31

Autumn 1851

Though we have lived in Lenox for only eighteen months, our parting is emotional.

Herman must sense that his constant attention is part of the reason we are leaving. His heat and his need became too intense, and I would have cautioned him if he could have heard me, but he is not one to take advice from women. The night before we go, he visits us to bid farewell. He cries and embraces Nathaniel, but mercifully does not stay long. Once he has gone, Nathaniel releases his breath as if he has been holding it for many months.

As we load the baggage wagon the next day, Mrs. Peters comes to me in a rare display of affection, and pulls me into her bosom. When she draws back, I wipe my eyes.

“You have squeezed out my tears like a clothes wringer,” I say.

Nathaniel also embraces her. “Thank you for your care of us,” he says. “We will not forget you.”

She nods her head and takes leave of us.

As we pull away, we cannot help but look back over our shoulders. As tightly as we were all packed in the house, as burdened as we felt by winters and young writers, it was our home, and where we brought a babe into the world. Every time we settle in a place, I think of Mr. Emerson’s words the first night he dined with us as newlyweds, when he toasted our house of Hawthorne. Wherever we go, I wonder whether we have finally found the place where we will lay our foundation. I suppose I will have to keep wondering.

“Oh, Mama, the cats!” says Julian.

Five felines that have prowled our gardens and barns, and enjoyed our leftovers and petting, line the fence post. One of them runs her black paw over her face.

“She’s crying,” says Una.

“No,” I say, moved that the children are so affected. “She is waving to us, wishing us well. Wave back!”

Their dear little hands rise and we watch the cats until they are out of sight, and we may turn to the future. Before we decide where to settle next, we will stay at my sister Mary’s house in West Newton, which is empty since the Manns have gone to live in Washington now that Horace has been reelected to Congress. We will be just streets away from where Mother and Father now reside, and Nathaniel is glad to be closer to Boston and the possibility of another salaried job. He believes Franklin has a good chance of winning the presidency in the upcoming election, and might secure him a government position. No matter how successful his writing, it never brings in enough to keep us out of debt. Nathaniel is convinced that he will not have to abandon writing, fortunately, even with steady employment, now that he has a firm grasp of crafting novels. He even has an idea for a new romance based on his time living at Brook Farm.

At the train station, the children are thrilled when the mighty locomotive pulls in with much noise and bursts of steam. I plug my ears until the whistle stops, imagining that my young self would have fainted at the thought of traveling in such a loud conveyance. Once we embark upon the short ride to West Newton, it occurs to me how near Brook Farm we will reside.

“It will be advantageous for you to visit the old farm and recall impressions for the novel,” I say.

“I think so too,” he replies. “Though I have many unfavorable associations with it, since we had to sue Mr. Ripley for our investment.”

“How helpful it would have been if he had actually had the means to repay it.”

“Indeed.”

We stare at the cloudy November landscape, and I cannot help but recall the day I visited Brook Farm. How long ago that was, though it seems as if not much time has passed. To think that Margaret no longer breathes the air of this earth is painful. I hope she rests in an Elysian dwelling, somewhere beyond the common cares, with her husband and son. Will she figure into Nathaniel’s new work, since she was so frequent a visitor to Brook Farm?

“I am pleased to hear you are pursuing a new work of fiction,” I say. “Political writing is dangerous and pins one down like an insect on a board. I was never comfortable with the idea of you writing Franklin’s biography.”

“I do agree, to an extent,” says Nathaniel. “But you must know that the biography will still likely be written.”

“But how will you do so while remaining politically ambiguous? Franklin will not be popular among our liberal Northern friends, and you may be perceived as proslavery.”

“It is a danger, but Franklin is a dear friend, and I align with him in light of my ardent wish to stay away from war. But it is no matter. I will write an introduction to the biography excusing myself and disclaiming all political assumption. I will make it clear that it is a work meant to honor a great friend, not to put forward a cause.”

“You must prepare yourself for a backlash either way,” I say.

“Yes,” he replies. “But writing it will mean Franklin owes me a favor, and that could lead to employment.”

I wish to probe Nathaniel further to ascertain whether his wish for steady employment is a sacrifice for our family or a real hope of his own. I cannot think that my seraph, meant to illuminate humanity through his writing, is fit for public office. But I cannot continue our conversation, for we have arrived.

We pass the winter unsettled and ill at ease in our surroundings. Nathaniel becomes consumed with his new novel, leaving me to the children. I educate them at home, but we must take a break from our studies when Mother becomes ill, and I have to stay with her. There are times I fear she will die, but after an extended affliction, her health begins to return.

At the end of a particularly exhausting day spent caring for Mother, fretting that I will bring her illness into my house, and returning on snow-covered roads to our chilly home, I am pleased to see a letter from Mr. Emerson. It seems the old Alcott place, Hillside, is for sale, and the price to buy it is not outrageous. I cannot help but become wild with excitement. I pace all afternoon until Nathaniel descends from his study, pale and exhausted, and I thrust the letter into his hand.

“Concord! A return to Eden!” I say.

His eyes scan the letter, but his face is not as animated as I had hoped.

“We have never been able to purchase a home in our lives,” he says. “And purchase means settled. As much as I long for grassy meadows and rivers for our children, I do not know if I am capable of rooting myself in a single village.”

My heart falls. I am desperate for rooting. Since the birth of our children, we have been on the road like gypsies, moving every time we make just enough friends to miss them. He senses my disappointment.

“Dove,” he says, “let us visit the house and see if it is fit to live in, but let us consider renting instead of purchasing.”

“I will consider it, but I ask that you consider purchasing instead of renting. I am tired, Nathaniel.”

It seems as if the whole of our vagabond existence, the exhaustion from nursing Mother, and the pressure of our inadequate finances falls upon me at once, and I burst into a sudden fit of weeping. Nathaniel takes me in his arms and escorts me up the stairs past our worried children. They gather around me in the bed, a party of faces I adore, asking Mama how they can help her. Their gentle coos and whispers are the last thing I hear before falling into a nightmare-ridden sleep.

While I am ill, Nathaniel is a gentle and inexhaustible nurse. He stays in the room as much as possible, forever scribbling—what, I do not know. He reads Shakespeare to me and the children in the evenings, and works with Father on keeping Mary’s house and landscaping in order for their return. After a week, he comes to me with the celestial smile that pulls me out of my misery, and the news to accompany it.

“My publisher writes that the most recent issuance of Twice-Told Tales has been a success. Thousands of copies have sold. They will advance us whatever we need to purchase Hillside!”

“But you said you do not wish to be settled,” I say.

“Perhaps not for an entire lifetime,” he replies, “but if we can purchase a house, we will always have a home to return to, no matter where we travel.”

I embrace Nathaniel, trembling with love for him and for all he does to bring about my elation. I am certain no wife has ever been happier.

Una enters the room, followed by Julian.

“Is Mama all right?” asks Una with a wrinkled brow.

Though my face is bathed in tears, I show her my smile to calm her heart.

“Papa has found us a home, and one you will love.”

“Will it have trees?” says Julian.

“And neighbors?” says Una.

“And cats?” says Julian.

“And a studio, and a study, and a garden, and a guest room!” I say.

The children run to the bed and wrap their arms around our necks, and we are in a loving huddle until Una realizes little Rose is lying in her cradle away from us.

“Rose!” says Una, launching herself out from under the blankets and over to the baby, who is roused from her sleep. Una scoops up her sister and carries her to the bed before climbing back in with us. Una leans into Rose, who reaches for Una’s face and smiles like an angel, though she was just awoken.

“Here is the rose flower on our little shrub,” says Una. “Our Hawthorne bush, where we will always be like branches together.”