Afternoons with Emily (41 page)

The first draft was called the week after Gettysburg, and riots and arson raged for days in New York and Boston. In the cities,
the Irish immigrants were the most bitter and violent. They came to the United States with high hopes, little education, and
no interest whatsoever in freeing anybody’s slaves.

In the
Republican,
we read with uneasy distaste about the New York rabble looting Fifth Avenue stores — and about pitched battles between armed
Irish mobs and Negro citizens. Uniformed soldiers, still bloody from Gettysburg, camped in the streets and fought the rioters
side by side with the city police. What was happening to the world?

Our village of Amherst was so committed, so devoted to the Union, that we were distressed by these deep divisions — and also
by the malingerers and the corrupt doctors who sold deferments. None of this affected me as it should, for I had a note mailed
from Kate, that shook me badly.

I am telling you this way because I could not face your asking me

“Why?” when you hear this news. There is going to be another baby in our house in early spring. As to “Why?” even I couldn’t
answer that right now.

In March 1864, when the new baby was to come, Elena would be two and a half; Josey, four; and Kate, twenty-four. My worries
for Kate were severe, but for Kate and Aunt Helen’s sake, I had to keep them to myself and only assure Kate of my help when
that time came.

I did not mention Kate’s condition to Emily on my next visit. I saw she had decided to try on patriotism again. She showed
me her latest attempt to march with the times:

When I was small, a Woman died —

Today — her Only Boy

Went up from the Potomac —

His face all Victory

To look at her — How slowly

The Seasons must have turned

Till Bullets clipt an Angle

And He passed quickly round —

The poem continued for a few more stanzas and then ended with:

I’m confident that Bravoes —

Perpetual break abroad

For Braveries, remote as this

In Scarlet Maryland —

My response to Emily was noncommittal. I did not tell her that her poem was inappropriate in the wake of Shiloh, Antietam,
Bull Run, and Gettysburg, with their gigantic losses — 24,000, 23,000, 27,000, 51,000 — in battles that lasted only a few
days. In Emily’s willful ignorance, her poem read like a hearty team cheer for an athletic contest — a jolly “Rally ’Round
the Flag, Boys.” I was pleased, however, that she was at least trying out her own emotions about the war and applying her
creativity to them. I encouraged her to read the war news to better inform her art.

After the fall of Vicksburg, Battery B, Chicago Light Artillery, rested and refitted in Memphis. Davy took a short leave in
Lake Forest and wrote me from there.

It is only a calendar year and a half since I left this house, with its dear familiar oaks and its lake setting — but I feel
as if a thousand years of my life have come and gone. I have been forever changed by learning that death (which I always believed
came in bed, after a long, productive life!) is actually all around us, just out of sight. I will never again take it for
granted that I am alive and whole.

I have had to call at two houses near ours, on the parents of close friends, and tell them how each son died. I always make
the death quick and clean and painless, and in the company of friends. How could the truth help anyone?

And yet. Perhaps it is because I have been here at home, thinking of all the beauty here that I want to show you. Perhaps
it is the ability to be warm and dry and well fed for a spell (never, ever will I undervalue the importance of dry socks!).
Perhaps it is simply that the birds are caroling outside, and I can hear them. But I woke this morning strangely confident:
the Union will stand, and you and I will have our time. However much this war has altered me, my love for you remains a fixed
North Star of my present and my future. No one will ever love you as I do, Miranda. One way or another, I intend to be a part
of your life.

I was so glad to see a strain of optimism; lately Davy’s letters had been melancholy, filled with a sort of fatalism that
made me realize how far he had traveled from the merry, confident young man I loved. I had changed just as much. But this
letter touched a place in my frozen heart. When all this was over, if we could see and touch and comfort each other as our
new selves, we would be all right.

This July and August 1863, I had to take on most of Aunt Helen’s duties in our house and at the dressing factory. Her daughter’s
condition was becoming a grave worry to her. Kate was sick and exhausted week after week, and Aunt Helen stayed on in Springfield
to do what she could.

I hired a new Irish girl, Bridget. She and I took care of the housekeeping, Father’s meals, and Aunt Helen’s garden. Bridget
was genial and hardworking, and very sympathetic about Kate’s condition. Her enormous family in Ireland was in chronic parturition,
forever breeding and losing babies.

“Indeed, Miss Miranda, it’s why I’m here. There’s not enough land in Ireland to raise the children we have already. From sixteen
on, there’s naught for a poor woman but the new baby and the baby to come. It kills them off soon enough.”

This last was not what I wanted to hear, so I changed the subject to other matters. Bridget must have sensed my discomfort
and did not bring the subject up again.

Every afternoon, as the Amherst women gathered in the factory, I was there as well. Making dressings was simple and undemanding,
and left the time to chatter — and without Aunt Helen, I lacked the authority to prevent this. The War Department insisted
that we work in silence. I imagined this was for hygiene, but it was appropriate too — when one considered where our dressings
were going.

Handsome Mrs. Crowell, whose husband taught Latin at the college, saw my problem and offered to distribute the material and
enforce Aunt Helen’s rule of silence. Soon I realized my new friend was the Mary Warner of Emily’s childhood — one of the
“Heavenly Triplets.” She informed me that Abiah Root Bliss, the third “Triplet,” was now a missionary in Syria.

“I miss Emily, but I have never known her to change her mind once she makes it up,” Mrs. Crowell told me. “If she has decided
to live secluded, then I know I will never see her again. She was fascinating as a girl — so original and lively!

“Just tell her I think of her often, Miranda. We shared some splendid times. I long for her vitality and wit. I envy you for
being welcomed into her special small circle.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Crowell, the circle is sometimes encrusted with nettles.”

“Admittedly, but would you permit me an analogy? Do you garden?”

I nodded and waited for her to continue.

“Then you know that one must prune one’s flowers ruthlessly, to remove the faded ones of yesterday. Such an exercise is necessary.
Only by refusing to crowd the bed with every weak plant is the gardener assured of a vigorous growth — so that the garden
will bloom like Eden.” She smiled. “It is that way with Emily and her poetry. It is a calling, my dear. Remember that, and
be kind.” She squeezed my arm affectionately. “And tell her I’m glad she has you for a friend!”

On my twentieth birthday, among the bright leaves, I began my next course at the college. I had chosen to learn and read about
the lives of the poorest English children — from the vanishing farms and the new industrial towns — who had no education past
the age of eight.

In October, new Amherst citizens joined the bandage factory at our house. Lolly Wheeler and her sister-in-law, Charity, arrived
one chilly afternoon. Without school throwing us together, Lolly and I had drifted apart, as I had once sworn to Emily we
would never do. I hadn’t realized that Charity was now living with Lolly’s family while her husband, Lolly’s older brother,
was away at war.

I set them both to work at once, but Lolly gripped my hand as I began to turn away. I looked back to see a careworn face,
still pretty but with a new expression in her once sparkling eyes. Apprehension, perhaps; a caged worry, wishing to be let
out. In the instant that our gazes met, I knew we now had much in common.

“Mother is worried to distraction,” she whispered. “So am I. And Charity cries all night. This” — she gestured around the
large room — “was all I could think for us to do. To be useful.”

“You are very welcome here,” I told her. “I’m glad you came.”

Charity stood and stretched and went to speak with Mrs. Crowell. Lolly brought her face close to mine. “She’s expecting. That’s
why she is staying with us. She has no other family, and if William . . .” Her voice cut off as tears sprang into her eyes.

I stroked her hair. “Just wait and see,” I told her. “All you can do is wait and see.”

Just after Thanksgiving, I was walking home to Amity Street, carrying my books. It was dusk; the last autumn bonfires still
veiled the village in smoky sweetness. I was not happy, but I was at least contented. Davy was newly arrived in Tennessee,
which appeared safe on Father’s map. Kate was stronger; Josey was out of diapers at last. The Howlands, having missed Thanksgiving
with us, were coming to Amherst for a party for the first time in years, and Bridget would help me do the pies tonight. Tomorrow
we would get out the damask cloth and set the table for Thursday.

As I turned onto Amity Street, I was startled to see, through the bare branches, that Father’s study wing was lit. It was
Tuesday evening; he should have been at a meeting at the college. As I went up the walk, I heard Aunt Helen’s voice coming
from the study. Could she be weeping?

I ran to the library door, clutching my books, my wild heart racing. Somewhere, deeper than I knew, I had been expecting exactly
what I saw. It was like arriving late at an ongoing play, with the characters already onstage: Aunt Helen on the sofa, head
bowed in her hands — and a tall older man, a stranger, beside her. He rose when I entered and looked at me gravely, from eyes
I knew.

“Miss Miranda Chase? I am Cyrus Farwell.” He had those black brows too — over the same shocking silver eyes.

“Davy is dead.” It was not a question.

“Yes, my dear. He was killed last Tuesday, at the Battle of Lookout Mountain in Tennessee. I came to you at once — as soon
as we got the news.”

Aunt Helen guided me to Father’s chair. For some reason, I would not let go of my books. I stared at Mr. Farwell.

“Do you know what happened?” I heard myself asking.

“Yes, his colonel sent word to us. The enemy was massed on the summit, guns trained on the fields below. After two days of
fierce fighting, our boys stormed Lookout Mountain and planted the flag where Confederate guns had blazed just hours before.
But Battery B took a direct hit. Two men were killed outright. Chuck Baird, Davy’s particular friend, had a leg wound, and
at first it appeared that Davy was only nicked in the chest. He was barely bleeding.

“So Davy carried Chuck to the field dressing station, behind the lines. Davy told the doctor he was fine and to fix Chuck
first. They all saw him resting under a tree; they thought he was sleeping. There must have been shrapnel in his chest. All
the bleeding was inside, you see.”

So he had never used one of our dressings after all.

Mr. Farwell crossed the room and knelt beside me. He took my books, put them on the floor, and clasped my hand. I could not
bear to look in those familiar eyes. I saw him open his briefcase. I saw Aunt Helen pouring Father’s brandy for us. I heard
Mr. Farwell speak again.

“My dear, on his last leave with us in July, David told us to be ready for his death. While he was in Lake Forest, he made
his own preparations. These will require time. Right now I know David wanted you to have this engagement ring. It belonged
to his mother; now I give it to you.” He handed me a small silver box that was inscribed: F
OR MY BELOVED INTENDED WIFE
, M
IRANDA
A
RETHUSA
C
HASE
.

“I know Davy would want you to have this,” Mr. Farwell told me. “Will you allow me the honor of putting it on your finger?”

I removed my little amethyst heart and gave it to Aunt Helen. Again we seemed like actors, doing a scene we had already rehearsed.
Mr. Cyrus Farwell put the ring on my third finger: a large oval diamond, rose cut, set in heavy plain gold. The great stone
covered my knuckle. It had a final look; it was not the beginning of our love but the end of it.

Aunt Helen must have sent Sam to fetch Father. He rushed in — coatless and hatless at the beginning of December. He stared
at us all; then he crossed to Mr. Farwell and grasped his hand. Neither spoke.

I rose, turned blindly toward the open door, and stumbled into the night. My next awareness was of my room. I was in the dark,
lying across my bed in my outdoor clothes and boots, when Father knocked and entered. He carried a lamp and a pen.

“Miranda, you must sign these papers for Mr. Farwell before he leaves.” He had to guide my hand. I was not trembling, but
I could not remember my name or how to write it.

Sometime later I saw it was daylight, and I remembered the pies I should have been making for the party: two apple and two
mince, since Father had invited some students. I dressed quickly, wondering why I felt so faint, and hurried down to the kitchen.
But where was my pastry that Bridget should have prepared last night? I expected it in a bowl, ready to roll out for my pies.

I was slicing apples when Aunt Helen hurried in. She looked very badly too. Had we all been ill?

“Miranda, whatever are you doing?”

“Making the pies. I know I’m late.” I sliced away in the loud silence.

“Dear Miranda, dear child — what pies?”

“Two apple and two mince.”

She still appeared confused, so I explained to her, “The pies for tomorrow — the ones I promised for the party.”