hands clasped behind him as if he were deep in thought. Although he assumed the posture of a scholar, his muscular arms and shoulders spoke of a more physical toil—farmer, perhaps, or laborer. Oddly the light did not make his shirt flare white. Instead, its well-tailored form looked as black as the darkness at the edges of the cemetery. His trousers too, although she was accustomed to black trousers. All the men in her life wore them.
He paced among the graves as if measuring the distance between them, pausing at some, and staring at the others as if he knew the soul inside.
Emily leaned forward, captivated. She had seen this man before, but in the churchyard in the midst of a funeral. He had leaned against an ornate headstone, resting on one of the cherubim encircling the stone's center.
She had expected someone to chase him off—after all, one did not lean against gravestones, particularly as the entire congregation beseeched the Lord to send a soul to its rest.
But he had for just a brief moment. Then, perhaps realizing he had been seen, he moved—vanished, she thought that day, because she did not see him among the mourners.
Although she saw him now.
As if he overheard the thought, he raised his head. He had a magnificently fine face, strong cheekbones, narrow lips, dramatic brows curving over dark eyes. Those eyes met hers, and her breath caught. She had been found out.
He smiled and extended a hand.
For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to clasp it.
But she sat until the feeling passed.
She ran to no one. She did no one's bidding, not even her father's. While she tried to be a dutiful daughter, she was not one.
And she would not run to a stranger in the burial ground, no matter how beautiful the evening.
No matter how lovely the man.
May 23, 1886
The Homestead
Amherst, Massachusetts
Piles of papers everywhere. Vinnie sat cross-legged on the rag rug no one had pulled out during spring cleaning—Emily had been too sick to have her room properly aired—and stared at the sewn booklets she had found hidden in Emily's bureau.
Once their mother had thought the bureau would house Emily's trousseau, back when the Dickinsons believed even their strange oldest daughter would marry well and bring forth children, as God commanded. But she had not, and neither had Vinnie. Austin had married well, or so it seemed at first, although he and Sue were now estranged, a condition made worse by the untimely death of their youngest child, Gib.
Vinnie wished Emily had given Austin this task. Emily lived in her words. She had better friends on paper than she had in person. She wrote letters by the bucketful, and scribbled alone late into the night. To destroy Emily's correspondence, Vinnie thought, would be like losing her sister all over again.
And yet Vinnie had been prepared to do it, until she discovered the booklets. Hand-sewn bundles of papers, with individual covers. Inside, the papers were familiar: Emily's poems. But oh, so many more than Vinnie had ever imagined.
Emily gifted family and friends with her poems, sometimes in letters, sometimes folded into a whimsical package. Her tiny careful lettering at times made the poem difficult to discern, but there, upon the page, were little moments of Emily's thoughts. Anyone who knew her could hear her voice resound off the pages:
I'm nobody , she said in her wispy childlike voice. Who are you? Are you nobody, too?
Vinnie could almost see her, crouching beside her window, watching the children play below. More than once, she had sent them a basket of toys from above, but had not played with them.
Instead, she preferred to watch or participate at a great distance.
But once she had been a child, with Vinnie.
Then there's a pair of us , Emily said. Don't tell! They'd banish us, you know.
The poems had no date, and Emily's handwriting looked the same as always. Her cautious, formal handwriting, not the scrawl of her early drafts.
These poems had meant
He paced among the graves as if measuring the distance between them, pausing at some, and staring at the others as if he knew the soul inside.
Emily leaned forward, captivated. She had seen this man before, but in the churchyard in the midst of a funeral. He had leaned against an ornate headstone, resting on one of the cherubim encircling the stone's center.
She had expected someone to chase him off—after all, one did not lean against gravestones, particularly as the entire congregation beseeched the Lord to send a soul to its rest.
But he had for just a brief moment. Then, perhaps realizing he had been seen, he moved—vanished, she thought that day, because she did not see him among the mourners.
Although she saw him now.
As if he overheard the thought, he raised his head. He had a magnificently fine face, strong cheekbones, narrow lips, dramatic brows curving over dark eyes. Those eyes met hers, and her breath caught. She had been found out.
He smiled and extended a hand.
For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to clasp it.
But she sat until the feeling passed.
She ran to no one. She did no one's bidding, not even her father's. While she tried to be a dutiful daughter, she was not one.
And she would not run to a stranger in the burial ground, no matter how beautiful the evening.
No matter how lovely the man.
May 23, 1886
The Homestead
Amherst, Massachusetts
Piles of papers everywhere. Vinnie sat cross-legged on the rag rug no one had pulled out during spring cleaning—Emily had been too sick to have her room properly aired—and stared at the sewn booklets she had found hidden in Emily's bureau.
Once their mother had thought the bureau would house Emily's trousseau, back when the Dickinsons believed even their strange oldest daughter would marry well and bring forth children, as God commanded. But she had not, and neither had Vinnie. Austin had married well, or so it seemed at first, although he and Sue were now estranged, a condition made worse by the untimely death of their youngest child, Gib.
Vinnie wished Emily had given Austin this task. Emily lived in her words. She had better friends on paper than she had in person. She wrote letters by the bucketful, and scribbled alone late into the night. To destroy Emily's correspondence, Vinnie thought, would be like losing her sister all over again.
And yet Vinnie had been prepared to do it, until she discovered the booklets. Hand-sewn bundles of papers, with individual covers. Inside, the papers were familiar: Emily's poems. But oh, so many more than Vinnie had ever imagined.
Emily gifted family and friends with her poems, sometimes in letters, sometimes folded into a whimsical package. Her tiny careful lettering at times made the poem difficult to discern, but there, upon the page, were little moments of Emily's thoughts. Anyone who knew her could hear her voice resound off the pages:
I'm nobody , she said in her wispy childlike voice. Who are you? Are you nobody, too?
Vinnie could almost see her, crouching beside her window, watching the children play below. More than once, she had sent them a basket of toys from above, but had not played with them.
Instead, she preferred to watch or participate at a great distance.
But once she had been a child, with Vinnie.
Then there's a pair of us , Emily said. Don't tell! They'd banish us, you know.
The poems had no date, and Emily's handwriting looked the same as always. Her cautious, formal handwriting, not the scrawl of her early drafts.
These poems had meant
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