How Do I Love Thee? (39 page)

A bolt of lightning scattered the sky and tattered my nerves. I clung to Robert as though he were a piece of dry land beside a rough sea.

“Gracious, Ba. ’Tis only a little thunder.”

I shook my head against his chest. “I have seen what lightning can do.”

He was silent a moment. “When your brother—”

“No, no. When Bro died the sea seemed calm. It was in my childhood, when my family lived at Hope End.”

“The home with the minarets and domes.”

“The very one.” I sat upright to tell him the tale. “Once a storm of storms happened and the family all thought the house was struck, but it was a tree within two hundred yards of the windows. The bark, rent from the top to the bottom, was torn into long ribbons by dreadful fiery hands, then dashed into the air, over the heads of other trees, or left twisted in their branches, torn into shreds in a moment, as a flower might be torn by a child. Did you ever see a tree after it has been struck by lightning?”

He shook his head no.

“The whole trunk of that tree was bare and peeled, and . . . and up that new whiteness ran the finger mark of the lightning in a bright, beautiful rose colour, the fever-sign of certain death. Yet the branches themselves were for the most part untouched and spread from the peeled trunk in their full summer foliage. And birds sang in them three hours afterwards.”

“An incident rife with Christian symbolism, I would think,” Robert said. “And Hope End indeed. It must have seemed like the end of hope.”

I had never considered symbolism nor the name of our home in that way, yet . . . after Mother died and after I grew ill . . . my happy childhood home
had
embraced its woeful title.

“But, Ba . . . a tree is not a person, so you should not—”

I shook my head vehemently. “In that same storm, two young women were killed on the hills, each one’s death sealed in a moment with a sign on the chest. Only, the sign on them was not rose-coloured as on our tree, but black as charred wood.” I took a breath, glad to be done with the telling. “So I get possessed sometimes with the effects of these impressions, and so does Arabel to a lesser degree. Papa gets angry at my reaction and calls it disgraceful to anybody who has ever learned the alphabet.”

He took my hand and squeezed it tight. “Although you should not fear lightning when you are safe inside, your father should not condemn you for it.” He kissed the top of my head and moved to stand. “Speaking of your father, I must go before he gets home. I’ve already been here far longer than usual because of the storm.”

The lightning cracked again and I shook my head. “You can’t. I won’t let you go out in this.”

He smiled and settled back upon the sofa. “Your wish is my command.” He lifted his arm to allow me reentry. “I will stay forever; just say the word.”

“Soon,” I said. “Soon we—”

Suddenly Wilson burst into the room without knocking. She closed the door and stood against it. “Miss. Sir. Pardon me, but your father has come home early! I heard him say the storm is the worst he has seen in his lifetime.”

I stood and took two steps away from Robert. “Does he know Mr. Browning is here?”

“He does. He asked where you were, and reluctantly Arabel told him you were in your room, with a visitor, and when pressed, she told him it was Mr. Browning, and when pressed further, had to admit he had been here for many hours.”

My legs buckled beneath me and I fell upon the sofa. “You must go,” I said.

“But you just told me—”

“Begging your pardon, miss, but no one is going out. Your father said as much. The streets are empty. There’s flooding and . . . no one can leave.”

“And so I must stay,” Robert said.

I looked to him, to the window, then to Wilson. “Thank you for telling us.”

With a nod, she was gone, closing the door behind her. I rushed to it and opened it wide.
If
Papa came up to see me, he must not find the door closed.

“Come here,” Robert said to me.

“No! Don’t be silly. I cannot.”

“You
could
, and if your father came into the room, it would be a chance to tell him our plans to—”

“No!” I whispered the word with the full power of my fear. “I . . . I see Papa’s face as if I can see it though the floor.”

“I assure you, even he does not have that power.”

I wasn’t so certain. I ran to the window, looking out upon the storm. “Does the rain appear to be lessening?”

Robert came behind me and nuzzled his face into my hair. “For you, dearest, it lessens. And as such . . .” He sighed. “I will go.”

I was suddenly full of panic. “Is the rain truly lessening?” I wished it to be so. . . .

He did not even look to the window but into my eyes. “It is. I know it is.” And so he claimed his hat and stick and, with a gentle kiss, left me.

Even before I heard the door closing below, I wished to call him back. How spineless of me! How weak, how deplorable, that I would allow my fear of Papa’s displeasure to overshadow common sense and override compassion for the man I loved. Exhaustion overcame me, and I called for Wilson to help me change into my dressing gown. Sleep—if possible—would force this day to end and a new one to begin.

But as we finished, Papa came to my room. With one sweeping look at my attire, he said, “Has this been your attire since the morning?”

“Oh no, only just now, because of the heat.”

His eyebrow rose. “It appears that
that man
has spent the whole day with you.”

My mouth opened for me to speak, but I could not think of anything to say.

But Papa did. “Considering your fear of lightning, what if you would have become ill of it, ill with only Mr. Browning in the room? Such an indiscretion is not to be permitted.”

Finally I managed, “The storm . . . I could not push him out—”

“Hmm.” He put his hands behind his back and nodded. “You must watch yourself, Ba. Watch for any hint of impropriety.”

“Yes, Papa.”

Getting married secretly would do more than hint of impropriety in Papa’s eyes.

Cousin John took his usual position standing by the fireplace. “So. Did you see Browning yesterday?”

I tucked away the letter I was writing to Robert. I hoped I would not have another crisis to relate to him before the afternoon was over. Yet I could not deny . . .

“Yes,” I said simply.

“I thought so. I intended to come myself, but I thought it probable he would be here, so I stayed away.”

I nearly gasped. He knew the frequency of our visits? Did he know the purpose? I took a moment, forcing myself to swallow, hoping the moisture would allow my voice to sound with a modicum of normalcy.

Before I could speak, my cousin took the reins of the conversation away from me. “Is there an attachment between your sister Henrietta and Mr. Cook?”

My heart skipped one beat, then two, and relief allowed me to find my true voice. “Why, Mr. Kenyon! What extraordinary questions, opening into unspeakable secrets.”

He looked confused. “I didn’t know it was a secret. How was I to know? I have seen him here often, and it’s a natural question which I might have put to anybody in the house . . . I thought the affair might be an arranged one by anybody’s consent.”

I discovered a chance to veil Henrietta’s attachment—and even my own. “But you ought to know that such things are never permitted in this house. So much for the consent. As for the matter itself, you are right in your supposition. But it is a great secret, and I entreat you not to put questions about it to anybody in or out of the house.”

He nodded, and his face softened with sympathy. “I understand completely, my dear. In this household any act of disobedience might be cast as a crime.”

I was shocked. I had never told him details of Papa’s demand for obedience, and he was not close to Henrietta. How had he known such a thing?

He must have seen my confusion, for he gave me a knowing nod and placed his forefinger to his temple. “I see things, Ba. I know what’s going on.”

He knows?

I couldn’t talk to him anymore. I had to be alone. I needed to see Robert. I needed . . .

To be gone from this place and free from this intrigue.

Henrietta burst into my room with a face that interrupted my heartbeat.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

She closed the door behind her and came close. “Our brothers, they have been talking about you.”

“Me?”

She nodded. “In the middle of simple conversation, Stormie touched me and said, ‘Is it true there is an engagement between Mr. Browning and Ba?’ ”

I pressed a hand to my chest. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘You had better ask them if you want to know. What nonsense, Storm.’ ”

I breathed again, for the extent of our plans was still a secret—even to my sisters. “Thank you, Hen—”

“That is not all. He said, ‘I’ll ask Ba when I go upstairs.’ ”

“Ask—?”

“And George was there too, hearing and looking as grave as a judge.”

My head shook no, no, no against them all. “So they are coming up?”

“As they do every Sunday.”

“But this will not be like every Sunday. Not if they bring up Mr. Browning and—”

We both turned towards the sound of men’s shoes upon the stairs. “Do you wish me to stay?” she asked.

I nodded and tried to collect my thoughts. If asked directly, what would I say? I did not lie to my brothers but through omission. If asked . . .

Occy knocked once, then swept the door wide. “The door closed against us, Ba? Never!”

Occy, Sette, George, Stormie, Alfred, and Henry entered, a mass of oscillating manliness. Arabel brought up the rear, looking as nervous as I felt. The men took their usual places, filling every empty corner of my abode, chatting among themselves.

Before they settled and quieted—and asked the first question—I started my own dialogue. About them. “So, Occy and Sette, tell me about your new jobs. . . .”

And men, being men, were all too eager to speak about themselves. And when it was the normal time for them to leave, they did so, leaving me exhausted from the effort.

Apparently, my “engagement” was a passing fancy, not a valid and pressing thought within their minds. The cloud had passed for the present, and hopefully nothing more would be said of it.

My sisters stayed behind. “That was too close,” Henrietta said.

“My heart was in my throat,” Arabel added. “One question and all would have been lost, no?”

“No.”

Both of them looked at me askance. “No? You would still meet with Mr. Browning?”

More than
meet . . .
I found strength in my own determination. “No, I do not fear offending our brothers. There is no room for fear.”

“Then why not tell them that you care for each—”

“No!” I said for the third time. “Their approval or disapproval is equally undesirable, for if they knew of our affection, they would certainly press for me to ask Papa for permission. And in such a storm of opinions and feelings I might actually do such a thing and fail Robert
and
myself, through weakness of the body, though never of the will. Never that.”

Arabel set some chairs straight. “You are braver than I could ever be.”

“Braver than I,” Henrietta said.

It was odd for me to hear them call me brave. Me, the invalid, the weakest link of our family. And yet, they were right. Robert’s love had made me strong. My body, my will, my affections, and my conscience untremblingly turned to him.

In so many ways our two had already become one.