How Do I Love Thee? (11 page)

“Catch your breath, Mary, and get warm by the fire.”

But upon seeing her face, I knew it was not the trek up the stairs nor the cold that was causing her discomfort. I rose from the sofa to go to her. “Mary . . .”

She fell into my arms. “My father. He has died.”

Beyond the initial shock, my first response was mentally expressed in two words:
Finally died.

I was ashamed at my reaction and with Crow’s help, removed Mary’s cloak and led her to the sofa, where we sat side by side. “Were you with him?” I asked.

She nodded and retrieved a handkerchief to blow her nose. “He succumbed peacefully.”

In spite of proper decorum for such situations, a small laugh escaped. “
That
is a change.”

I was relieved when she returned my smile. “He
was
a difficult man.”

“Demanding.”

“Stubborn.”

“Reckless.” I hastened to add, “With money.”

She agreed with a nod. “My money.”

I ran a hand across her back. “You supported him for so many years.”

“Money ran through his fingers. He’d always been that way. When I was a child he spent Mother’s inheritance, and then even my lottery winnings.”

I had forgotten about that. When Mary was ten she had won twenty thousand pounds, which her father had spent with great speed and abandon. His penchant for spending often ended him in debtors’ prison, where he was repeatedly rescued by his loyal, hardworking daughter.

Mary gripped the handkerchief in her fist. “I wanted to be the greatest English poetess of all time, yet my poems have never sold. How ironic that my prose,
The Village
, which I was forced to write to pay the bills, found success. And now I am alone. So alone.” She fell into my arms once again.

“You are not alone, Mary. You have many, many friends, most of all me. And this house. You must come and stay here.”

She shook her head vigorously. “Your father would never allow it. When I visit he barely nods and always appears stern, as if I am an intruder.”

I hurried to defend him, for she was not the first to misunderstand Papa’s reticence. “He is merely shy and feels intimidated by those he admires, those with high intellect and wit. He doubts his ability to host, not in your ability to be a suitable guest. He is really very kind and caring and . . .” I thought of a point that would be his best defence. “He has been praying for your father during his illness. I did not ask him to. He did so out of his own mind, and quite from the heart. He was the one who suggested we send your father gifts to cheer him.”

“The chocolates from Jamaica. Father loved those.”

I nodded earnestly. “That was Papa’s doing. And the oysters. And the grapes.”

Suddenly she sat erect. “Why did I never marry?” She gave me a pointed look. “Why did
you
never marry?”

Her question took me by surprise. “I . . .”

“Why did love pass us by?”

I had never thought of it in this manner. “Perhaps it was we who did the passing.”

Her eyebrow rose. “You received offers?”

Although the question was innocent, I felt myself blush. “No, there was never anyone—anyone that was . . .”

I had piqued her interest. “Was . . . ?”

I chose the first word that came to mind, even though it was insufficient. “Feasible.”

“Love and feasibility do not belong in the same sentence.”

“They do when they describe a young woman falling in love with an elderly man; a middle-aged blind man, four years older than Papa.”

She scooted away from me, as if to study me better. “Who?”

“You do not know him. Hugh Boyd.”

“Hugh Stuart Boyd, the Greek scholar?”

I was pleased she did know of him. “When I was but twenty-one and we still lived at Hope End, he was staying in nearby Malvern and sent me a letter, saying he admired my writing in
An Essay on Mind.
It was utterly unexpected; he was a complete stranger.”

“How exciting.”

I nodded. “Through extended correspondence I discovered we were of like mind. He was so learned, so well read, and was also a poet. I wanted him to teach me.” I hurried to clarify. “By letter. Although he wanted to meet me, I made excuses—feeble though they were—as to why I could not meet him.”

“You prefer to test a friendship on paper first, do you not?”

“I confess, that
is
the case.”

“But you did meet him?”

I gave her a chastising look. “You get ahead of the story.”

She held up a hand, yielding.

“Our correspondence eventually moved beyond a scholarly discussion to a more personal vein. He was fascinated with our family and life at Hope End, and . . . and he saw through the excuse of my bad health, the weather, my lack of transportation, and . . . such . . . as barriers to our meeting. I finally had to tell him that Papa would never approve. Papa had told me that, whatever gratification and improvement I might receive from a personal intercourse with Mr. Boyd, as a female—a young female—I could not visit him without overstepping the established observances of society.”

“Oh posh,” Mary said.

I allowed myself a moment to access the fuller truth. “Actually, although Papa did object, the main obstacle to our first meeting was my fear.”

“Ah,” Mary said.

Suddenly, I realized how many years had passed from then to now. I had started being reclusive fifteen years ago? Or even longer? Or had I always been this way? I let myself remember those last years of my youth, when my health had caused me to change so drastically. . . .

Yet with those memories came a few that were unflattering. . . . “I remember feeling quite well more often than I let on. I would tell Papa otherwise to suit my whim. I knew he did not like society much, and so I played into that—at will—knowing that he would not force me to do what brought
him
discomfort.”

Mary smiled and pretended to chastise, “Ba! I am shocked.”

So was I, in retrospect. Yet at the time . . . “Mr. Boyd deemed my excuses ridiculous. And as far as propriety? He was blind, a married man, and had a daughter as old as I.”

“At the risk of jumping ahead . . . you
did
meet him?”

“Finally. I had been walking with my sisters on the street and—”

“So you
were
well?”

“Well enough. I did get out occasionally to visit an aunt and Grandmother Moulton, who rented a cottage close by. And on one of these occasions, I spotted Mr. and Mrs. Boyd, walking. Although I had never seen them, Henrietta knew who they were and suggested we go say hello, but I could not, just could not, and slipped into a shop without greeting them.”

“Ba, that was rude. That was your chance.”

“I know that now. I knew it then, but I have always been low on courage.” And yet . . . I remembered otherwise. “Actually, soon after that incident I showed great courage, perhaps one of the few times I have ever done so.”

“What happened?”

“On that day, Mrs. Boyd had recognized my sisters, realized I was their companion, and told her husband of my slight. He wrote me a scathing letter pointing out that if I were well enough to visit others, I should have been well enough to visit him, a respectable, married man. But no matter, they were leaving the area soon, and so that, quite simply, was that.”

“He had a point.”

“He did. But his letter wounded me so, I went to Papa and showed it to him, and asked him to give me good reason why I could not call on the Boyds.”

“And he . . . ?”

“He had no good excuse since I
was
well enough, and the situation was respectable enough, so—”

“He admitted he was wrong?”

A laugh escaped. “No, no. That would never happen. Has never happened. Ever. But he did say, ‘Do as you like,’ which I considered a victory. And so I did. As I liked.”

“Bravo!” Mary offered soft applause.

The full memory spurred me to urge her to stop. “I was too nervous to go alone, so I asked Bro to accompany me, and Henrietta and Arabel agreed to go in the little carriage as far as a friend’s home. But on the way down the Wyche—a very steep hill—the pony’s trot turned into a panicked gallop, and though Bro warned everyone, ‘Don’t touch the reins!’, I instinctively did just that, and the carriage overturned.”

“Were you hurt?”

“Henrietta hurt her ankle and my hat was torn, and we were all dirty from the road, but no serious injuries. And luckily another carriage came along and took Henrietta off to our friend’s home. Bro ran after the pony, but I was so scared, I would not let him connect the animal back to the carriage, so Bro took the shaft and pulled Arabel and me as if he were the pony.”

“What a sight that must have been!”

I held up a finger, for the story was not finished. “In such a state we came upon Mr. and Mrs. Boyd, and I was so rattled because I was dirty and torn and—”

“Did you not say he was blind?”

I remembered others in my family presenting that same point, yet at the time, his blindness didn’t matter. “This was the first time I had ever been in such close proximity, and . . . I made a fool of myself and rambled on about how our visit would obviously have to be cancelled.”

“What did he say?”

“Not a word. His wife was very gracious, but he, he said nothing.” I could still see him, his face paler and more amiable than I had imagined. “This man who instructed me, argued with me, critiqued my work with such power and compassion, had a gentle countenance, but had eyes quenched and deadened.”

“As you said, he was blind.”

I shook my head. “I knew that, but during our correspondence, I had forgotten or set it aside, for his words and thoughts were full of sight and insight.”

Mary nodded, and I knew she understood.

“I realized then upon seeing him on his wife’s arm . . . for a man of his nature to be completely dependent . . . all my excuses not to meet him had been silly. And so, I arranged another meeting, and another, and another, and soon I was reading Greek to him. I became of use to him as he was to me, and . . .”

“You fell in love with him.”

I pinched a button on my bodice, unwilling to meet her eyes. “It was the happiest summer of my life.”

“But . . . but he was married.”

I looked up, needing her to see the sincerity of my expression. “Nothing untoward happened whatsoever. It was the first love of a young girl. He did not reciprocate.” I sighed, remembering another folly. “To my shame I even kept a diary that focused on my . . . intense feelings for him.”

“Did he know your feelings?”

“Not directly, though he had to have known. Sensed. Are not the senses of the blind more keenly set on instinct and subtleties the rest of us miss? And yet I never expressed my love to him. I relegated all my feelings to that awful diary.”

“Awful?”

“The emotions were unseemly and tortured. Obsessed. Eventually, they disgusted me. I felt so intensely, and dissected each word said between us, each meeting . . . I thought I was above such feminine frivolity, and finding I was not . . . I could make myself nearly hysterical trying to find justification to my feelings, and I was always questioning his. Did he really care for me?”

“Did he?”

“Not in the way of romance. As a student, as a comrade, as a protégé.
He was a gentleman, and yet . . . sometimes he could be very cold.”

“Perhaps he sensed your feelings and his distance was his way of trying to quell them.”

I nodded. “I did not realize that then, but I do now. I forced him to be cold.”

“I am sorry you had to go through that.”

“I am not sorry. I was deluded. I acted childishly. I believed him to be the perfect friend.”

“No one is—”

“Not even him.” I took a deep breath to rid myself of the first part of the story and get to the end. “In truth he was rather self-centered, and . . . even indifferent. I have a tender nature; I am easily swayed by emotion.”

“You are a poet,” Mary said. “And a woman.”

“A wiser woman now.” I remembered her original question. “So no, there have been no offers. No one true love.”

“I am not a pretty woman, but you, Ba. Why did you not have suitors?”

“I was ill and . . . life was complicated.”

“Your father complicated things.”

“No, not just . . .” I could not finish it, for she knew the truth of it.

She nodded, reinforcing her statement. “For their differing reasons our fathers became the men in our lives, and insisted on being the only men.”

Up until this moment, our fathers, being who they were, had been a solidifying factor in our friendship. Yet previously we had spoken of them with full respect. I did not like the vein of our current conversation.

She put a hand on mine. “Admit it, Ba. If not for our fathers’ possessive natures, and perhaps our own loyal temperaments, you and I would be married with a passel of children between us.”

“But I was sick and—”

“Perhaps a loving husband would have made you well.”

I was stunned. “Surely you are not implying that the care I received from my father, from my family, was inadequate?”

“A father’s love is adequate, Ba. To get by. To sustain. But what of romance? Finding a soul mate? The one person who can be . . .” Mary dabbed the corner of the handkerchief to her eyes. “Have we missed much, Ba? Missed too much?”

I was uncomfortable with our discussion and rose to walk to the window. I scraped at the frost with a fingernail so I could see the chimneys and rooftops before me. I imagined the families in the buildings . . . husbands, wives, and children. “What good does it do to have regrets?” I asked myself as much as Mary.

“None,” she said plainly. She moved back upon the sofa, causing her legs to dangle from its edge. With her small size and soft features she looked like a child—a middle-aged child. “Though I do regret not having children, don’t you?”

To that I had a definite answer. “I do.” I patted the side of my skirt and Flush immediately came and licked my hand. “Children and animals are the soft spots of my heart.”

“You could still have children, Ba.”

I laughed. “I am thirty-six.” I turned to her and smiled. “I will let you go first.”