Amanda Flower Presents Lovely Finale to her Emily Dickinson Mystery Trilogy - I Died For Beauty

"Do remember, dear Willa, it is always better to ask forgiveness than permission.” I didn’t think either scenario would help with Margaret in regard to me, but I didn’t say anything... 

“Willa! Willa! Wake up! Those are the church bells.” Margaret O’Brien held me by the shoulders and shook me so hard my teeth clanked together. I awoke to find myself in my little room over the laundry with the Dickinsons’ first maid standing over me. Her dark hair with the finest streaks of silver was down and tangled and she wore her nightdress. In these long two years that I worked for the family I had never seen Margaret with her hair down or in her nightdress. I found that more disconcerting than her shaking me awake like I was a night watchman who had slept through his shift. “Church bells?” I asked in wonder. “Is it Sunday morning? Did I sleep through services? I’m so sorry. It must have been the cold that would not allow me to awake.” “No, you fool! It’s fire,” Margaret said. She could barely hold the panic from creeping into her voice. Fear wrapped its cold fingers around my heart. Little else than the threat of fire to home and hearth could cause such immediate terror. “Here?” I managed to squeak. “No, get up. It is near the railroad station, and Mr. Dickinson is heading out. We must be on call to assist.” With that, she left my room. I got dressed as quickly as I could and tethered my hair at the back of my head in a haphazard knot. I hoped that the Dickinsons would not look so closely to see how disheveled I appeared. However, I supposed that everyone would look a little less than composed considering the hour and the incessant ringing of the church bells. Church bells all over Amherst rang. It was not just the Dickinsons’ congregational church across the street, but even my Baptist church that was tucked in the woods. Everyone was called to help with the fire, and this was even truer if the fire threatened the college because the people of Amherst glorified the college whether they attended there or not. Maybe I took pride in living in an overly educated town, too, as an education was a luxury I never had but could appreciate from afar. By the time I made it downstairs to the kitchen, Margaret was already in a housedress and her hair was perfectly drawn back in a bun at the nape of her neck. She was in the midst of packing a hamper of food. It seemed she was determined to give all the bread that we had left to those who fought the fire. She closed the hamper’s lid and shoved the hamper into my hands. “Here. Take this to Jeremiah to take with them. I can’t do much for the men going to help but give food. Jeremiah should be out front by now with the carriage.” Jeremiah had been Henry’s dearest friend and the one who found my brother’s body when Henry was killed. After the incident, Emily convinced her father to hire Jeremiah for the homestead stables as they were moving here to the homestead from North Pleasant Street. She rationally told her father that they were coming into more land and space overall and would need someone who worked full-time for the family to care for the livestock as it was a much larger menagerie than it had been at their old home. I grabbed my own cloak, bonnet, and mittens from the laundry. I put everything on and was about to go out the back door when Margaret stopped me. “Don’t go that way,” she snapped. “You want me to go out the front door?” I asked in shock. I never went in and out the front door. I was a servant, not a guest of the family. “The snow is too high again, and you will be soaked through,” Margaret said gruffly. “Go out the front.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “This one time.” I nodded and took the hamper to the front of the house. In the foyer, Mr. Dickinson was hastily putting on his heavy wool coat and gloves. His wife stood in a nightdress and cap and wrung her hands. “Edward, you are no longer a young man. Leave it to the younger men to put out the fire.” Mr. Dickinson glared at his wife. “As the college treasurer I must go. The air is cold and dry. In these conditions the fire could spread quickly even to the college. I must go.” Mrs. Dickinson looked as if she might be ill as he said this, but as a good wife, she kept any other opinions to herself. Emily slid into the foyer in her winter wool frock, cloak, bonnet, and sturdy boots. Carlo, her beloved dog, was at her side. “I’ll make sure Father is safe, Mother.” “Emily Elizabeth, you are not coming with me,” her father snapped. “I am and I will, and if you don’t take me, I will simply ride with Austin. The stable hand said that he was getting his carriage ready to depart as well.” “I don’t have time to argue with you on this matter. You and Carlo are not coming.” “That is where you are wrong.” She flung open the door and a rush of freezing air and blowing snow flew into all of our faces. Emily didn’t seem to be the least bit bothered by it. She looked over her shoulder. “We will be in the carriage. Don’t delay. We don’t want to miss what’s happening.” I tensed when Emily said that. We knew what was happening to someone’s home, their whole life was being dissolved into flames. I could not imagine what it would have felt like. Emily went out the front door with Carlo walking behind her. Before she closed the door, she glanced over her shoulder. “Willa will be coming too.” I stood there unsure what to do. Mr. Dickinson scowled at me as if this were somehow my fault. “Get in the carriage,” he barked. I didn’t hesitate and carried the heavy hamper out of the house. A path had been shoveled from the front door to the driveway. The carriage and the Dickinsons’ horse, Terror, stood at the ready. The large black horse stamped his hooves on the gravel, and hot steam rose from his nostrils. He didn’t want to be out in the cold any more than I did. Outside the relative safety of the homestead, the pealing of the church bells was deafening. As the congregational church stood just across Main Street, it rang the loudest to my ears. I knew that Horace must have been ringing the bell with all his might. He would have been the first one to the church as he was the sexton and had lodgings behind it. Emily was already in the back of the carriage when I slipped the heavy hamper inside. Carlo lay across her lap like a warm blanket. “Ride inside with us, Willa,” she said as I stepped back. “No, miss, your father wouldn’t like it, and he’s already upset.” I could tell that she wanted to argue with me more about it, but her father appeared. I slipped to the front of the carriage. Jeremiah closed the carriage door after Mr. Dickinson was inside. He climbed up in the driver’s seat, and I followed him. Jeremiah was as bundled up from the cold as I was. All I could see were his dark eyes, and I supposed with my scarf wrapped tightly around my own face that was all he could see of me. Even with all the layers, it was freezing, and I didn’t know how long I would last in this cold. I didn’t know how long Emily would last. She was far smaller than I was. It was like throwing a songbird out into the snow. “What are you doing here?” Jeremiah hissed and flicked the reins. Terror shook his head and then started down the drive at a careful pace as there was a thick layer of ice over the gravel. When we reached Main Street, I said, “Miss Dickinson insisted that I come.” “Why?” he asked. That wasn’t a question I could answer, and as the road was bumpy with ice and snow, I didn’t say another word and held on to my seat with a firm grip. Jeremiah pulled the reins so that Terror would turn left on Main Street, which was away from the college and toward Kelley Square. We had traveled only a few yards when the smell of smoke engulfed us. Just on the edge of Kelley Square a burning house came into view. My heart was in my throat at the terrifying scene before my eyes. The fire licked the sky. Men ran back and forth with buckets of water from the college well, but it didn’t seem to make much difference. Another group of men splashed water on the nearby college buildings, to deter the fire from engulfing other buildings. We were still three homes away when Jeremiah stopped the carriage, but it was as close as the carriage could go. Police officers blocked the road and didn’t let anyone pass. I searched the faces of the officers for any sign of my friend Matthew Thomas. I hoped to see him on the street and prayed he was safe. However, I knew he would be with the men fighting the fire. He was always the first to help. Jeremiah jumped down from the carriage seat and then held out his hand to help me down. He opened the carriage door and Emily and Carlo came out. Emily stared at the flames. Her gaze held that faraway look that she sometimes had, and of which was I so familiar. “A thing that can ignite,” she murmured. Mr. Dickinson came out of the carriage. “Heaven help us.” “Father”—Emily looked over her shoulder—“will you go and help the men fight the flames?” Mr. Dickinson cleared his throat. “The college has plenty of good, sturdy young men who are already here and will do better to put on the fight than I ever would. I will supervise.” A man with a full silver beard and a black felt hat walked over to us. He wore a long black overcoat, but as the hat did not cover his pronounced ears, they shone red in the light of the fire. “Dean Masterson,” Mr. Dickinson addressed the newcomer. “Tell me what has happened.” “Mr. Dickinson,” the man said in turn. “It is a dreadful sight, but I can assure you that the fire will be contained. I have been told that it is no real threat to any of the college buildings. I assume that is why you are here.” “Of course,” Mr. Dickinson said. “Losing one of our austere academic buildings would be a great tragedy and a concern for me as treasurer, as I would have to appropriate the funds to rebuild it.” The dean nodded. “We have been told by the volunteer firemen here tonight that there is no need to be concerned. We’re taking every precaution.” “Very good,” Mr. Dickinson said by way of approval. Dean Masterson saw Emily and me standing a little bit behind Mr. Dickinson and scowled. “This is no place for gawkers. A home is lost. Don’t make a mockery of it.” Mr. Dickinson’s back stiffened. “That is my daughter to whom you are speaking.” “You brought your daughter with you?” the dean asked, glancing at Emily. Mr. Dickinson cleared his throat. “I believe that it is important for young women to know what the true risk of fire can bring. If she sees it with her own eyes, she will be more careful with her candle in the future.” Dean Masterson wrinkled his brow as if he didn’t know what to make of Mr. Dickinson’s statement. Another man joined the pair and had the same academic look about him that the dean did. I wanted to hear what he had to say about the fire, if anything, but Emily grabbed the edge of my cloak and pulled me away. “Come,” Emily said. “There is no time to waste.” I let her lead me away but wondered what time she was referring to. Emily moved closer to the fire and stopped behind one of the small homes to watch. Unsure why we were there, Carlo and I stood with her. Men shoveled snow on the flames that they could reach. It seemed like such a futile act as more of the flames came out of the roof. A fireman stood on the top of the fire wagon, spraying all the water he could from the hose onto the roof. I glanced at Emily, and her dark eyes glowed in the light of the flames. Her reddish hair, which peeked out of her bonnet, shone as if it were always meant to reflect the blaze. “It is magnificent,” Emily said. “Horrible, but magnificent all the same.” I looked at the fire and tried to see it through her poet’s eyes. I don’t believe that I managed it. There was very little that I could see through Emily’s eyes. I was far too removed from musings like she had. I was far too cynical and practical as a result of my hard upbringing and a life of hand to mouth. “I wouldn’t be calling that fire magnificent for all it cost,” a man with a slight Southern accent said. I was surprised by the accent. I hadn’t heard someone speak like that since I had accompanied Miss Dickinson to Washington two years ago. It took me back to some happy and also terrifying memories from that time. Emily looked up at the man and even though she was a head and a half shorter than he was, she seemed to be the more commanding force. “What did this cost other than the building?” “The whole family’s presumed dead,” the fireman said. “I saw the bodies inside. I wish I could erase the memory from my mind. It was a thing of nightmares. They had a child.” 

I shivered at the very idea, and now the flames appeared to be even more menacing than before. “The whole family?” Emily asked. “You’re sure.” “I know what I saw. There was the body of a mother and father, and I can only assume that the child would have been inside the home as well. It was horrific. I will never forget what I saw. Never.” I swallowed. It was too horrible for words. A body on a board was wrapped in a white sheet. My chest clenched. I didn’t know if I had ever seen such a horrible sight. Gratefully, I could not see the body, but the smallness of the form under the sheet worried me that it might be a child, like the fireman said. “Have you been here long?” Emily asked the man. “I have, miss. I have been here since the fire began and was the first inside. I will go back to fighting the fire in a moment. I just needed a bit of time to compose myself.” “It was very wise to take it. I believe it is a terrible thing that people don’t spend more time contemplating what they see.” “I suppose,” the fireman said. He looked as if he might cry. He turned away from us. “How did the fire start?” Emily asked. I was immediately wondering why Emily would ask a question like that. What did it matter how the family was killed? It was certainly not something that I wanted to think about for long. “It is hard to tell while the fire is still burning, but I think it was something with the fireplace at the front of the house. The family had built a great fire in it for warmth during these frigid days. This cold weather seems to have snuck up on so many and they weren’t properly prepared for the dark turn in the weather.” “You believe the fire started in the chimney?” “Yes, but it leapt to the curtains in the front room. From there it grew out of control in a blink of an eye.” “How many children lived in the home?” I asked. The volunteer fireman looked at me. “Just the one. That surprised me, though, since they are a Catholic family. A poor Irish-Catholic family, so we can only assume that they had many children as is their way.” I felt my back stiffen at his assumption. I had grown up poor as well and had only one brother. I wasn’t Irish or Catholic, but I didn’t feel it was right for the fireman to be saying this. Emily folded her arms. “I think it would be best to confirm how many children were actually in the family and if there were even more before making such a statement about the family.” The man’s face turned bright red. “I should return to help.” “Yes,” Emily agreed. When he was gone, Emily began to shiver; Carlo pressed his woolly body against her. “Perhaps we should go back to the carriage,” I said. “It will still be cold, but at least you will be out of the wind.” Emily shook her head. “I must know if a child was lost in the flames.” I felt sick at the very idea. I prayed that the fireman had been wrong. He seemed to know very little of the family. Perhaps there were no children. Suddenly, Carlo lifted his broad nose in the air and sniffed. His whole body stiffened as if he caught a scent on the wind. I could smell nothing more than the acrid odor of fire. Carlo sniffed the wind again, and then took off, straight for the flames. “Carlo! Carlo!” Emily cried, and my mistress ran after him. The dog did not stop and circled the house. Men fighting the flames with soot-covered faces yelled at him. They shouted at Emily as well when she ran by them. It seemed that I had no choice but to follow. “Miss! Miss!” I called, but Emily didn’t as much as turn her head. Emily was out of sight around the side of the house before I ran more than a few feet. I had no choice but to go after her. I lifted my skirts high over my stout boots and ran. A cold draft encircled my legs and caused me to whimper from the chill. I rounded the corner that was dark with night and smoke and ran smack into a wall or what I thought was a wall. It would have been a wall had it not had arms. “Willa!” Matthew cried. “What are you doing here? There is a fire.” He told me that there was a fire as if it should be all that I needed to know to keep me away. In most cases that would be true but not when Emily and Carlo might be in some kind of danger. “Emily,” I said, speaking my mistress’s given name aloud to anyone but her for the first time. Emily had given me permission to call her by her Christian name, but I remained careful that I didn’t abuse that privilege in a public setting. There were many that would look down on the friendship of a first daughter of a prominent Amherst family with the second maid in the home. As a woman in domestic service, I always had to be on my guard and make sure that I didn’t commit any breach in etiquette. Young women like me had been dismissed for much less. Thankfully, Matthew seemed too shocked by my appearance at the fire to note my mistake. He held me by the shoulders. “Where is she?” “I—I don’t know. Carlo ran off and she went after him. Then I went after her.” Matthew glanced at the raging fire that looked not any closer to being snuffed out, but it did appear that the men on the scene had been able to contain the flames to the single house. The home was lost and would be completely burned to the ground before the night was over. It was a sight to see, to be sure, but it also caused me to wonder. I had had the misfortune to witness several house fires in my life, and I had never seen one that so engulfed a building. A thought tickled the back of my mind and asked me why the fire would burn so hot and fast. “I have to find Miss Dickinson and make sure she is all right,” I said. “I will go with you to make sure you don’t get too close to the flames.” I frowned up at him, but he could not see my expression behind my scarf. However, I am sure that he could guess that it was there. “I am not a fool and would not run into the flames.” “You would if Miss Dickinson was there,” he assured me. I frowned, as I had no rebuttal to that as it was true. Matthew and I went around the side of the building. There wasn’t much behind it but a stand of trees that were in very serious risk of catching fire. If the flames jumped to the trees, there would be no stopping the fire short of another snowstorm. Thankfully, the wind was blowing in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, that direction happened to be toward the college. However, I reminded myself that the men fighting the fire were confident that the college would be spared. I held on to the sides of my bonnet with the hope of keeping it in place against the cold wind. The woods were dark. Emily and Carlo could have been anywhere. I prayed that Emily had found Carlo or he had found her. I worried about her alone in the dark wood in the middle of the night. I cupped my mitten-covered hands around my mouth and called, “Miss Dickinson! Emily!” There was no response. Matthew looked at the woods. “We might have to get a search party together to look for her. It is foolhardy to strike out on your own on a night like this that is not only freezing cold but has so much confusion and chaos from the house fire.” “I don’t see it that way, Officer Thomas,” Emily said from behind us. Matthew and I both leapt in the air in surprise. “Miss Dickinson,” Matthew said. “I did not know that you were there.” She eyed him. “It’s clear to me that you didn’t, but I am glad to find the two of you. There is a matter that we all need to address.” “Where’s Carlo?” I asked. “I’ll show you.” Matthew and I glanced at each other but allowed Emily to lead us into the woods. We walked no more than ten yards when she stopped and pointed in front of her. Ahead of us on the path, there was a large dark mass. At first, I thought it was a black bear and my heart skipped a beat, but then I realized it was Carlo curled into a ball. “Is Carlo hurt?” I asked. She shook her head. Matthew approached the dog, and I was a few steps beside him. When I was within three feet of Carlo, I saw that he wasn’t just wrapped into a ball, but he had wrapped his woolly body around a child. I covered my mouth. It was a young girl. She couldn’t have been more than eight years of age. There was soot on her cheeks, and she shivered as she clung on to Carlo’s neck as if her life depended on it—and it just might, as she wasn’t wearing a coat or even shoes on her feet. Without a second of hesitation, Matthew removed his coat, wrapped it around the child like he was swaddling a baby, and picked her up. She didn’t make a sound. Carlo stood up, ready to do whatever was required to help the girl. “We have to get her inside now.” Matthew took off in the direction of the fire. Carlo, Emily, and I followed, but it was only Carlo who could keep up with him in the deep snow as our skirts weighed us down. We came around the side of the burning house just in time to see Matthew and the child disappear into a grand home across the street outside of Kelley Square. The house was a large block of a home with two chimneys that billowed hot air into the freezing sky. “Come on!” Emily cried, and she took off at a run to the house. “Watch where you’re going!” called a man who was driving a horse and wagon down the road. Emily didn’t even stop to wave at the man. I waited for the wagon to pass and then crossed the street. By that time, Emily was already inside the house...

~~~

I would have been well pleased to continue reading this fantastically conceived and brilliantly creative merge of one of America's well-known poets of the 1800s, together with the cozy mystery flair of author Amanda Flower... I've been a fan of cozies since I first started reading adult fiction, always choosing mysteries over most any other genre at that time. I've been reading Flower since 2010, so do check out earlier reviews by searching her name in the right column...But, I was most intrigued when I first heard about her new series based upon Emily Dickinson, and set in the town where Amherst College had been first started in 1821, and is now the third largest and continuing higher education institution in Massachusetts.

I thought I would share how the College looks now, because in the century in which Amherst College was first opened, it turned out to have one of the worst cold storm of 1857 that had ever occurred in the state. Railroads were damaged and stopped from delivering needed food and more into Amherst, and a main activity of all residents was to worry about fires, since only live fire was used in most homes and because of the cold weather, there was a great fear of potential fires because they didn't have the time to clean the fireplaces and chimneys to ensure there was not a buildup that could ultimately start burning itself... 

The entire Dickinson family had large homes built and, given the status of many of the residents who also worked at Amherst, there was an elite environment, where a strict class structure had continued into the new century... There is a clearly defined separation of the white male leaders, as opposed to all of the hundreds of staff who worked in service professions--police, janitors, maids... In fact, it was at that time when servants were so "invisible" to the elite that they knew more about what was happening in town than many of the professionals living there.

In this book we find the possible reason why Emily Dickinson had first connected with the second maid in her home... While what is said may also be true, I like to think that Emily was drawn to Willa because of her desire to learn--often reading the books from the family library--as well as being quick to pick up on issues that happen on a daily basis in their home and community and be able to make real connections in helping to solve mysteries... Everybody in the house knew that at sometime something would have to break up the close relationship that sprung up between the very unique and commanding woman who had a way of getting around her father whenever they disagreed, just by choosing to apologize after she had made a decision, rather than asking for permission in advance. Made sense most of the time. However, the First Maid was constantly upset, even though she realized that Willa really had no choice but to go with Emily when she was ordered to... But, even that, for Emily, was always a game of power that she enjoyed playing--willing to shock everybody, simply by speaking Truth mostly... Still, Willa would catch emily staring off into space, softly whispering...

A ray of bright sunshine broke through the clouds and all around us the snow shone and sparkled. It was close to blinding, but I couldn’t look away. It seemed to me that Emily felt that same way. She stared at the brightest spot on the snow-covered church steeple. “There’s a certain slant of light on winter afternoons,” she murmured.

But this time, yes, there was a mystery to be solved, but Willa, for the first time, had a significant reason she wanted--no needed--to participate in solving the crime(s)...

There had been a fire of a home near the campus, so the entire town was called out to assist. A young married couple had been burned to death in their home and the building had burned to the ground. Emily's best friend, her dog, had located the daughter of the family, who had been saved when her father carefully placed her outside a window and then went back for his wife. They were told by the fireman later that both doors had been blocked by large stones in front of each door. They were murdered.

Later that night, Willa was the one individual who cared enough about the girl, to slip into the bedroom where she was placed and to stay with her, holding her, that entire night. The little girl had known she was there, feeling Willa's concern, but did not reveal that until the next day because she wanted to ensure she was now safe. Even at that point, she and Willa were the only two of all involved others, to whom the girl would speak... Willa immediately recognized her as being a young "Willa" and had talked and shared about her early life... Now, Willa knew one thing, but had to keep silent about her thoughts... because the police were working to find a home for her, after determining that none of those who financially were very able to keep her, weren't willing to actually do so...

Of course, I realized what she was hoping to do, even before it was spoken in the book and that, dear friends, will explain why I considered what happened as the book proceeds through to the climax and Flower presents us with a Lovely Finale to her Trilogy, one that, for me, was...just...perfect!

Amanda Flower deserves exceptional recognition for capturing the personality of Emily Dickinson and introducing her to the world as a totally competent and enthusiastically driven amateur detective who, if we could rewrite history as some try to do, Emily would have been the very first female amateur sleuth! Do check out the first two books in series: Because I Could Not Stop For Death and I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died (first)/

GABixlerReviews

Amanda Flower's Second in An Emily Dickinson Mystery Series - I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died - Quickly Became Personal Favorite for 2023

 

I love this new series by Amanda Flower! One of the main reasons is that she places the maid, Willa, as the narrator POV. Being able to, therefore, learn about the entire family, including the servants. If you haven't read the first book, check out my review... And, further, in relation to Willa was that, she was an avid reader and Emily had given her access to the family library for her use! I can fully imagine that if I were living at that time, I, too, would probably be that maid, working hard at manual labor in the home and gardens, but, sneaking around to find the next book to read, getting it to her bedroom, and, especially, without the head maid, Margaret, realizing that she spent most of her evening hours reading...

Additionally, you will find, that, perhaps because she was a reader and was able to learn and act on behalf of that new knowledge, Emily had picked her out of the servant status often, to act as her companion. Of course Margaret, having been there a long time, let it be known that it disrupted family services when this happened, but Emily had found somebody that she needed... A person with ears that could be beneficial when a mystery arose... In fact, in this book, it seemed that it was Willa who was putting together the clues much faster than Emily. Especially since she was involved in required family activities. 

You see, another member of the Dickinson family had entered the picture when Austin, and his new bride came home and moved into their home that his father had built for the couple in a nearby walking distance location... And, so it was that the murder mystery actually began!

I felt all the blood drain from my face. “Whatever do you mean?” “He is dead in the patch of black-eyed Susans.” “Show me,” I demanded. As much as I didn’t want to see what Cody described, I had to make sure it was true before I ran back and told the Dickinson family. Perhaps Mr. Howard was just ill and in his delirium fell over into the flowers. He might be sick or hurt and just need to rest. Maybe something he ate hadn’t agreed with him, but he couldn’t be dead. Dead was unbelievable. If he needed rest, why not go to his room for the night? Or had he, and then saw the state of the room and ran outside? But when he made the discovery, why didn’t he come back to the dinner and alert the party? Surely, Austin and Miss Susan would want to know if there was some sort of intruder in their home, because who but an intruder would ransack Mr. Howard’s room so horribly? No amount of rationalization could change the facts. 

When I reached the perennial garden, I realized Cody had been right in his description. Mr. Howard’s lifeless body lay in the patch of black-eyed Susans. His neck was turned to the side, and those bright blue eyes I thought had been so striking the first time I saw him were unseeing and dull. Their distinctive color seemed unearthly with no light of life within them. I put a hand over my mouth to hold back a scream. Even though I had been prepared for the sight, it was still so much to take in. My brother had been killed the year before, but I never saw his body after he died. This sight reminded me of when I found our mother dead in her bed after a long illness. In her case, she was withered and eaten away by disease and heartbreak. Mr. Howard was young and strong but just as dead. 

The only piece of his pale skin with any color was the bruise that had formed around his eye after Paulo the Peddler had hit him. Thoughts of Paulo made me wonder if he could have been the one responsible for Mr. Howard’s demise. He and Mr. Howard clearly had a history, and not a good one. Could he have killed the other man? But how? Other than the black eye from being struck earlier in the day, I didn’t see any wounds on Mr. Howard. He was just dead. Dead with no explanation at all. 

Cody stood behind me, twisting his hands so forcefully I was afraid he might break his fingers. “Willa, what am I going to do? What am I going to do?” His Irish accent was as thick as I had ever heard it. “Cody, you have to run to the Evergreens and tell the family. They will want to call the police.” “I can’t do that. I’m not allowed into the house.” He almost looked as pale as Mr. Howard when he said this. “You go, and I will stay here.” “I will stay here,” I said firmly. As much as I didn’t want to stand over a dead body, I couldn’t trust Cody not to disturb the scene with his pacing and frantic movements. There was no evidence a crime had been committed, but even still, we needed to be careful. 

Matthew taught me about the importance of physical evidence at a crime scene. He said it was becoming increasingly essential as the police departments advanced. More important than witness accounts even, which he claimed were unreliable. “I know Margaret has made a rule for all the servants that the outdoor workers aren’t allowed anywhere in the home other than the servants’ quarters and the kitchens, but, first of all, you aren’t going into the homestead, and, second of all, this is an exception. A man is dead.” His eyes were wide. “But Miss O’Brien! I don’t think she will care if it’s the Evergreens or not. She will give me a tongue-lashing for going into either home in my muddy clothes.” I examined him, and he had a point. His boots and pant legs were encrusted with dirt. I still didn’t believe that was enough reason for him to argue with me on the matter, but it was clear he was afraid of Margaret. I can’t say I blamed him. When I’d first met her, I had been frightened of her as well. “Very well. Run to the kitchens and tell one of the other servants to deliver the message to the dining room.” He hesitated a moment longer, as if he was trying to think of another excuse to stay behind with the body. “Go!” I shouted. 

“What about the police? I can’t be here when the police come.” He looked as if he might cry. “Why not?” I asked. “They will want to talk to you. You were the last one to speak to Mr. Howard, and you found his b—him.” “I’m Irish,” he said. “The police will take one look at me and blame me for this. They don’t need any other reason to pin it on a dirty Irishman. I tell you, when they arrive, they will be looking right at me. You’re here, too, but they will never suspect you, because you are not Irish, and you are a Yankee woman.” 

“Looking at you for what?” I asked, unsure what his point was. In the last few months I’d known Cody, I had become somewhat accustomed to his ability to talk in circles. His “gift of gab” as he called it could be confusing at times. “For his murder.” “We don’t know that he was murdered,” I said a little more sternly than I intended to. It was not lost on me that if I really thought this, then why did I think it was mandatory that I guard what could be the crime scene? And why had I thought for a brief moment that Paulo Vitali could be to blame? 

“But how else can a healthy young man drop dead in the middle of a garden?” Cody asked. “The only way I see it is if someone killed him.” “These are not ideas you want to share with the Dickinsons, their guests, or the police,” I said sharply. “If you do, they will become suspicious of you jumping to conclusions.” He paled in the light of the setting sun, and the dusting of red freckles across his nose became more pronounced. “There might be many reasons as to why Mr. Howard is dead,” I said. “Perhaps he had an illness he didn’t know about or was keeping a sickness secret. We don’t know. Murder is just one of the possibilities, and I have to say it is the least likely.” Cody didn’t exactly relax, but he at least stopped twisting his hands like he had them in some sort of vise. “Now, run to the Evergreens and alert the kitchen staff like I asked, so that the Dickinsons and the police can be told. There is no time to waste.” “What are you going to do?” he asked, taking one more moment to stall. “Don’t worry about me.” I gave him a little push. “Go!” Cody stopped arguing with me and took off toward the Evergreens at a run. 

After he was gone, my eyes were drawn back to the body. Poor Mr. Howard. I couldn’t say I liked the man, but I would not wish this fate on him. I could not help but believe from the agony contorting his face that he died in great pain. I had to look away. There came the sound of movement on the path behind me. I looked behind me, expecting to see Cody returning with another argument as to why he couldn’t be the one to tell the family what had occurred. Instead, I saw a woman in white walking down the garden path in the gathering twilight. I placed a hand on my chest, and for the briefest of moments, I thought it might even be a spirit perhaps of my dead mother. 

“Willa, did you find Mr. Howard?” Emily’s breathy voice shook me from my momentary horror. “Emily.” Her name came out of my mouth like a prayer of thanksgiving, and I remembered she had chosen to wear her white lace frock to the dinner party that evening. It was a summer dress with a broad collar and pointed sleeves. However, with the sun setting at her back, there was something ethereal about her. She seemed to float over the grass. I could very easily see why I thought of her as a ghost. “Willa,” she said in her soft tone that hovered in the humid evening air around us. “What has taken you so long? And why are you in my garden? I asked you to check on Mr. Howard.” 

“Did you pass Cody on the way from the Evergreens?” I asked, realizing by the way I stood I blocked her view of the perennial garden and Mr. Howard’s body. “I did. He wouldn’t tell me why he was running, but said I would find you near the patch of black-eyed Susans. Why are you here? And why was Cody running? He was so pale. I thought his freckles were going to pop off his cheeks.” “It’s Mr. Howard. He’s dead.” I said it as bluntly as she would. Perhaps there was something to just getting the words out without softening them in any way. Dead was dead. 

Instead of reacting with shock or concern, as I would expect of anyone at such an announcement, Emily simply said, “Show me.” “It is a gruesome sight,” I said. “He did not have a peaceful death.” “I conjure more gruesome images in my head than are possible. I assure you I can handle whatever it is.” I sighed and shifted aside so she could see the garden behind me. She stepped around me, but she was nearly a foot shorter than I was, and I could see well over her head. 

She looked down. “I heard a fly buzz when I died,” she murmured. As she said this, I noticed a large horsefly buzzing near Mr. Howard’s unseeing eyes. I wanted to shoo the fly away, but Emily stared at it so intently, I felt like I would be disturbing her if I moved...

~~~

Emily's brother Austin was now married, but not to a new individual to the family. It was Susan who had a long-time relationship to the sisters, so that, in marrying Austin, she had actually become a "sister" to them as well. But there are signs inserted so that we begin to think that Emily was not happy to have Susan now taking on a leading role in the family as the wife of the only male, other than her father. 

Susan had almost immediately took over as head of her new domain, while Emily and her sister were merely daughters to their mother and father. While Mrs. Dickinson was physically not well, that nevertheless did not change the status of this new family member. Immediately she began to talk about making "their" home a center for cultural events. Indeed, she had already invited Ralph Waldo Emerson to stay with them while he was lecturing to the Amherst Literary Society symposium at the college. (If you have not already been following the spotlights of visiting writers, do check out more information related to Emily Dickinson, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Louise May Alcott in previous posts.)

In fact, it was Emerson's secretary, Mr. Howard, who had been found, dead, in the Dickinson's gardens!

Readers will find that Flower has given us a full set of possibilities as to who would have chosen to murder Mr. Howard, starting right at the beginning before we had even met Emerson's assistant. And, we also find that many of those suspects were part of the elite class of academics that lived in the area surrounding the Amherst College... So, my reader friends, what do you think would be the basis for murder of a writer's assistant/writer?

I was having too much fun just reading this book, as Willa and Emily try to solve the murder, while Willa's love interest tries to keep both of the women safe, as well as away from his boss... So many clues, so many potential individuals who'd like to have the man gone... well, I recommend you just sit back and enjoy because, sooner or later, all bad guys are held accountable, don't you think? 

If you like historical novels together with a cozy mystery flair, I recommend you start with the first in series... Future books are bound to get more complicated with more family and friend characters showing up! And, the vids below? A Cat! There was no way I wasn't going to share these two fun book cat videos!

GABixlerReviews

And closing out this attention to Emily Dickinson, Have I found a kindred soul?

It is soon time to sing Happy Birthday to Jesus!

Back in Amherst with Amanda Flower - Meeting Louisa May Alcott! And Spotlighting Her Most Famous Book!

 

Meeting Louisa Alcott, in Amanda Flower's book hinted at the many advantages today that we take for granted... There we meet just Louise Alcott, later to become so well known as Louise May Alcott, that, in my mind, I automatically "read" her name as if the middle name was there...

Louisa was visiting at the time when Emerson was lecturing, perhaps to participate or just be in the audience. However, since Emily Dickinson's family was central to "all things" in the area, Emily and Louisa soon began a conversation about writing. It was Louisa who made it quite clear that the primary reason she began writing was to make money to live! Undoubtedly that made an impression on Emily, who as a single woman living within her family home, she had been free to fall into instances of looking out into space as she considered what poem she might be creating. Her maid, of course, could recognize those times, but really had no ability to consider what exactly she was thinking about...except she would gather all of Emily's rejects from her waste basket and add to her collection of most of her friend's thoughts...

The rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned and the winter sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting.

 Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents. 

 Louisa May Alcott Christmas, Little Women 1868 Little Women, pt.1, ch.1.

And, of course, her book written in 1868, is still popular!!!

Chapter 1

NO

Playing Pilgrims

"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.

"It's so dreadful to be poor!" sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress.

"I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all," added little Amy, with an injured sniff.

"We've got Father and Mother and each other," said Beth contentedly from her corner.

The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly, "We haven't got Father, and shall not have him for a long time." She didn't say "perhaps never," but each silently added it, thinking of Father far away, where the fighting was.

Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone, "You know the reason Mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering so in the army. We can't do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don't." And Meg shook her head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted.

"But I don't think the little we should spend would do any good. We've each got a dollar, and the army wouldn't be much helped by our giving that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you, but I do want to buy Undine and Sintram for myself. I've wanted it so long," said Jo, who was a bookworm.

"I planned to spend mine in new music," said Beth, with a little sigh, which no one heard but the hearth brush and kettle holder.

"I shall get a nice box of Faber's drawing pencils. I really need them," said Amy decidedly.

"Mother didn't say anything about our money, and she won't wish us to give up everything. Let's each buy what we want, and have a little fun. I'm sure we work hard enough to earn it," cried Jo, examining the heels of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner.

"I know I do--teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when I'm longing to enjoy myself at home," began Meg, in the complaining tone again.

"You don't have half such a hard time as I do," said Jo. "How would you like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till you're ready to fly out of the window or cry?"

"It's naughty to fret, but I do think washing dishes and keeping things tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross, and my hands get so stiff, I can't practice well at all." And Beth looked at her rough hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time.

"I don't believe any of you suffer as I do," cried Amy, "for you don't have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you don't know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your father if he isn't rich, and insult you when your nose isn't nice."

"If you mean libel, I'd say so, and not talk about labels, as if Papa was a pickle bottle," advised Jo, laughing.

"I know what I mean, and you needn't be statirical about it. It's proper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary," returned Amy, with dignity.

"Don't peck at one another, children. Don't you wish we had the money Papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! how happy and good we'd be, if we had no worries!" said Meg, who could remember better times.

"You said the other day you thought we were a deal happier than the King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in spite of their money."

"So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are; for, though we do have to work, we make fun for ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say."

"Jo does use such slang words!" observed Amy, with a reproving look at the long figure stretched on the rug. Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle.

"Don't, Jo, it's so boyish!"

"That's why I do it."

"I detest rude, unladylike girls!"

"I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!"

" 'Birds in their little nests agree,' " sang Beth, the peacemaker, with such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the "pecking" ended for that time.

"Really, girls, you are both to blame," said Meg, beginning to lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. "You are old enough to leave off boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn't matter so much when you were a little girl; but now you are so tall, and turn up your hair, you should remember that you are a young lady."

"I'm not! And if turning up my hair makes me one, I'll wear it in two tails till I'm twenty," cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down a chestnut mane. "I hate to think I've got to grow up, and be Miss March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China aster! It's bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boys' games and work and manners! I can't get over my disappointment in not being a boy; and it's worse than ever now, for I'm dying to go and fight with Papa, and I can only stay at home and knit, like a poky old woman!" And Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball bounded across the room.

"Poor Jo! It's too bad, but it can't be helped. So you must try to be contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us girls," said Beth, stroking the rough head at her knee with a hand that all the dishwashing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its touch.

"As for you, Amy," continued Meg, "you are altogether too particular and prim. Your airs are funny now, but you'll grow up an affected little goose, if you don't take care. I like your nice manners and refined ways of speaking, when you don't try to be elegant. But your absurd words are as bad as Jo's slang."

"If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?" asked Beth, ready to share the lecture.

"You're a dear, and nothing else," answered Meg warmly; and no one contradicted her, for the "Mouse" was the pet of the family.

As young readers like to know "how people look," we will take this moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable old room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain; for a good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses, chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a pleasant atmosphere of home peace pervaded it.

Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft, brown hair, a sweet mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce, funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman and didn't like it. Elizabeth-or Beth, as everyone called her-was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom disturbed. Her father called her "Little Tranquillity," and the name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person-in her own opinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out.

The clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls, for Mother was coming, and everyone brightened to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got out of the easy chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze.

"They are quite worn out. Marmee must have a new pair."

"I thought I'd get her some with my dollar," said Beth.

"No, I shall!" cried Amy.

"I'm the oldest," began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided--

"I'm the man of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers, for he told me to take special care of Mother while he was gone."

"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Beth, "let's each get her something for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves."

"That's like you, dear! What will we get?" exclaimed Jo.

Everyone thought soberly for a minute, then Meg announced, as if the idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, "I shall give her a nice pair of gloves."

"Army shoes, best to be had," cried Jo.

"Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed," said Beth.

"I'll get a little bottle of cologne. She likes it, and it won't cost much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils," added Amy.

"How will we give the things?" asked Meg.

"Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles. Don't you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?" answered Jo.

"I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the big chair with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles," said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea at the same time.

"Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then surprise her. We must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg. There is so much to do about the play for Christmas night," said Jo, marching up and down, with her hands behind her back and her nose in the air.

"I don't mean to act any more after this time. I'm getting too old for such things," observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about "dressing-up" frolics.

"You won't stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best actress we've got, and there'll be an end of everything if you quit the boards," said Jo. "We ought to rehearse tonight. Come here, Amy, and do the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that."

"I can't help it; I never saw anyone faint, and I don't choose to make myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down easily, I'll drop; if I can't, I shall fall into a chair and be graceful. I don't care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol," returned Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece.

"Do it this way: clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room, crying frantically, 'Roderigo! save me! save me!' " and away went Jo, with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling.

Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and jerked herself along as if she went by machinery, and her "Ow!" was more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her bread burn as she watched the fun with interest.

"It's no use! Do the best you can when the time comes, and if the audience laughs, don't blame me. Come on, Meg."

Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech of two pages without a single break; Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect; Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of remorse and arsenic, with a wild "Ha! ha!"

"It's the best we've had yet," said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and rubbed his elbows.

"I don't see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. You're a regular Shakespeare!" exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things.

"Not quite," replied Jo modestly. "I do think The Witch's Curse, an Operatic Tragedy is rather a nice thing, but I'd like to try Macbeth, if we only had a trapdoor for Banquo. I always wanted to do the killing part. 'Is that a dagger that I see before me?' " muttered Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous tragedian do.

"No, it's the toasting fork, with Mother's shoe on it instead of the bread. Beth's stage-struck!" cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a general burst of laughter.

"Glad to find you so merry, my girls," said a cheery voice at the door, and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady with a "can-I-help-you" look about her which was truly delightful. She was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in the world.

"Well, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much to do, getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn't come home to dinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby."

Copyright © 2019 by Louisa May Alcott

Publisher Signet

Louisa May Alcott shares the innocence of girlhood in this classic coming of age story about four sisters—Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy.
 
In picturesque nineteenth-century New England, tomboyish Jo, beautiful Meg, fragile Beth, and romantic Amy are responsible for keeping a home while their father is off to war. At the same time, they must come to terms with their individual personalities—and make the transition from girlhood to womanhood. It can all be quite a challenge. But the March sisters, however different, are nurtured by their wise and beloved Marmee, bound by their love for each other and the feminine strength they share. Readers of all ages have fallen instantly in love with these Little Women. Their story transcends time—making this novel endure as a classic piece of American literature that has captivated generations of readers with their charm, innocence, and wistful insights.

This Signet Classics edition contains Little Women in its entirety, including Parts I and II.
 
With an Introduction by Regina Barecca
and an Afterword by Susan Straight

~~~

Yesterday is gone, today it seems the same...

but, may we always remember

Jesus is the Reason 

for the Season
God Bless

Gabby

Ralph Waldo Emerson is Coming to Amherst - Let's Hear What He's Sharing at the College...

 

Emerson on selecting the right gift to give at Christmas and New Year (1844)

Found in The Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson, vol. 3 (Essays. Second Series)

In his second series of essays which the individualist philosopher and abolitionist Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882) published in 1844 he ponders the correct gift to give at this time of the year. He concludes that two types of gifts are best: flowers because they are “a ray of beauty (which) outvalues all the utilities of the world”, and things which convey something of “a man’s biography”:

If at any time it comes into my head that a present is due from me to somebody, I am puzzled what to give, until the opportunity is gone. Flowers and fruits are always fit presents; flowers, because they are a proud assertion that a ray of beauty outvalues all the utilities of the world. These gay natures contrast with the somewhat stern countenance of ordinary nature: they are like music heard out of a work-house. Nature does not cocker us; we are children, not pets; she is not fond; everything is dealt to us without fear or favor, after severe universal laws. Yet these delicate flowers look like the frolic and interference of love and beauty. Men use to tell us that we love flattery even though we are not deceived by it, because it shows that we are of importance enough to be courted. Something like that pleasure, the flowers give us: what am I to whom these sweet hints are addressed?

Next to things of necessity, the rule for a gift, which one of my friends prescribed, is that we might convey to some person that which properly belonged to his character, and was easily associated with him in thought. But our tokens of compliment and love are for the most part barbarous. Rings and other jewels are not gifts, but apologies for gifts. The only gift is a portion of thyself. Thou must bleed for me. Therefore the poet brings his poem; the shepherd, his lamb; the farmer, corn; the miner, a gem; the sailor, coral and shells; the painter, his picture; the girl, a handkerchief of her own sewing. This is right and pleasing, for it restores society in so far to the primary basis, when a man’s biography is conveyed in his gift, and every man’s wealth is an index of his merit.

The American radical individualist philosopher and abolitionist Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882) in his essay on “Gifts” which he published in 1844 asks himself what is the best gift to give during the Christmas and New Year period. He begins by asking what is the most appropriate gift to give in a time of high public and private indebtedness when the “world is in a state of bankruptcy”. His answer is twofold. His first recommendation is not surprising given his views on nature: the gift should be a simple one such as flowers because “they are a proud assertion that a ray of beauty outvalues all the utilities of the world” or fruits because “they are the flower of commodities, and admit of fantastic values being attached to them.” The second recommendation reflects his individualist philosophy of transcendentalism, that is one should give something that reveals an aspect of the giver as a person, or as he phrased it “when a man’s biography is conveyed in his gift.” So a poet gives a poem, a shepherd a lamb, and so on. We at the Online Library of Liberty therefore give you all another book, another idea, another quotation for the New Year. May it be a year of peace and liberty.

~~~

If you had never read Ralph Waldo Emerson, you are not alone. After all, the man lived in the 1800s and unless you studied literature, his name might not have ever come into your life. I was impressed with what I learned, and yet I wondered about what was made clear in Amanda Flower's book. He wrote for men. In fact, when a "wannabe" talked to him about her writing, he suggested that she write under a man's name... I wonder what he would have said if I told him that books, even those written by men, were being banned in the year 2023...

Still, it was a different time then and yet, much of what he writes speaks to all of us, doesn't it? Emerson will be lecturing again, so let's continue to listen, shall we?

Amanda Flower's New Series Featuring Emily Dickinson Bound to be Must-Read for Dickinson Fans Plus Mystery Fans!

 

Because I could not stop for Death— 

He kindly stopped for me— 

The Carriage held but just Ourselves— 

And Immortality. 

—Emily Dickinson

“Mr. Allen, the party is not dead,” Mr. Dickinson said."Am I not still a Whig in the eyes of Congress?”

“But for how long? I tell you the Whigs are all but gone, and it’s over slavery. The nation is being ripped in two because of it. Those who are left standing in the middle are the ones who will be torn to bits when this all blows up,” a red-faced man said from the other end of the table. Perspiration gathered on his forehead as he spoke. 

Mr. Dickinson set his wineglass back on the table. “There are other issues that my party is more concerned with. Economic stability is at the forefront.” 

“How can the economy or any of these other so-called issues be more important than this one?” Mr. Allen wanted to know. 

“All topics of the law are given their due,” Mr. Dickinson said. “I agree that this issue of slavery seems to be coming to a head. Every time a new state or territory is added to the Union we have to ask if this new addition will be slave or free. It’s a ridiculous question to ask. What we should be asking is how this new territory will increase the wealth and power of the United States of America.” 

“When you do that,” a second young man spoke up, “you are displacing the Indians who live in those places.” 

“Let’s not get into that,” the red-faced man harped. The young man looked like he wanted to argue more but pressed his lips into a thin line. “Where are the Indians going to go if we continue to push them west?” 

Emily chimed in. “Will we push them into the ocean?” “This is not a discussion to be had at the dinner table in mixed company,” Mr. Dickinson said. “Politics is men’s work.” 

“Men’s work, women’s work. I can scream the number of times I have heard that. What if my interests are supposed to be reserved for men? What am I supposed to do with those?” Emily wanted to know. 

“They can’t be your interests,” the young and bearded Mr. Allen said. 

“How can you tell me how I can and cannot feel?” Emily asked. “If you stub your toe and experience pain, what should I say to you? Well, as a man you should be stronger than that. That should not hurt you. I don’t think you would like that.” 

“That is not the point I’m making.” 

“I see, but it is the point that I’m making, which is the difference,” Emily said archly. 

“Mr. Allen, it seems that you have met your match in Miss Dickinson here,” a man with sandy-colored hair that was going gray at the temples said. 

“Westward expansion is not the main concern,” Mr. Johnson spoke up in his gruff voice. “Our country is being torn in two over the issue of slavery as Mr. Allen said.” 

Everyone at the table looked at the stable owner. “And what is your view on it?” Emily asked, holding her glass in the air. 

“My view is of no importance,” he practically growled. Emily set her empty glass on the table. “I think your view is very important, Mr. Johnson. Is it not true that a young man was killed in your stables a few weeks ago? There are murmurings in Amherst that he was in some way involved in the Underground Railroad. Is that not true?” 

I froze in my spot against the wall. How could Emily just come out and say that? She had to know that it would send Mr. Johnson over the edge. 

Mr. Johnson glared at her. “I had a stable hand that was killed by a horse because the stable hand was careless. That’s all there is to it. When people are around horses they forget that they are large and powerful animals. That’s what my employee did and now he is dead. It’s no one’s fault but his own.” 

I gave a quick intake of breath. When I did I grabbed the attention of Matthew. His head turned in my direction, and his eyes went wide as if he realized that it had been me standing there the whole time. In the hotel uniform, I had been overlooked by everyone at the dinner table, including Matthew. It was far too easy to see servants as fixtures in a room instead of the real people that they were. 

“You seem to be very determined to blame young Henry for his own death,” Emily said. Mr. Johnson’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t say anything back. “Emily,” Mr. Dickinson spoke up. “That is enough.” Emily frowned but did not argue with her father. She knew that she had pushed the conversation as far as it would go. 

Mrs. Dickinson cleared her throat. “Mr. Campbell,” she addressed the balding man who had been speaking to Matthew when I first came into the room. “Have you had an opportunity to speak to Mr. Milner? He’s our postmaster in Amherst.” She gestured at Mr. Milner who was sitting across the table from her next to Matthew. Mrs. Dickinson smiled at Mr. Milner. “I’m sure you already know that Mr. John Campbell is the postmaster general for the nation.” 

Mr. Milner pulled on his collar. “I do.” 

“Oh!” Mr. Campbell said in a friendly voice. “How nice to meet one of our postmasters from a small town. Every member of the postal service is important. We are making so many vast improvements because of the hard work of the men on the front lines of delivering the mail.” 

Mr. Milner’s face turned red. “Thank you, sir. We all try to deliver the mail in a precise and timely fashion.” 

Mr. Campbell nodded. “I know this very well.” 

“Mr. Milner told my sister and me that he was in Washington for a postal conference this week. 

Were you at that conference as well, Mr. Campbell?”

Emily asked. 

The postmaster general wrinkled his brow. “I don’t know anything about a postal conference happening this week in Washington. Usually, I’m notified about such events. I do hope that my secretary did not make a mistake and leave this off my calendar for the week.” 

“No, sir.” Mr. Milner took a sip from his wineglass and then set it back on the table. “The conference was a small regional affair. As much as we would have been honored to have you be a part of it, sir, we know your duties are far too demanding for our small gathering.” 

“Yes, that must be it,” Mr. Campbell said absently. 

“If it was a regional meeting,” Emily said, “it does not make much sense that you meet so far from home. There are many big cities in New England to meet.” “Emily,” Mr. Dickinson said in a measured tone. 

Mr. Campbell opened his mouth as if he wanted to say more on the matter, but Mr. Johnson stood up from the table. 

“Thank you for the kind invitation this evening, but it is time for me to leave. I have pressing business that I must attend to.” 

Mr. Dickinson’s face turned red. “Please stay, Mr. Johnson. I hope my daughter speaking out of turn has not caused you to leave.” 

“It hasn’t,” Mr. Johnson said, but I believed that everyone knew that it had. 

I noticed then that Mr. Milner stared at the table and his arms were pressed closely to his sides. It was almost as if he was trying to make himself as small as possible. 

“Good evening.” Mr. Johnson stomped out of the room. When he was gone, Mr. Milner looked up and seemed to visibly relax. 

Mr. Dickinson cleared his throat. “I want to apologize for my guest’s behavior. I was hesitant to invite him here tonight with so many esteemed guests at my table, but he is a businessman from Amherst. I invited him out of duty. I regret that decision now.”

“Yes, that was quite rude to leave the dinner party like that,” Emily said. 

Mr. Dickinson glared at her. I would say that Emily was in a whole heap of trouble as far as her father was concerned. 

Without taking the time to think about it, I went through the door after Mr. Johnson. By the time I made it to the lobby, he had his coat and hat in hand and was striding out of the hotel. I hesitated. What did I do now? Follow him? By myself? Was I crazy for even thinking it? Outside of the hotel I watched as Mr. Johnson climbed into a carriage and a moment later the carriage was underway down the busy street. “Miss Willa, you look like you’re lost.” 

I turned and found Buford standing on the sidewalk. “That man who just came out of the hotel. I—I think he’s up to something.”

 “I do too. That’s why we need to follow him.” 

I looked over my shoulder to find Emily standing in the middle of the sidewalk in her ball gown. Buford began to untether his horse from the hitching post. “Then we better go before we lose sight of him.” Emily ushered me to the carriage. 

I climbed inside and she came in after me. The wide hoops of her skirt took up most of the space between us. Buford called to Betty Sue, the horse, and the carriage rolled into traffic. I stared at Emily. 

“How?” I couldn’t even think of the best way to ask the question. 

“How did I get here?” she asked with a smile. 

“Yes, did you walk out of your father’s dinner party too?” My eyes were wide. She looked out the window of the carriage. 

“Not exactly. I said I had a headache and needed to lie down. I’m sure my father is using that right now to explain my behavior to all of his guests. I helped him by leaving. He will say something to the effect that women don’t know what they are saying when they have a headache or some such nonsense. The key to the nonsense that men say about women is to use it to our advantage as I did in this case.” She opened the window and stuck her head out. 

“Buford is good at following. He is keeping a delivery wagon between our carriage and that of Mr. Johnson’s. I’m sure Mr. Johnson has no idea we are behind him.” 

I folded my hands in my lap. I was alone with Emily in the carriage. I went along with her like I always did, but how could I trust her when I knew either she or her sister stole my brother’s diary? I considered saying something about it, but it seemed the more pressing issue at hand was the fact that we were following Mr. Johnson. I asked, “And what are we going to do when we catch up with him?” 

“I haven’t settled on that part yet.” 

I bit the inside of my lip. She had better settle on it soon, because I had a feeling that Mr. Johnson would not like it if we showed up unannounced. The small window between the driver’s seat and the carriage opened, and we heard Buford’s voice. “It looks to me like he’s stopping at the Washington Monument. You want me to follow him?” 

Emily’s skirts made a ruffling sound as she scooted closer to the window to be heard. “Yes, don’t lose him!” 

The wagon jerked as Buford snapped his switch in the air to encourage Betty Sue to trot faster. A moment later, the carriage rocked to a stop. 

I peered out the window and saw the foot of the Washington Monument twenty or so yards away. I could only make it out because of the gas lampposts throughout the public grounds. The sun had long set. “What do we do?” I asked in a hoarse whisper. 

She opened the carriage door. “We get out, of course.” Without waiting for Buford to help her, she hopped out of the carriage. 

Even with my trust in Emily waning, I groaned and followed her.

~~~

Flower's first novel featuring the character, Emily Dickinson, is interesting inasmuch as the Point of View is by a maid that had recently been hired into the Dickinson household. The period is pre-Civil War and Emily's father is at the close of his congressional seat in Washington.

There is talk of slavery being an important issue in upcoming elections. Indeed, the Underground railroad is already underway. Still, there are Black men who have already been freed and living in Amherst, Massachusetts, where the family homestead is still located... 

“There is always a reason to write,” 

-“Words fall differently on the page 

than they do from the lips. 

There is more control, more thought,

 and more possibility.”

The story starts as Willa, a young orphan who has been working for 8 years in domestic work, comes to apply for the position at the Dickinsons. She meets with the Housekeeper and after being interviewed, was about to leave, when Emily, came into the room and declared that they had found the maid that they needed. The Housekeeper was hesitant and asked, "Are you sure, Miss Dickinson?" And Emily confirmed that Willa was to stay...

Right away we wonder what had led Emily to make a decision on hiring. Something that was delegated to staff and, with few exceptions, "the help" would be seen but rarely involved with other than their work. Perhaps, I wondered, whether Emily had seen a kindred spirit in this young woman, who, when forced to work, had started early and had already moved from job to job to improve her living conditions.

Or, was it merely a part of the plot that was needed by the author, so that she could have a new member of the staff describe everything there, including Emily, to the readers? Well, if so, then that was certainly a grand idea because I found myself thoroughly enjoying meeting the renowned poet through the eyes of a maid who would be living with her and the family for many years... 

Perhaps a combination of the two? For, almost immediately, Willa's brother is killed in what was to be called an accident, but that, in Willa's mind could not have been. Henry was Willa's younger brother and she had been taking care of his since their mother had died. Henry, somehow had found his way into the new bedroom where Willa was staying and spent time with her talking about what he'd been doing and that, in fact, he had a new and wonderful opportunity which would provide sufficient funds for both of them to begin to live different lives.

Time quickly passed and Henry was killed by a horse, kicked to death. I must stop, here, and ponder the apparent possibility of that type of death being common in early years... For, it was that same type of accident that had killed my father before I was born...

But Willa refused to believe it. Of course nobody else knew that he had come to visit her. But she also knew that Henry had a true gift of working with horses and other animals and that there was no way that one would turn on him...

Miss O'Brien, the Housekeeper, immediately gave her a little time to go to her bedroom, but indicated she would have to realize that it would be required that she continue her work. And grieving would have to be done on her own time...

Once again, Emily intervened not only about giving Willa time to grieve, but she also listened to what Willa said about her belief that it was not an accident. And made a commitment to Willa that the two of them would work to discover exactly what happened!

Emily and Willa first went to "the scene of the crime" where they met a good friend of Henry. Jeremiah was a freed Black man who saw Henry as his best friend. They slept together in a horse stall covered with hay and spent each night there with the horses. Jeremiah, too, felt that Henry's death was no accident...

At the same time, Jeremiah was not there when the accident occurred and could not, or would not, explain where he was. Nevertheless, he showed the burns on the horse's body and where it was that Henry was pushed against the wall. Something would have had to occur to make the horse react...and it wasn't Henry who did it! The three agreed on that!

The story soon takes readers to Washington, D.C., where Willa (who was named as ladies' maid to the two sisters to permit her involvement) and Emily started to investigate... For there were a number of men in Amherst who they felt were suspicious. And two were also scheduled to be in Washington! Additionally, rumors had been going around Amherst that a slave catcher had been seen and was paying for the return of slaves who had escaped in the south and were on the run to the north...

I enjoyed the outspoken brave words that often poured out of Emily's mouth. One in particular must have been a puzzle to those in the conversation...

 ...Did you enjoy this morning’s services? My father did a fine job, did he not?” Miss Dickinson looked at him down her petite nose, which was quite an accomplishment seeing how she was a foot shorter than the twins. “I did not go to church. I am not a member of this church as you well know. Carlo and I were just out for a morning walk. That’s our means of worship.” The twins looked at each other. “Surely, that is just an oversight,” Urschel said. “You have not taken the time to finish your membership. Our father would be happy to welcome another member of the Dickinson family into his flock.” 

“You are assuming that I intend to. My god is not there.” She pointed at the white meetinghouse with its peaked steeple. The twins were confused. “If he is not there, where is he?” “If you must ask, you will not understand the answer. Therefore, there is no purpose in answering a question that does not need to be asked.” She looked to me. “Willa, Carlo and I have finished our walk. We will accompany you home. Since you ran into me on the way home, it will explain the delay to Miss O’Brien.” I nodded and started to follow Miss Dickinson.

Let me close by sharing directly from Amanda Flower about her dream... This literary masterpiece has been created as a result of the fascination of the author for this Writer... What a Tribute! I loved it and You Will Too!

To write this book is an actual dream come true. I have been a fan of Emily Dickinson since I was fifteen and was assigned the poem “I heard a Fly buzz - when I died” to memorize in high school. Ever since I have been fascinated with the poet and her work, and considering the content of the poem, it’s not surprising I was destined to write mysteries. Emily has inspired me as a writer, but as a mystery novelist, not a poet. The unanswered mysteries of Emily’s work and life are what I find more interesting. The first novel I wrote inspired by Emily was a contemporary cozy mystery, Crime and Poetry, where the sleuth interprets Emily’s poems to solve the crime. Because I Could Not Stop for Death is the first time I have written Emily as a character, which has been exciting and challenging. So first and foremost, I want to thank Emily Dickinson for her life and work, without which this novel would not exist. I would also like to thank the countless Dickinson scholars who helped me with this work by making their analysis and research available in books and articles. I read so many accounts of Dickinson’s life for this one novel. It would be impossible to share them all. However, most noticeably I would like to thank the following: Richard B. Sewall, the author of The Life of Emily Dickinson, and Aífe Murray, the author of Maid as Muse: How Servants Changed Emily Dickinson’s Life and Language.

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