How Do I Love Thee? (38 page)

He glanced towards the open door. “But in our case we have good excuse, for we are not just planning a wedding, but an escape.”

I heard voices from below. Ever since the Hedleys had been in town, Robert and I had been forced to curtail our usual meetings, and shorten the few we dared keep.

“I know what I’d like to do,” he said, leaning over me, his face inches from mine. “I’d like to rush down the stairs and burst into the drawing room, my arms wide. ‘Excuse me? Excuse me, everyone? I have an announcement to make. Ba and I are—’ ”

I kissed him quickly on the mouth, then pushed him away. “I think not.”

“Why not?” he said. “Other people can marry, but we cannot? Where is the sense in—?”

He stopped speaking at the sound of footsteps on the stair. He hurried to the chair near the fireplace and had just crossed his legs to adopt a nonchalant air when Aunt Jane appeared at the door.

Her eyes found mine, and then . . . she saw Robert. “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know you had company.”

Like a child, I longed to hide behind the sofa and wait until she was gone. The heat rose in my face, and to disguise it, I lowered my head pretending to find some interest in my hands upon my lap. “I . . . I . . .”

My aunt did a quick curtsy, said, “Pardon me,” and left us.

“Well, then,” Robert said.

I put a hand to my chest and reminded myself to breathe. “I hope she does not tell Papa.”

“Why would she?”

“She might suspect something between us.”

“Which all the more tends to her
not
saying anything to your father. Didn’t you tell me that when she suspected Henrietta’s and Mr. Cook’s relationship, she applauded it, and was incensed when she was told of your father’s view of marriage?”

“Yes, but—”

“Knowing what she knows, she will not risk causing upheaval in this house by prying.”

I stroked Flush’s head, trying to find calm. “I hope you’re right.”

The Hedleys stayed for dinner, and though occasionally I did sup with my family, I could not do so on that night with Aunt Jane in attendance. Perhaps with me absent she would not be tempted to mention her jaunt to my room that afternoon.

I could not eat anything from the plate Wilson brought for me and kept glancing towards the door, wondering if I should descend and join the party. With great determination I remained in my room. Curiosity might lure, but its consequences could easily overwhelm its meager benefit.

When I heard footsteps upon the stairs, I was thankful they were of lighter weight than Papa’s. And brisk. Someone was coming with haste.

Henrietta burst into the room and quickly closed the door behind. “You will never guess what was said at dinner,” she said.

I feared I could guess
too
well.

Luckily, my sister did not rely upon spoken interest and took a seat beside me, shoving my skirts to make us sit in confidence. “We were nearly finished with the soup when Aunt Jane said, ‘I had not seen Ba all day, and when I went to her room, to my astonishment a gentleman was sitting there.’ ”

“No!”

Henrietta nodded affirmation. “Then Papa turned to Arabel, his eyes stern and silently asking, ‘
Who was that?
’ ”

Arabel looked at me and I gave her a tiny shrug and she said, “Mr. Browning called here today.”

“No!” I could find no other word. All was lost. Completely lost.

“Then Aunt Jane kept speaking and said, ‘And when I entered, Ba bowed her head as if she meant to signify to me that I was not to come in—’ ”

I gasped. What were we going to do?

My sister took my hand in comfort. “But I saved the day. I interrupted and said, ‘Pardon me, Aunt, but you must have been mistaken. I suspect Ba meant just the contrary. I’m sure she was pleased to see you.”

“She startled me,” I explained.

“I thought as much.”

“What was said next?”

“Then Papa said, ‘You should have gone in and seen the poet.’ And then Stormie piped up and said, ‘Oh, Mr. Browning is a great friend of Ba’s. He comes here twice a week—is it twice a week or once, Arabel?’ ”

I hid my head in my hands.

“I explained that you hardly saw anybody—except Mr. Kenyon—when Aunt said, ‘And apparently a few other gentlemen.’ Then she laughed.”

My torso fell forward against my lap. It was over. All our months of careful action was negated in one moment of familial prying.

“It gets worse, Ba.”

I shook my head, not wanting to hear more. But I had to hear it. All of it. I sat upright. “Go on.”

“To Aunt Jane’s comment, Papa said, ‘Only one other gentleman, indeed. Only Mr. Browning, the poet—the man of the pomegranates.’ ”

Two points assailed me: Papa knew of Robert’s regular visits? and knew of his publication
The Pomegranate
? “If Papa knows . . . why has he not said anything to me?”

“You wish him to?”

“No, no, I wish nothing of the sort. But for him to know and pretend he doesn’t know . . . ”

“It makes one wonder how much he does know. . . .”

I knew Henrietta was referring to her own love with Surtees Cook.

My mind swam with possibilities. It was obvious Stormie thought nothing was amiss—for surely he would not have mentioned Robert’s visits if he thought they would offend Papa. But Aunt Jane’s laugh, and Papa’s knowledge . . .

“I cannot do this,” I whispered for my own benefit.

Henrietta rubbed a hand upon my back. “You must. For yourself and for me. For the brothers too.”

Her mention of the brothers surprised me. “One of them wishes to marry?”

“Not that I know of, but they might. But until one of us goes first . . . You are the eldest, Ba. You are Papa’s favourite.”

“With action I would lose that title.”

She shrugged. “Then . . . let it be lost.”

“You negate his love so quickly?”

“I challenge his love. Surely he would come to accept a marriage. He is an intelligent man. If he truly loves us, then he will forgive us and accept us and . . .” She studied me. “You don’t believe it?”

“I long for it, I hope for it, but . . . no, I don’t believe it.”

She nodded once and stood. “Then we have a choice to make, you and I. Either we choose the men we love—at the risk of losing Papa’s love—or we continue as we are, with the one, forfeiting the other.”

That
was
our choice.

Our only choice.

Our agonizing choice.

I had not been to church in . . . years. Decades? To venture out of my own sanctuary had not been possible. But now, with my health improved, and my determination set afire by love and the new maturity forced upon me, I ventured to Westminster Abbey with Henrietta.

We slid into the back row after the service had begun. I wore a black veil to cover my face, and my black dress offered me the privacy of supposed mourning. Henrietta sat at the aisle, offering a buffer between any who would come after.

I lifted my head to the great rafters and the stone arches. Surely God lived in such a place—which was advantageous, for I desperately needed Him. I needed His strength and desired His wisdom.

In that needy condition my thoughts strayed to a conversation between Robert and I where he’d stated that women were as strong as men—disregarding the issue of physical force. I told him he was mistaken. I would rather be kicked with a foot than be overcome by a loud voice speaking cruel words.

By Papa. The anticipation of cruel words by Papa ruled me.

I would not yield before such words—I would not give Robert up if they were said, but, being a woman (and a very weak one in more senses than the bodily) I knew the words would act on me as a dagger. I could not help dropping and dying before them.

Robert had called such fear the result of tyranny.

Perhaps. Yet in that strange, stern nature of my father there was a capacity to love, and be loved. I did love him—and I knew I would suffer in causing him to suffer.

A man and woman joined the congregation later than we, but luckily took seating across the aisle. My thoughts returned to Papa. Recently, on two or three occasions, he had called me “my love,” and even “my puss” — his old words of endearment. I quite quailed before the flattery as if it were so many knife strokes. I could bear anything but his kindness now.

I looked to my right, to the enormous stone columns supporting the great cathedral. Stone. Ever strong and immovable.

Stone was the essence of my difficulty. I had tried to make Robert understand the two ends of truth, both that Papa was
not
stone, and that he was as immovable
as
stone. Perhaps only a very peculiar nature such as his could have held his position in our family so long. And he
was
upright, faithful to his conscience. Robert might respect him and love him in the end. For me, he might have been king and father over me to the end, if he had thought it worthwhile to love me openly enough.

And yet . . . if he
had
been open to my needs, he would not have let Robert come so near. He would have had my full confidence from the beginning, and as such, no opportunity would have been availed for Robert to prove his affection for me, and things would have remained as they were at first when we had just met through our letters.

Regarding our marriage . . . we had to be humble and beseeching— afterwards at least—and would try to be forgiven. Poor Papa! I turned it over and over in my mind, whether it would be less offensive, less shocking to him, if an application were made first. If I were strong, I think I should incline to it at all risks, but as it was . . . If he knew of our plans, Robert and I would be separated from that very moment, hindered from writing, hindered from meeting.

I shook my head against the thought of not being
two
together. I threw myself into the pure, sweet, deep thought of Robert. I was his, his own. No more did I doubt being his. I felt too much his. We were might and right together. He was more to me than the whole world.

If Papa knew or didn’t know, we would still marry. But knowing would be worse. The direct disobedience would be a greater offence than the unauthorized act.

I shut my eyes in terror.

Suddenly the organ began to play. Its notes entered my ears and sped to my very soul. They were so grand and all-consuming that I stood, needing to flee away from them.

“Ba . . . what . . . ?” Henrietta whispered as I tried to step in front of her.

“Go,” I whispered back. “I must go.”

And so she rose from her seat and led the way out. We did not stop until we were in the fresh air, out of reach of the noise.

“What made you want to leave like that?” she asked.

It was hard to put into reason. “The organ . . . it frightened me.”

She gave me a questioning look. “It was glorious music. I would have liked to hear it.”

Only then did I realize she was right. I had transposed Papa’s condemnation into the musical tones, and the deep resonance of the pedal notes had become his voice. I had fled
him.

I would leave him. Leave his house.

I would.

May God direct us towards the best way.

F
OURTEEN