How Do I Love Thee? (29 page)

Henrietta changed the direction of our conversation away from herself. “If you, as Papa’s favourite, could get him to agree to your marriage—”

“Never!” I said.

Henrietta studied me a moment. “Mr. Browning did not propose?”

I would neither confirm nor deny. The point was that marriage in the Barrett household was not an option. It had always been so. There was no discussion.

Although I appreciated their concern, and loved them for their support, nothing would be gained from further discussion. I extended the letter into the air between us. “Would one of you see that this is posted as soon as possible?”

All three women stared at the letter, none taking it. “You have refused him?” Henrietta asked.

I could not answer directly without saying too much. I repeated myself. “I have set the boundaries. What happens next is up to him.”

“I will take it,” Wilson said, snatching it away from me.

The sisters readied to leave. Arabel turned at the door. “Does Papa know Mr. Browning came to visit?”

“He does,” I said. “He gave his approval, but—” I remembered my blunder in sharing with him my agitation that same evening. “
If
Robert comes again, I would rather Papa did not know.”

Both sisters nodded, but Henrietta added, “Papa only knows a small portion of Mr. Cook’s visits. How I wish there were no need to deceive him,” she said.

Deceive Papa? Was that what I was doing?

My mood—which had been lifted by my sisters’ visit—fell into greater depths. A good daughter did not deceive her beloved father. If I wished to be a good daughter, I would revise the letter that Wilson held in her hands and tell Robert it was finished for good. There would be no more visits. His impulsive declarations gave me a good excuse to end it all, right now, right here.

And yet . . .

When Wilson excused herself to do the task which I had requested, I did not call her back.

Indeed, a small hidden part of me beckoned her to go faster.

I clutched Robert’s letter in a hand, stretched my arms above my head, and opened them to the heavens and the dear God who had listened to my prayers.
Thank you, Father. Thank you.

I had been a fool. Robert had received my letter of admonishment and had replied immediately. There had been a misunderstanding, his dramatic nature taking hold when it should have been held silent.

I lowered the letter to read a portion again:

I wrote to you in an unwise moment, on the spur of being again “thanked,” and, unwisely writing as if thinking to myself, said what must have looked absurd enough as seen apart from the horrible counterbalancing never-to-be-written rest of me. If I could rewrite it, if it could be rewritten and put before you, my note would sink to its proper and relative place, and become a mere “thank you” for your good opinion, which I assure you is far too generous.

Will you forgive me on my promise to remember for the future, and be more considerate? I am glad that, since you did misunderstand me, you said so. All I meant to say from the first of the first—I shall be too much punished if, for this piece of mere inconsideration, you deprive me, more or less, or sooner or later, of the pleasure of seeing you—a little over boisterous gratitude which caused all the mischief, pray write me a line to say, “Oh . . . if that’s all!” and remember me for what good I have in me (which is very compatible with a moment of stupidity). Let me not for one fault (and that the only one there shall be) lose any pleasure for your friendship. I am sure I have not lost it. . . .

God bless you, my dear friend!

R. Browning

And by the way, will it not be better, and more cooperating in your kind promise to forget the “printer’s error” in my blotted proof, to send me back that same “proof,” if you have not inflicted proper and summary justice on it? Seriously, I am ashamed.

As was I. And relieved. For in the interim between receiving the letter in question, until the moment when I received his apologetic answer, I had found myself grieving a friendship that was very dear to me.

But now, that friendship could continue.

To put a final period to the exchange, I wrote a response and made all things right. And then, in what perhaps would be considered a fit of enthusiasm, I called Wilson to me and said, “Come, Wilson. Get me ready to go out. For I have a letter to post.”

“Out?”

I laughed at her reaction, and the laughter gave me the additional strength I needed. I would most likely pay for the excursion physically, but the emotional release would be worth the price.

My friendship with Robert was worth the price.

Any price.

E
LEVEN

I laughed.

I know that is not an accomplishment for most people, but to me, the sound was nearly foreign—or at the very least, only newly reborn.

My pleasure put the burden upon Arabel to bang a hand upon the wall of the brougham in which we were riding, chastising Stormie and the driver for taking the carriage too fast. “Slow, brother! You are going to topple us!” she shouted.

“Whoa there, slow down” came the driver’s voice.

I felt our speed decrease and heard Arabel take a breath of relief. “That brother of ours is positively reckless.”

“I don’t mind,” I said.

I felt Arabel’s eyes upon me but did not return their gaze. I was too busy watching the swell of London pass by, seeing the myriad of people going about their lives, hearing the clomping of the hooves upon the cobblestone, and feeling the summer breeze upon my face.

Holding on for support against the jostling, I leaned farther towards the open window. The buildings were too high and the streets too narrow for the sun to kiss my cheek, but I knew it wanted to—and
that
brought me joy. How I wished we were traveling in an open barouche where the sun could reach me. Yet even though I was still
inside
, my soul soared and lifted itself to all that was
outside.

I felt my sister’s hand upon me. “Ba, you really should sit back. We don’t want you taxing yourself and—”

I remained where I was, although I did turn to her. Yet as I did, she peered out her own window with fresh interest. “What is he doing?” she said. “I told Stormie to turn round at the gates of Regent’s Park, not enter it.”

I sat back enough to explain. “And I told him to go further this time. I have seen the extent of Wimpole Street; it is time to ride around the park.”

She stared at me, incredulous. “What has gotten into you, Ba? You are different. Cook said you are requesting copious amounts of milk, and Henrietta found you sitting in the sun—on more than one occasion.”

“Milk makes me strong,” I said—or so Robert had said to
me
. “And I have received many compliments regarding my healthier countenance and the fact I have been walking.” I sat up straighter, feeling my pride. “It is well that I no longer wobble like a two-year-old child.”

“But we have been giving you such advice for years and you have never once followed it. Why now?”

Although my sisters were well aware of Robert’s weekly visits, and had been present when I’d been so upset by his too-forward letter, they took me at my word that I had set proper boundaries between us. They considered him but an acquaintance.

“Why now?” I repeated. I sighed with great extravagance. “Because it is time.”

“I am so proud of you.”

Robert’s compliment was a balm to my ears, a bouquet to my soul. “The outing through the park was quite wonderful,” I said.

“Just as I said it would be.”

I nodded once. “Just as you said it would be.”

He sat back in the chair nearest the fireplace—the barren fireplace, for it was a hot summer. “Which means I am wise,” he said. “A wise man. An incomparable man. A man beyond my peers.”

“It was just a ride in a carriage, Robert.”

He rose to his feet. “No, Miss Barrett, it was far more than that! It was an excursion from one world to another, a rite of passage, a quest towards your . . . your . . .
raison d’être
.”

I easily translated his French. “My reason for being?”

He gave me a gallant bow with arm outstretched.
“Oui, mademoiselle. Absolument.”

I relished his enthusiasm but also the chance to argue. “So riding in a carriage is my reason for living?”

“You mock me.”

“Absolument.”

His smile was one of purest pleasure. “Towards the furtherance of your quest . . . have you decided how you are going to respond to Mr. Kenyon’s invitation?”

Upon hearing that I was getting out of the house, Cousin John had offered me the use of his home as an alternative destination to Regent’s Park. “I am considering it,” I said. “Strongly.”

“Bravo, again, Miss Barrett!”

It was disconcerting to realize how much his praise resounded over the praise of anyone else—not that I could remember any recent familial praise. I had never deserved any. I was a reclusive nonentity with no hope for a future apart from one dark day flowing into the next.

That was then. This was now.

But Robert . . . repeatedly he declared me his superior and lifted me up with zealous commendation. His compliments were hard to embrace. I was superior to nothing, to no one. I was not life and light to another. I was a burden to all.

Yet as Robert doggedly gave evidence of his affection and esteem, I felt the scales of my inbred pessimism begin to fall away. Bit by bit I shook myself free of their shackles. Although I was not ready to invite optimism as my companion, with each of Robert’s visits, with each sentence spoken in person or on paper, I found myself closer to dispelling pessimism altogether.

He returned to his chair. “Now that we’ve taken in fresh air and sunshine,
and
made you consider society . . . if only the incomparable Dr. Browning could get you to cease your association with Madame Opium.”

This was not the first time he had brought it up. “It helps me sleep,” I said.

“But have you not admitted you use it otherwise?”

I smoothed my skirt—anything to avoid his discerning eyes. “On occasion I use it when I feel irritable, to steady the action of my heart.”

“Mmm.”

I continued my defence. “It helps my lungs, eases my cough. I see nothing wrong with such positive usage—nor do my doctors.”

“Using anything for year upon year is . . . is not right. How many years now?”

“A decade, I suppose.”

His eyebrow rose, signaling that he knew I was stretching the truth. I did the math in my head. “Fine. Two decades, then.”

“And . . . ?”

“Two decades and four, to be exact.”

“Twenty-four years.” He rose to pace in front of me, hands clasped behind his back like a confident barrister presenting a case. “Far too long for any medicinal to be a part of one’s life.”

“But it has helped—”

He turned towards me and stopped. “Has it?”

I felt my anger rise, yet I had no argument for him—no good argument. “Do you think I have wanted to be confined to this room, that my ailments are of my own creation?”

He rushed to my side, knelt, and took my hand in his. “I did not mean to upset you—I would never wish to do that. And I don’t mean to put blame or make accusations regarding your condition. I know you are a delicate flower, and yet I have also witnessed a change. I have seen you bloom and grow.”