How Do I Love Thee? (2 page)

Bro looked confused. “Dr. Barry died months ago.”

“Which makes his death from fever acceptable?”

“It happens, Ba.”

“He was the only doctor I liked as a person. Back in London, Dr. Chambers may be the doctor of the queen dowager, but I do not much like him. Nor others with fewer credentials. Only Dr. Barry was amiable enough for me to call
friend
.”

Bro offered an incredulous look. “But was not Dr. Barry the doctor who scoffed at your habit of not rising until noon? Did he not command you to get up at an earlier hour and force you outside in the afternoon?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “And I hold to my feelings that rising at such an early hour is barbaric, and the fresh air made me fit for nothing.”

“After ten days he declared you better.”

Of this I could offer dispute. “He declared my lungs better, yet I felt far worse. I was in such lowness of spirits that I could have cried all day were there no exertion in crying.” I thought of Dr. Barry’s greatest sin against me. “He
was
aggravating in that he forbade me from deep study. As a result I was forced to bind my Plato to appear as a novel so he would not ban it from my room. And as for writing my poetry, he claimed the toil of it was too much of a strain. Toil? Writing is my life. It is not toil. And he cannot stop me.”

“No. Now he cannot.”

Bro could be so . . . so . . . concise. But I would not let him enjoy the victory. I had a point to make. “As I said, Dr. Barry moved me, and now that he has died, his passing grieves me.”

Bro crossed his arms and gave me a look of smugness.

I feigned ignorance, though I felt my cheeks grow warm. “Why do you look at me so?”

“This doctor, whom you fought at every ford, moves you, and is mourned by you?”

“In spite of our disparate views, he was the most amiable doctor I have ever employed.” I thought of another point. “And for him to die when he had a wife who was with child . . .”

“ ’Tis a tragedy, I do not dispute that,” Bro said. “But it should not cause you to fear for your own demise . . . all this talk about death nipping at you.”

He did not understand. The actual deaths of Sam and Dr. Barry reinforced the shortness of life. I thought of another example to add to my argument. “Then there is the death of Mrs. Hemans, a poetess like me—though of far further renown—dead at the age of forty-one. I am already four and thirty. The longest years do not seem available to writers of poetry.”

Bro stood and set the plate of grapes aside with a roughness that caused many to fall upon the carpet. “Enough, Ba! Enough. Papa may have encouraged your grievous state with his lofty compliments of your ‘humble submission’ and ‘pious resignation,’ but I, for one, have had more than enough.”

I was shocked by his outburst. During Papa’s month-long visit after Sam’s death, he had indeed applauded my bearing during my time of grief. I had never considered my behaviour as anything but appropriate and correct.

Bro was not through with me. “Do you not realize that others in this family grieve too? That perhaps they are in need of Papa’s comfort as much as you?”

He had never spoken to me like this. “Of course, I—”

“Is not Henrietta’s grief equal—if not superior—to your own? Were not she and Sam as close as you and I are?”

I felt my heart rumble in my chest. Conflict did not agree with me, especially if I was proved in the wrong. “I never thought—”

“No, you did not.” Bro retrieved the grapes that had rolled to the edge of his shoes. He tossed them onto the plate. “We all loved our brother. We all grieve him. You do not have the exclusive privilege regarding that state.”

Oh dear. I extended my hand towards his, sorely ashamed. Although I wished to blame my behaviour on the years of illness that had made me accustomed to close attention and measured words, I knew I should not fall back upon such excuses to the detriment of true, compassionate character. “I am sorry,” I said.

With a small shake of his head, he came to my side of the bed, took my hand, and brought it to his lips. “And you are forgiven, now and always. You know that, Ba. As you have forgiven me a thousand faults, I can forgive your few.”

My heart calmed, though I took selfish pleasure in knowing that he
had
required of me more cause for forgiveness than I him. Although I loved him more dearly than all the others, he was not a perfect man. Far from it. There was a wildness in Bro, a carelessness that often tried me and made me wonder why it was that I loved him best. Our connection was proof that love is blind and often comes unbidden and without conscious reason.

As was his nature, Bro allowed the moment to be fully repaired and returned to his place on the other side of my bed. His countenance left his vexation behind and took on its more usual display of good humour and mischievousness.

“Would you like to hear some gossip?” he asked.

“Of course.” I was glad to leave our dissension behind. “About whom?”

“About me.”

I laughed. “One does not usually gossip about oneself; in fact, I am not even certain it is possible.”

“It is when it concerns romance.”

I tossed my book aside, needing full room to hear the next. “You are in love?”

He shrugged and brought one bent leg fully onto the bed. “Perhaps.”

“What’s her name?”

He wagged a finger at me. “I will not say. As yet.”

“That’s not fair,” I said. “You cannot tease—”

“I always tease.”

Bro took great pleasure in teasing me. But though I knew him to have an active social life, I had never heard of a romance.

“Do you wish to marry her?” I asked.

His smile faded. “My wishes will have little to do with the outcome.”

My own smile faded. “But Papa would surely wish for the Barrett line to continue, and you
are
the oldest son. The ‘crown of his house.’ ”

“At thirty-three, nearly too old. At this age Papa had already been married thirteen years and had eight children—or was it nine?” He wiped some dust off his shoe with the edge of his sleeve. “I will never understand why he forbids any of us to marry.”

“He does not expressly forbid it,” I offered, for I was always the one to defend our father from all slights against his character. And yet . . . I knew my comment was a weak offering.

“Oh no, there is no written decree,” Bro said, “though there might as well be.”

I nodded my acquiescence. Ever since our mother had died when I was twenty-two—a complete surprise to us all—Papa had grown zealous in his desire for purity and chastity in his children. Although it was in conflict with his own choice to marry for love and the happy marriage that had ensued, his stand on the subject was a fortification that none of us children had been brave enough to breach. “Papa merely wishes to keep us from sin,” I reminded Bro.

He stood once again and made his way to the window. “Marriage is a sacred trust. There is no sin in it, not if the couple loves one another.”

I had never heard him speak of such emotions. “So you do love her?”

He gazed out to sea. “Perhaps. Perhaps I could. If there was hope for a satisfactory end.”

I thought of another complication regarding any of us ever marrying. “Is money . . . ?”

Bro turned to face me. “Of course money is at issue. I have no means for financial stability without Papa’s intervention, and we both know that will not be forthcoming.”

It was an insurmountable truth, at least for the near future. Some of my brothers were making their own ways financially—George was a lawyer, and the other boys were in various stages of their higher education with great hopes of gainful employment lying at their feet. Yet Bro had never excelled in school or in business. The benefit of his staying with me in Torquay had been mine. It had not done his future any good. Was it my fault that Bro was not financially stable?

Then I thought of a way I might be able to make amends. “I could help you,” I said. “My inheritance from Grandmother Moulton’s estate, and some from our uncle’s. . . . Although I have to be cautious, I do have some means.”

He raised an eyebrow, making me remember what might be a point of acrimony between us.

“Forgive me for bringing that up,” I said. “That Uncle would single me out, out of all the nieces and nephews . . .” I smoothed the throw that covered my legs. “I do not know why he did such a thing, nor why he set me up to receive income from one of his merchant ships.”

“Stop worrying, Ba. You cannot help being the most loved. We do not condemn you for it.”

He could not think of it in such a way. “I was not the most loved. The most needy, perhaps . . .”

He tucked the throw around my feet, showing once again how blessed I was to receive the abiding care of my family. “How much
do
you receive?” he asked. “I am merely curious.”

I could have feigned ignorance, for I did not like to admit I had interest in financial details—I certainly had no talent with numbers—but this was Bro asking. From him I withheld no secrets. “Generally I receive two hundred pounds from the ship annually, and Papa has invested the four thousand from Grandmother’s inher—”

“Four thousand?”

The guilt tightened in my chest. “I have had to pay for my own care here in Torquay. There are many expenses beyond the room and food. The doctor and medicinal bills are extensive, over two hundred pounds. In addition I must pay for Crow’s lodging. I do not know how I would survive without her daily care.” Elizabeth Crow was a godsend, the first maid with whom I felt a strong connection. She had a talent for taking charge. Even though she was eleven years my junior, she was a powerful and comforting presence in my life, one that I could not do without.

Bro stroked his chin, thinking. “I am not certain what I will do regarding matrimony,” he said. “I appreciate your offer of money, but . . . it is too soon to commit, either to the money or to the woman.”

I hated to admit feeling more than a little relief, for I was not certain how I would have procured the funds without Papa finding out. “When you know,” I said, “remember I am here to help you. I will admit that the benefit of income is the freedom it bestows of not having to think about it.”

Bro reached across the bed and squeezed my foot. “Thank you, Ba. For offering.”

“You are quite welcome.” With a sigh I realized I was weary of such heavy subjects. “Now,” I said, “to lighten the day, tell me the gossip about Queen Victoria’s wedding. I so missed being in London to see the celebration.”

Bro gave me a chastening look. “You? Go to the celebration? Any event where crowds are present?”

I conceded. “I do not dislike crowds per se, but have no use for any individual contact with strangers. I am not comfortable with chitchat. Stormie and Papa feel the same way.”

“Stormie does not feel comfortable because of his stutter.”

And my reason? I did not take time to analyze my foibles. “My dis-ease with society and strangers does nothing to abate my desire for news of them. Come. Do tell.”

Bro did not disappoint, and our afternoon was relegated to frivolous chatter, a fitting antidote for our more serious discussions, which had offered no resolution or satisfaction.

I was in a foul mood.

Although Bro’s visits usually brought me joy or diversion, his visit on this day proved to be less than amiable. It was as though we were not on the same page, nor even living within the same book—a certain fallacy, since his life and mine had always been intertwined, two beings separated by a few scant months and destined to be soul mates forever.

And perhaps it was the weather. July was unbearable, still and hot, and even though it was but morning, the sea breeze was not strong enough to reach me with any degree of relief on Beacon Terrace. And yet from my sofa I felt
in
the sea. I could not see a yard of vulgar earth except where the undulating hills on the opposite side of the lovely bay bound the clearness of its waters. Whenever the steam packet left it or entered, my bed was shaken with the vibrations. An amiable setting, and yet . . . the stifling heat.

Or perhaps it was the story in a London newspaper that added to my mood. I admitted to the sin of gossip and often asked God to forgive me for it. But since I was so secluded, and since news and conversation in Torquay were incredibly mundane, I prayed the Almighty would allow me this one diversion.

Lately, however, the diversion had angered me. The newspapers were full of scandal. Lady Flora Hastings was a lady-in-waiting to the queen, and apparently, this particular unmarried lady was accused of being with child by Sir John Conroy, a man the queen detested because—it was intimated—he was the lover of the queen’s mother. Apparently, the rumours commenced when Lady Flora began to grow larger. The papers were full of the continuing scandal, and the news that she had been forced to submit to a medical examination to prove her innocence. . . . If such limited measures as her self-declared blamelessness did not suffice to save her reputation . . . If I had been she, I would have shown the full boil of my temper. For the queen to ostracize her in spite of the proof that she was a virgin was untenable.