her.

She smiled a knowing smile. “Are you thinking about the weekend picnic?” she asked. “I was so pleased when Caleb Sweetser
invited us both! I was so afraid I wouldn’t know the other girls. Have you decided what to wear?”

I had forgotten all about the picnic — and was relieved to have something to distract me. Lolly looped her arm through mine
and chatted about dresses and hats as we strolled home.

Where I found a letter from David Farwell.

Dear Miranda — may I call you Miranda?

I was greatly cheered to have received your kind response. I would love to hear all about your time in Barbados and would
be happy to tell you all I can about the far less exotic Illinois. . . .

And so, with his reply, I found myself a regular letter writer. After that first note, David Farwell wrote to me every few
days, simply when he felt like talking to me — the way the dolphins used to come visiting in Learner’s Cove. It was an additional
dimension in my life, and now that the anxious uncertain stage was over, I was once again able to concentrate on my studies
— and on Kate’s wedding.

Emily was as engrossed in the wedding plans as if Kate were her own cousin. One day, as she and I were discussing Kate’s future
house, she once again delighted me with the social realism beneath her exterior affectations.

“Kate will be given three punch bowls, and she will sit on the FLOOR,” Emily predicted. “So I am having four chairs made for
her. Mr. Shiltoe is copying our pair of Sheraton side chairs — the ones in the front hall. Ours are often admired.”

That was Emily’s way: lavish to someone she was too shy to meet! Then she breathed flame on hearing that our Boston florist
was uncertain about our wreaths and bouquets.

“Not enough lilies of the valley, INDEED! Tell him I have a whole HILLSIDE of them for Kate and for you. He may have them
all. And tell him he must pick them the day before, and HARDEN them in ice water overnight. You can’t expect HIM to know that!”

Emily was full of contrasts. Now she was imperious, a Dickinson of Amherst sending orders to the peasants. In another moment,
she would switch to the unworldly and vulnerable poet, cowering in her privacy. But the lily news would delight Kate, I knew.

“Emily, you’re a true friend,” I said.

“Nonsense! Flowers have their rights, and I am their ADVOCATE. I know this is what the lilies would choose for themselves.
They will enjoy being the ORNAMENT of Kate’s good fortune!”

I was startled. I didn’t think Emily had a high opinion of marriage. “Do you consider Ethan good fortune? Kate surely does!”

“I hear he is charming and talented; he sounds like a good match. But I meant fortune beyond Mr. Howland — I meant Kate’s
voice, her divine gift. She will always have an IDENTITY — she need never be OWNED. How many women can say as much?”

“Won’t you be able to feel that same way when you start publishing your poetry?”

Emily became evasive again. “Not yet, Miranda. I am not READY yet. If I published now, I would be put in with all those syrupy
MUSINGS that American women typically compose! Mr. Bowles prints them in every issue, and he DEMEANS the female sex in doing
so!”

“How, Emily? How can Mr. Bowles insult women by publishing their poetry?” I was truly curious as to what Emily believed.

“Why, he CONDESCENDS, Miranda. He is showing that women are impulsive creatures but that he, Samuel Bowles, is MAGNANIMOUS
— and those poems are nothing more than silly, bubbling froth. They should never see the light of day. He is encouraging BAD
writing by publishing those shameful examples. No, I will never let him lump me in with those AMATEURS!”

Perhaps Emily’s feelings about Mr. Bowles’s attitudes toward women’s writing was the reason his wife, Mrs. Bowles, seemed
to have been placated. I understood from Mrs. Austin that the crisis had been averted, the frayed feelings smoothed over.
I had also noticed far fewer letters addressed to the
Springfield Republican
editor.

“But you say ‘not yet.’ Does that mean you will publish later?”

“I will publish when the right time comes. I will KNOW when I am ready.”

Emily went to her window to observe her spring birds; this was a sure sign she was about to say something difficult and important.

“Miranda, at present neither my work nor I are strong enough for COMBAT. We could not DEFEND ourselves against ATTACK. My
poetry needs to be more COMMANDING — and so do I. It is better to wait until my poetry can sweep all before it like a JUGGERNAUT!”

I could not argue with her. Truly, Emily’s efforts were not made to popular specifications; perhaps she was right to wait
for a forum that would respect her serious intellectual presence. Again, I marveled at her patient fortitude and at her confident
genius. And yet while she labored on in her solitary yet expectant way, I prayed that for her sake the audience she found
one day extended beyond the immediate vista of her own appreciative imagination.

For some reason, I continued to put off telling Emily about meeting David Farwell and about our correspondence. Each letter
seemed to bring us closer together, each building on the previous exchange. I felt as if we were revealing tiny bits of ourselves,
a new facet each time to hold up to the light, so that by the time he arrived in Amherst, we would each have a sense of the
whole. I began to feel that I understood myself better through revealing myself to Davy.

I was pleased when he sent Kate a wedding present: a stunning silver bowl, perfectly simple, with a curved lip like a lotus
flower. Father said it was a replica of the one made by Paul Revere, the Revolutionary hero. Ethan whistled and accused Kate
of a secret romance. To me, in the privacy of our correspondence, Davy wrote that he wished he could have brought the gift
in person so that he could be my escort. Again, I found myself in complete agreement with David Farwell’s sentiments.

I had worried, as we were planning every meticulous detail of Kate’s wedding for weeks beforehand, that such intense anticipation
would detract from the simple joy of the event. After the first hour of Kate’s wedding day, however, I realized that all our
planning and preparation were essential — to give us unflawed memories.

We were awarded a windless blue-and-white May day, with small harmless clouds. This meant our guests could be in the flagstoned
north garden, where Aunt Helen’s spring bulbs were a radiance. Kate and I planted them last fall. In October, no one had mentioned
a spring wedding — but somehow Aunt Helen’s tulips and narcissi and hyacinths had all come up white. With half the guests
outdoors, there would be plenty of room in the temple — so our family could receive on the stage, as we had hoped.

“We planned the stage for big occasions,” said Ethan. “Now Kate and I and our wedding are your first truly large event.”

“And Kate’s first concert will be our next,” Father stated.

We arranged the two dozen little apple trees, which had been huddling on the terrace, flowering hopefully in their burlap
bags. Ethan, two of his friends, and our stableman, Sam, moved eight trees to the back of the stage and concealed their roots
with laurel. They carried the others to the corners of the temple, to the walls between the windows, and to the gravel beds
in the atrium.

Suddenly we were in an enchanted wood — a forest of white blossom, pink buds, and tiny pointed leaves. Ethan, who designed
it, called it the “bride’s orchard.” After the wedding, we planned to plant a dozen of the apple trees by our kitchen garden.
The other dozen would go to Kate and Ethan, in the same wagon as Emily’s chairs.

Vera and her helpers bustled in and out of the kitchen, fixing platters and cooling wine. Because the bride and groom were
scheduled to take the 6:04 to Boston, the wedding was going to be at two — that is, too late for lunch and too early for supper.
The caterer brought little lobster biscuits and a lacy cake, but we would not serve a real meal.

I went to check my arrangements, completed yesterday evening; all were thriving. I used apple blossom and white lilac with
budding laurel in the parlor and the dining room. Then I made each of the urns at the front door into a white lilac bridal
bouquet with satin ribbon streamers. This frivolity was very becoming to our serious Greek facade.

Under the portico, I met a stranger glaring at my arrangements. “Say, who’s the competition here?” It was the florist from
Boston!

“The bride’s cousin did the flowers,” I told him, not revealing my identity as his competitor but relishing the professional
jealousy. “May I have the wreaths and the bouquets now?”

I saw Lolly coming up the street, wearing her Sunday bonnet, so I knew it was time to start dressing. Lolly and I carried
the florist’s white boxes upstairs. Kate was in Aunt Helen’s room being laced; her wedding dress hung in the window like a
beautiful silk ghost.

Lolly did my stays and lifted the yards of green over my head. Then we tied tiny green ribbon bows among the flowers of my
wreath. Lolly pronounced the iced lilies “as crisp as a salad.” She was a model of subdued helpfulness. I was learning that
at a time like this, women of all ages seemed to put aside all pettiness and vanity, and join selflessly in the enterprise.
This was never discussed; it simply happened.

Kate was a tall white lily herself. She wore the modish small basque bodice and bell skirt of the time, so becoming to brides
— and Kate Chase Sloan must surely have been the loveliest among these. Her dark hair was smooth and shining, pulled back
into a severe classic knot. Emily’s lilies framed her face in a starry crown fit for Titania.

There were two carriages for the bridal party. Hoops were hard to transport — one heard about fashionable ladies who required
a whole carriage — so we practiced yesterday. Aunt Helen, Lolly, and I rode in the first carriage, and Father and the bride
in the second. When we came to the First Congregational Church, we saw the carriages of the wedding guests all along Main
Street and around the green. The groom and his family were greeting friends. Mr. and Mrs. Howland were from New Bedford; they
were shipbuilders and Quakers. They loved Kate already; how could they not?

We climbed out carefully, and Lolly arranged our dresses. As I carried Kate’s train up the steps, we saw that all the pews
were filled. Kate clutched my hand; I smiled and nodded. She and I had conspired for a bride’s surprise.

“Just stay here,” I told Father, Aunt Helen, and Lolly. “We’ll be right back.”

We left behind three astonished faces and climbed the little spiral stair, which I had swept so carefully yesterday. We signaled
Mr. Tate, the organist and our coconspirator, from the balcony.

Mr. Tate began the unmistakable grace notes of Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,” and Kate’s voice floated over the congregation
like a benediction. She sang her wedding present to Ethan.

The glorious sound and gesture brought tears to my eyes, and from my hiding place I could see Father’s face twisted as if
he were struggling with his own. Ethan’s father and mother took each other’s hands and smiled. Ethan glowed with joy, as did
Kate.

Afterward, we came down carefully, one step at a time, with a sigh of our silk skirts. I arranged Kate’s cloud of veil, put
the lilies in her shaking hand, and suddenly the wedding gathered momentum. Mr. Tate became imperative, with Ethan’s favorite
hymn, “Awake, My Soul,” as our processional.

I entered first, past a hundred known smiles, including most of the Dickinsons. Emily and her mother were absent, but this
was no surprise. I had given up trying to persuade Emily to attend weeks ago.

Behind me came veiled Kate on Father’s arm; her lilies trembled. Ethan and his best man stood at the altar, grave and intent,
Ethan’s parents watching proudly from the first pew. I took Kate’s bouquet and lifted her veil.

I realized I had never really listened to the marriage service before. When Mr. Jenkins read it, I felt terror at the mortal
final words: “Till death do you part.” How could one prepare for or survive such a loss?

I looked at my father and noticed that fine wrinkles had begun to rake his face like a tree, one for every year endured alone.
And for the first time in years, my eyes grew moist as I thought of my mother and wondered what Father had felt when she departed.

I heard the vows and the concluding prayers with a full heart, listening to the service in a new way. Then Mr. Tate at the
organ summoned up Bach’s cheerful little sheep, grazing safely, and I was carried gently back to reality. We were swept down
the aisle, with woolly lambs bounding musically all around us.

Before we knew it we were back at Amity Street for the reception, where we joined Ethan’s joyful parents. “Was that truly
Kate singing?” Mr. Howland was incredulous at what he had heard before the service. “We’ve never been treated to her brilliant
voice!” We assured him that it was indeed Kate Sloan — now Howland.

The bride lacked a handkerchief, so I ran upstairs to get her one. Coming down, I saw the first of our friends entering the
house — so I walked ahead of them, through the flowering atrium, and came upon the tableau awaiting our guests.