How Do I Love Thee? (33 page)

He looked down at me, his face unchanged but for a subtle drawing of his brow. And then he did something that pierced as deeply as a knife, that deadened as fully as a poison.

He shrugged.

And with that shrug I knew my sacrifice was for naught. My obedience was neither appreciated nor noted, but expected in the way we expect the sun to rise and set each day. Should we show appreciation for such constancy? Do we praise the sun?

Neither did Papa praise me.

And yet, his shrug was more than an absence of praise, it was a measure of contempt. Not that he didn’t love me, but he did not
revere
me. Respect and compassion were absent in his love. I gave my all—was willing to sacrifice for his pleasure as a sign of my true affection—and his course was otherwise.

I was wounded to the bottom of my heart, cast off when I was ready to cling to him. He would not even grant me the consolation of thinking that I sacrificed what I supposed to be good, to
him.

“Ba? Shall we proceed?”

We got to our knees and bowed our heads, and as he read from the Bible, my mind was elsewhere, caught in a trap of incredulity that I had been so blind, so stupid, so ignorant. And that he . . . instead of loving me with the unconditional love that had been my offering, loved with a possessive hand that hurt in its clutching, that caused bruises and offered no solace.

Papa did not love me as much as I had thought.

But . . .

Someone else loved me more than I had ever imagined.

I would cling to that.

Cling to Robert.

T
WELVE

Robert tucked a blanket around my feet, then left me to stoke the fire. “I could move the chair closer,” he offered.

I laughed. “Any closer and flames will be my companion.”

He wiped his palms against his trousers. “The winter
has
been hard on you. I just want you well, Ba.”

I extended a hand and he took it and drew near. “Your presence warms me more than a hundred blankets or a thousand fires.”

He leaned down, kissed my hand, and winked. “Flattery will get you anything, dearest.”

I raised a finger to make a point. “Aristotle said, ‘A flatterer is a friend who is your inferior, or pretends to be so.’ ”

“I do not pretend to be your inferior, I am so.” He bowed low. “Your humble inferior.”

I reached out, found his sleeve, and pulled him towards me. “It is I who am inferior. You see from above and I from below. You are too good and too high for me, my love.”

“Oooh,” he said with a grin. “ ‘Beware the flatterer: He feeds you with an empty spoon.’ ”

I shoved him away. “My spoon is not empty. I mean every word.”

He knelt by my side and kissed my hand. He was always eager to calm me and make amends. I was unused to such treatment, such eagerness and generosity to forgive.

My face must have clouded, because he asked the reason.

I had not wanted to tell him, but as usual, I could not help but share every inkling, every notion, every mood or sensation. “He does not come anymore. . . .” The
he
needed no explanation, and yet the event . . . “He does not come to take evening prayers with me anymore.”

Robert’s fury propelled him to stand. “That is cruel. Despicable.”

Although I still felt the sting of Papa’s actions, I understood them. “I cannot blame him for his withdrawal when I have done as much in other, more subtle ways.”

“But you are still here. You are
not
in Pisa but still here in this house, in this room instead of abroad these four months. He is the one who has moved away.”

“We have both moved away. . . .” It was a distressing truth. Ever since the Pisa incident last autumn and the bitterest fact that I
believed
Papa loved me more than he obviously did, I had found myself in a delicate place. I could fall at Papa’s feet, declare my love, and beg for his own. Or I could focus on the love of Robert, who did not require such demonstrations, who gave freely and without condition.

“Does your father suspect the reason for your withdrawal?” he asked. “If so, I should meet with him face-to-face and pronounce my love and intentions and—”

“No!”

Robert was taken aback. “If you say you are estranged, wouldn’t it be best to bring our relationship into the open? Surely more damage could not be done.”

But it could. The memory of Henrietta’s battle with Papa, the shouting, the sound of her knees upon the floor . . . I could not risk such an exchange. Better health or no, I feared I would not live through such a spectacle but faint dead away. “I have no spell for charming the dragons, Robert. I am not a starry-eyed young girl who expects those whom I love to seek or attain a perfect love. I know Papa’s limitations and the strength of his foundation—and his will.”

“But surely he realizes he is doing wrong? There is nothing right about withholding the precious union of prayer between father and daughter.”

I nodded, making my point. “The two of us are imperfect beings, Papa and I. He stands firm and unyielding, and I . . .” Was I taking a stand? Not exactly. But we were moving to different sides of the same life.

“And you . . . ?”

“I have made my choice.”

“And?”

I held out my hand. “I choose you.”

He kissed my hand—as I expected him to—and the very expectation of such an act swept through me with new pleasure. Me. Having a man kiss my hand with true affection.
Expecting
him to extend the gesture.

Then Robert drew back, his face serious. “I . . . you must understand why I turn my thoughts in this direction. If it is indeed as you fear, and no endeavour or concession on my part will serve under any circumstances—and by endeavour, I mean all that heart and soul could bring the flesh to perform . . .” His brow tightened and I could see he was frustrated with what he wanted to say. But then he made an inner decision and sealed it with a nod. “Let me tell you a story . . . the likelihood is, I overfrighten myself for you, by the involuntary contrast with those here in this house. If I was home and went with a letter downstairs and said simply, ‘I want this taken to such and such direction tonight, and am unwell and unable to go; will you take it now?’ my father would not say a word, or rather would say a dozen cheerful absurdities about his ‘wanting a walk,’ ‘just having been wishing to go out,’ etcetera. Do you know that at night he sits studying my works, illustrating them—I will bring you drawings to make you laugh—and yesterday I picked up a crumpled bit of paper—his notion of what a criticism on my last work ought to be—no criticisms that have appeared satisfy him!” He smiled. “Regarding whatever favour I asked, whatever task I desired, he would be kind—out of love. And my mother, she loves me more than all necessity. How I would love for you to meet them. At least my sister, Sarianna.”

He looked up at me, his eyes imploring.
Do you understand what I am
trying to say?

I did. But I could not meet his family—who did know of our love. By meeting them, they would surely be held liable for our future actions. I did not wish them to suffer any slinging of the mud. I was also afraid of not being liked enough. In turn, how could I not like
them
? Everything was at once too near and too far, too much and not enough.

Yet the image of his father, so jovial and supportive, so willing to aid his son in whatever his endeavour might be—from posting a love letter to firmly establishing a place in the literary world. The contrast was severe and unspoken. The subterfuge that was a necessary component of life on Wimpole Street—that I could not even ask Papa to post a letter without fear. To others I painted Papa as eccentric but loving, but to Robert, I gave a darker opinion. Could both papas be a true depiction?

They were. Which confused me even more. Yet I knew that in order to keep Robert from facing him, I had to present Papa as inaccessible and intimidating. I could not risk a confrontation between them, a confrontation where I would be forced to publicly choose.

And it was not just Papa who was kept in the dark. My entire family was ignorant of our relationship—even my sisters. We timed Robert’s visits when they were absent, and Wilson had the responsibility of posting my letters and listening for the knock of the postman on the door to retrieve his from the mail slot.

Robert’s visits were twice a week now, and our letters a daily—if not more frequent—occurrence. Each letter, each visit, spun another layer around our loving cocoon. And we dared not let anyone else know of it lest they intercede and rip a gaping hole. . . .

We told no friends, not even Cousin John, Anna Jameson, or Mary Mitford. It was not that we distrusted their ability to hold a secret sacred, but the fact that one slip . . . I shuddered to imagine Papa finding out in some innocuous, though disastrous, way. A passing comment from the sweet shop where Robert bought a bit of candy for me, a crony of Cousin John’s who had heard slim mention of the liaisons going on at Wimpole Street:
Shhh! Don’t say a word.
And what if someone in the press found out that two poets—including the enigmatic, reclusive Elizabeth Barrett— were having clandestine meetings? The “meetings” would quickly turn into “rendezvous” and then into “an affair.”

I dismissed the dismal designation. We were not having a love
affair
, we were in love, in its most sacred and pure form:
Love suffereth long, and is kind; love envieth not; love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Love never faileth.

Love was a sacred gift from God. I did not wish for it to fail, and so, I held it close and used the full of my restraint. The only way to keep our secret was to keep our secret. To the world Robert’s visits could hold no more import than those of Cousin John’s.

I felt Robert’s hand upon mine. “Ba? Do you understand what I am trying to say?”

“I do. I celebrate the love you share with your parents. I glory in it—for you. And I . . . I grieve what is lacking . . .”

“I grieve with you.”

“Which makes it almost bearable.”

“Almost?”

It was far more complicated than I could describe. Yet I had to try. “I am reluctant to say this, but in many ways my prison is of my own making. I made it known that I was content in my room with my books and my writing, I was content to be
in
the house with my family, but apart from them. Papa abided by
my
wishes and found benefit to them. In many ways it was I who assigned him his role—and took up my own.”

“Benefit for whom?” Robert asked.

I shook my head, needing to continue. “You own a past full of sunshine and happiness, Robert, but I . . . my past is a drop of ink in a pool of clear water. It radiates outwards, seeping into every droplet, coloring the clearness with dark. The stain cannot be removed.”

“But surely if more clear water is added, the darkness can be diluted.”

I smiled and cupped his face with a hand. “You are my clear water, Robert. Refreshing and brilliant.”

“I do my very best.”

And with a surge of new hope and confidence, I had the feeling his best
would
be enough.

Robert left me and the echo of his voice hung within the confines of my room. But suddenly, as I settled onto my sofa to suffer the rest of the day without him, its fading tone filled me with panic. That he could come and go, and I . . . could not?

It was not only envy that stepped into my presence but an unworthiness. Through our love, it was I who was pulling him away from the life and world outside these walls and forcing him to enter this meager sanctum.
But I love you anyway, dear Ba, your smile, your soft voice, your
— I shook my head against my imagining of Robert’s retort. He had not offered such a listing, but suddenly I feared he might. And though many women might enjoy the offering of such compliments, I did not want him to love me based on temporal things like a smile or voice or presence, things that could vanish through mood or an unexpected cloud. He must love me for the sake of love alone and—