Afternoons with Emily (62 page)

Alan brought me directly to the school. The driver handed down my luggage to Alan as I stood before the building, looking
up at its elegant, sturdy lines. From the street I could see splashes of bright color, the blues and reds of the painted furniture
in the classrooms. And next to the door there was now a brass plate. I darted up the steps to trace the engraved words with
my fingers:
THE FRAZAR STEARNS CENTER FOR EARLY CHILDHOOD EDUCATION.
It was real. It was happening. And I had brought it about.

I remember very little of what I said to Alan after that. He showed me the improvements and additions that had been made since
my visit in July. He brought me up to the little apartment, kissed my cheek — a frosting of gray had begun to settle upon
his hair, I saw — and left to give me a chance to rest after my journey.

“Thank you,” I managed. “I am so thrilled to be here. We have a very big day tomorrow.”

Alan smiled with sympathy, his own excitement speaking to mine. “Indeed we do. It is a dream come true.”

The sky on September 9, 1867, was brilliant, unsullied by New York’s usual coal haze. I woke early and went downstairs to
walk through the classrooms again before our guests arrived, polishing away imaginary dust, straightening books that were
already in neatly regimented rows, thrilling at the sight of each room, carefully designed to make learning pleasurable for
our young students. Siobhan, the janitress, watched with amusement and sympathy as I patted and straightened. At last she
pointed out the time.

“You’ll be wanting to make yourself fine for all the fine folk that’s coming, Miss Chase.”

I ran up to the apartment again, and when I walked down the stairs an hour later, guests were beginning to arrive. The press
was well represented, as were many of society’s elite, elegant women bringing along their well-upholstered husbands. I owed
Mrs. Austin a debt of gratitude. Her help in bringing in the crème of New York society, as well as of its intellectual circles,
had been invaluable. She arrived resplendent in the modish new silhouette, in a startling combination of green silk and gold
brocade, beaming proudly and greeting her friends.

“We could never have achieved this without your help,” I told her.

She smiled and took my hands. “I am pleased to have been useful. And to think that I first met you as a shy and awkward child.”
She stepped back to study me and my simple violet dress. “Look at you. How proud your father would be if he could see you,
and all of this.”

I blinked back the surprising tears that appeared in my eyes and gave her a quick embrace. “Thank you,” I whispered.

She patted my shoulder. “Now go and attend to your reception,” she instructed warmly. “There is Emily’s ‘friend.’” She looked
amused. “Thomas Higginson.”

I turned at once. Emily’s Preceptor, Mr. Thomas Higginson, was a handsome aristocrat with elegant muttonchop whiskers. I wondered
why Emily kept her “Mentors” as distant as she did; the two I had met were dashing gallants. I had always imagined Colonel
Higginson as a literary entrepreneur, constantly introducing and exchanging people and ideas. But he seemed as at home as
Mrs. Austin with all these learned and disparate people. She brought him over to meet me, then vanished to inspect the sideboard.
Colonel Higginson confided he was considering an article for the
Atlantic Monthly
about the school, and I told him I knew of him through Emily.

“You know her personally?” he asked, surprised. “She vows she sees no one.”

“We met when I was still a child.”

“Did you? Then you can tell me — does she exaggerate her solitude?”

I shook my head. “That would be impossible. She doesn’t see ten people a year, outside of her family. I have never once been
in her company with another person.”

He looked baffled. “How do you explain this, Miss Chase?”

I thought carefully. Emily’s recent behavior had caused me to wonder myself about her interior nature. But I did not want
to diminish her in Colonel Higginson’s esteem. He was far too important to her, more important, perhaps, than Emily herself
knew. I could see she already teetered precipitously on the edge of his opinion. Her talent was her tether, but I sensed the
tone of her letters to him was making her position precarious to him as well — and she had no idea she was in danger of pushing
her Preceptor away.

“Let me see if this explains it,” I said at last. “Emily’s character is one of arrogant shyness. Or perhaps it is shy arrogance.
She feels unbearable pressure from the physical presence of others. Also, she begrudges wasting her time with people less
gifted.” I gave him a sly grin. “Which she believes is just about everyone.”

Colonel Higginson and I shared a laugh.

“Did you know Miss Dickinson and I correspond?” he asked.

“Indeed I do. She considers you her most valuable friend and Mentor. You came into her life at a time when she needed both.”

The colonel looked troubled. “Miss Chase, I swear I will never be less to her —
and I will never be more.
But in her letters I get the sense that she expects . . . well, she seems to want more than I offer. Perhaps she misunderstood
my suggestion that she visit Boston.” He shifted his weight several times, fiddling with items in his trouser pocket. It was
clear that he felt uncomfortable. Having experienced that same discomfort myself, I felt in an excellent position to counsel
him.

“Miss Dickinson — Emily — is a very unusual person. She is remarkably intense in all her relationships. She has no
casual
friends. There is no gray in Emily’s palette.”

“Her letters are so
personal,
” he said. “She addresses me with a degree of feeling that — disturbs me.” The colonel pulled a linen handkerchief from his
pocket and mopped his troubled brow. I liked this good-hearted man for his concern.

“Sir, I have listened to Miss Dickinson’s fantasies for years and have never seen her act on a single one of them. I believe
you would do her grave harm if you ended your correspondence, for her letters are her hobby and her social life. She has a
dozen correspondents besides you! You are in good company, Colonel Higginson — and perfectly safe.” I could see his relief
at hearing this, and inwardly I felt the same way. It was as if by reassuring him, I had reassured myself.

“Then perhaps I will continue to press her to allow me to visit. Her letters and poems have such a strange power, such luminous
flashes,” he said. “If she would only permit me to edit them, I could bring her all the fame I know she is secretly craving.
I could put her in print tomorrow! But she would rather go unpublished than take my advice and draw upon my experience.” He
shook his head. “She’ll come into her own reputation and honor only after she dies. Then she won’t be able to refuse editing
— or annoy the editors’ wives.”

As I watched him circulate through the room, I realized how much I liked him and, even more, how much I enjoyed male company
and conversation. Since my transforming hours on Barbados, I had a new ease and sincerity with men. As this thought occurred
to me, the crowd parted for an instant and I caught a glimpse of Roger. For a moment I saw nothing else, and the wealth of
memory that flooded me made me light-headed. I had not seen him since July, nor heard from him since my arrival in New York.
He had made no point of seeking me out at the reception. The moment of longing gave way to a hot flare of anger; if he was
here for work only, so would I be.

I turned and smiled brilliantly at an elderly gentleman who asked a politely doubting question about the need for early education.
“They hadn’t none of this when I was a boy, and I learned well enough.”

“Did you enjoy it, sir? Did you run to your lessons every day?”

The old man grinned at some memory. “The master had to beat the lessons into me with a hickory stick! Still, I learnt them.
Do you really think all this pretty stuff will make children learn?”

I took his arm and guided him to a crowd of parents who were waiting to see the school. “The furnishings and projects will
help, of course, sir. But the real secret is to have inspired and inspiring teachers. I had one such myself and liked him
so well that he will be the director of the school!” I introduced him to Alan Harnett. The old man acknowledged Alan but was
not done with me.

“It still sounds like coddling to me,” he said. “Still, I imagine if all my teachers had been as pretty as you, young lady,
that might have made a better student of me!”

I laughed and handed my doubter to Alan, who included him in the first tour group. As the reception went on, Alan and I took
turns in guiding the parents of prospective students about the school. Roger had stationed himself in the third-floor reception
room, where he would relate to the press and anyone who wished to hear it the foundation’s history and our goals and plans.
In the next room Lucy Quinn, the recently hired office administrator, sat behind her desk and took enrollments. Our books
were on display, and I could see that she was also taking orders for copies. Alan’s wife, Fanny, helped Siobhan refill the
punch bowl and replenish the other refreshments. Lucy Quinn’s oldest daughter, Mim, a solemn twelve-year-old, watched over
the Harnetts’ little ones, Henry and Julian, who looked very handsome in their miniature suits.

I greeted Mr. Butler, my friend from the Ethnological Society, who introduced me to his new bride. As I stood serving slices
of our gigantic Leo-shaped vanilla cake, I spotted many familiar faces: our stained glass specialist Elliot Peck, who received
many compliments on his delicate work, and several of the staff from Friends Seminary. I was most gratified to see that one
of the workmen, a burly Italian immigrant, had brought his wife and three children to enjoy the day and to inquire about enrollment.

“But they would not be taught with our children, would they?” a highly decorated young matron asked me anxiously.

Looking at the workman’s children, who were clean and in their best clothes and were sitting quietly, overawed by the reception,
I said I would have no objection to having them at the school. “It is quite possible that they would be in the same class.”
I wanted to be clear about this.

“But they are — that is —” the woman faltered.

“They seem very well behaved, and the older one was intrigued by the globe,” I said mildly.

“Why should a child of an honest workman not be welcomed in a school such as this?” A woman’s voice came over my shoulder.
“If it is only because his parents were born in another country — why, America is a young country. Shake it a bit and you
will see that we are all immigrants. Congratulations on your success, Miss Chase.” The speaker, a woman a few years older
than I, nodded pleasantly, then turned away. The young matron watched her go, murmuring, “Oh, yes, of course.”

“Who is that?” I asked Sue Dickinson a few minutes later.

Mrs. Austin looked across the room.
“Oh.”
The word was filled with meaning. “That is Mrs. Victoria Woodhull. She is recently arrived in New York and is one of Mr.
Vanderbilt’s pets. She is an interesting woman, Miranda, but I would give her a wide berth if I were you; I know nothing
against
her, but a school — particularly a school as new and unusual as this one — must be particular in its supporters.”

“But if you know nothing against her —” I began.

“I know nothing
for
her, either. Mrs. Woodhull appears to be the sort of woman who is . . . talked about. The only thing we wish people to talk
about is the school’s educational philosophy!”

I sighed. There would be many such shoals to navigate. The school needed the enthusiastic support of the well-to-do in order
to thrive and grow, and we would all — myself and Alan and Roger and everyone connected to the school — have to learn to listen
sympathetically without swerving from what we all agreed was the true mission of the school.

As the party came to a close, we ushered the remaining guests into the garden. Mim, Julian, and Henry handed out balloons
to all the children in attendance. As the adults drank a toast to the success of the new school, the children each released
a balloon. These rose with deliberation and dignity, and drifted slowly over the city like stately confetti.

When Alan shut the door behind the last departing guest, the sun was setting. Lucy Quinn came down the stairs, beaming, clutching
a ledger to her ample bosom.

“Good thing you had the good sense to hire me,” drawled the trans-planted Virginian. Mrs. Quinn, like so many women, had been
widowed by the war. We never discussed her feelings about the confrontation between North and South; as Miss Adelaide had
said, there were worthy men lost on both sides of this terrible conflict. A pleasant, plump woman in her late thirties, she
had packed up her children and moved to New York in hope of finding the work that had proved elusive in Virginia.

She held up the ledger. “I enrolled twenty-two students today! And you can be sure I took deposits in cash only, to secure
their positions. Not only that, I sold fifteen alphabet books!”

“You are a genius, Mrs. Quinn!” Alan exclaimed. He flung his arms around her in a bearlike embrace. I had never seen my former
tutor so exuberant. Fanny and I both laughed at his enthusiasm while Mrs. Quinn made a great show of straightening her hat
and gasping for breath.

Alan turned to me, grabbed my hand, and twirled me around. “Twenty-two!” he cried. Finally he gave his wife a kiss and pulled
her close. “Do you realize that means we are nearly at capacity?”

“I am so proud of you,” Fanny told her husband. She rested her head upon his shoulder.

Alan’s warm gaze landed on me. “We did it.”

“Yes,” I said. I felt tears welling up and blinked them back. “We did it.”

Roger had come downstairs a few moments before with a bottle and glasses. “I knew I had been saving this champagne for a good
cause. This is certainly it.” He poured glasses and handed them around.