How Do I Love Thee? (4 page)

In the meantime, I held out my hand and pulled Henrietta back to the bed. I clasped both her hands, and together we bowed our heads.

Once we had implored our Father in heaven, I took out paper and pen to send word to our earthly father, who was unknowing and unprepared for the news that must now be shared.

A burden shared is a burden halved?

I was not so certain, for my burden was the greatest of all. I had quarreled with my brother. I had sent him away.

I was to blame.

T
WO

Papa came to the rescue, as did my sister Arabel.

Together we waited for news of Bro’s rescue.

And waited.

And waited.

Days.

Weeks.

Papa sent out search parties and offered a reward for information. We spoke with optimism of Bro’s good swimming ability, and the thought that someone might have picked him up in their boat . . . perhaps he was hurt and unable to declare his name so word could be sent to us.

We tried to cling to these hopes, but soon they were dashed. The
Belle
was found on its side, and the body of Captain Clarke washed up. . . . He still wore a jaunty flower in his buttonhole. The image haunted me, the incongruity of the flower, now sodden and spoiled, an incomprehensible reminder of the joyful intent of that day upon the water.

Captain Clarke found. But where were the other three men—the pilot, my brother’s friend Charles Vannek, and Bro?

The days poured one upon the other, blending together like milk poured into milk. We all slept poorly, awoke with questions upon our lips, and spent the days doing . . . something. All actions were blurred, done by rote, and quickly forgotten.

Today, as other days, Arabel and Henrietta sat with me in my room, needlework in their hands but Bro upon their minds. I, however, could do nothing of use. As one day slipped upon the next, I found myself sinking deeper, deeper within the abyss. I could not sleep unaided and relied upon the dear opium that had been my companion against physical discomforts since I was fifteen. Dreams took over my mind with nothing but broken, hideous shadows and ghastly lights to mark them.

And yet . . . although the condition of my physical being was usually the star of my life’s production, while waiting for Bro it became but a secondary player. My mind, my spirit, my very soul vied for attention and support.

But none was forthcoming.

And none was deserved. For it was my fault Bro was missing. If I had not begged Papa to allow him to stay in Torquay with me; if I had not been ill in the first place, forcing my siblings to accompany me to this place; and if he and I had not exchanged peevish words on that Saturday, sending Bro away to find diversion elsewhere . . .

He would be sitting with us now, amusing us with some exploit among the locals.

Henrietta broke through the tumult of my guilt with a sigh. “Ah me.” It had become her mantra. As was her repeated observation: “The seas were calm that day. It was just a freakish squall.”

Freakish or not, that one squall, set apart from days and days of fair weather, had captured my brother’s fate. . . . It did not seem possible.

Or right.

“God protect him,” Arabel said. This was
her
mantra, and I was more than willing to allow her to repeat it often and pray for all of us. I gladly relinquished my prayers—which had obviously proven ineffectual—into the care of Arabel and Papa. Surely God would hear them above us all.

I did not respond to either sister, rather closed my eyes—not to sleep, nor to pray, but to travel into the cache of my memories. Although they had always existed, I had suffered no need to visit them until recently, when I’d begun to pull them out one by one, finding ease in
their
place and time far more than the dis-ease within the present. They were vivid in displaying their wares. I found memories of childish schemes Bro and I had hatched against the duo of Henrietta and Sam, and races we had run when he let me win—or not. I heard his voice singing songs to me, foolish made-up ditties about my pony, Moses, or the nasty way our baby brothers could smell, or even my tiny feet. Then came the memories regarding his love of parties . . . one time he and his friends had attended a soiree for the very foolish purpose of inhaling laughing gas.

Laughing. Yes, yes, Bro could always make me laugh. I could hear him even now . . . but crying too. For Bro was always the adytum of all my secrets and plans. Who would I confide in now, if—

Suddenly, the tread of boots upon the stairs made my eyes shoot open.
Bro? Is that—?

But it was only Papa who appeared in the doorway, and for a brief moment, I saw him to be an older version of the one who was missing from our clan; our family that had already lost one brother and one tiny sister when she was but four, as well as our mother.

I blinked the image away and shut the lid on my memory cache for later opening. “Anything?” I asked.

He shook his head and entered the room, walking between my sisters and my bed, heading towards the window where he had spent endless hours these past weeks, gazing out to sea, searching, pondering, praying.

And then . . . his back straightened and he took a step closer, touching the sill.

“What is it?” I asked, sitting full upright.

“A man is coming up the street. Running . . .”

“Is it Bro?” I asked.

Henrietta and Arabel rushed to the window. I was slower in coming but had to see—

“It’s not Bro,” Papa said before I could even fully stand. “I see now it is but a young lad.”

Henrietta put her hands on his arm, trying to see around him. “But he
is
running towards our house. Perhaps there is news?”

“I’ll get the door.” Arabel hurried down the stairs. Papa and Henrietta headed after her.

There was a knock below and my heart tumbled within my chest.

“Crow!” My maid appeared at a run. “Help me downstairs. Now. I must—”

I heard the front door open, then voices. I had to get downstairs! I had to hear!

Crow put her able hands on my arm and about my waist. “Easy, Miss Elizabeth. You have not been downstairs in months.”

“But I must. I must be there.”

My body rebelled at my request for full movement, yet I could not give in to it. Not this time. I reached the top of the stairs in time to see my sisters fall into each other’s arms. And then . . . and then their wails sped up the stairs and stabbed me in the heart.

The implications wove around me like greedy ropes, tightening, strangling, binding.
No. No. No. No.

Needing more support than Crow could provide, more support than any human being could give, I gripped the baluster. “Papa?” I said.

He interrupted his conversation with the young man who stood in the entry beyond my sisters, his cap in his hands. Papa looked up at me, said a few words to the boy, and let him out the door.

And then he came towards me, one foot upon the stair, and then another, his own hand seeking guidance from the railing. He did not gaze at me, nor at the air between us, but kept his eyes downcast. I heard his breathing, far beyond what was demanded by the physical effort.

“Miss, oh, dear miss,” Crow whispered in my ear. She pulled me a step back, allowing Papa room upon the landing.

He took over my support, placing his hands upon my upper arms. His grip was firm, as though trying to transfer the strength I would need. . . .

“What?” I managed, but only a whisper. “What news?”

“Your brother has been found washed up upon—”

I heard no more. Could bear no more.

I collapsed.

I looked at my pen, glaring at me from across the room. Daring me, taunting me.
Pick me up. Use me and I will set you free from your misery.

Over two months had passed since Bro’s body—and that of the pilot’s—had washed up in nearby Babbacombe Bay. His friend Charles had never been found.

Two days later, we had buried Bro at Torre Church. Two months later, I still suffered. And two years from now? I could not imagine my condition would be altered.

Ever since the sea had greedily taken my brother from me, I had been unable to write either poetry or letters. That task which was so innate to my very being became elusive. How could I return to that commission which was so essential to my life, that normally flowed so easily, when Bro had experienced feelings beyond those we had ever shared: fear, panic, desperation, and the ultimate pain?

Yet also the ultimate release of death. I tried to loose myself from the bondage of the heavy, cold chains which had entered into my soul, by thinking, not of the moments before my brother’s death, but the moment directly after, when all arduous feelings were dispelled with the singular sight of our Saviour, come to greet him and welcome him into paradise.

Although I knew Papa desperately needed to be back in London to attend to business, he remained with my sisters and me. He was our rock.

I owed him . . . too much. For I had caused his heir to die. He would not speak of it at all; would not let me voice my guilt. Bro gone, the second son, Sam, gone. The third son, Charles—Stormie—was . . . a nervous young man, shy, with an unfortunate stammer. George was a stuffy sort with too little sense of humour for my taste. Of the younger boys, Henry annoyed me with his stubborn, selfish will, and Alfred did not often fall or rise into enthusiasm. I could not condone such apathy. One must embrace life within the confines of the lot bestowed. To be apathetic . . .

The seventh and eighth sons, Septimus and Octavius—Sette and Occy—were still boys at ages sixteen and seventeen, and would always be boys to me. They were a sweet and enjoyable pair, always able to elicit a smile from those around them. But they were not near ready or able to take on the position of heir. Nor would the dictates of society allow such a thing.

Papa deserved a perfect child. Someone who would give him the respect, the interest, and the sense of his duty fulfilled that would allay his grief, his sense of hopelessness, and his aborted dreams. In spite of our shortcomings, Papa loved us all, and yet . . . my other siblings were immersed in their own concerns, and even attempted to push Papa to the edge of their lives—as much as was possible. No one loved him as I did. And so, since the love of my life was now gone, I vowed to love Papa with a greater love, a love that could look past his censorious ways. He was a good man. Considering my sin, he deserved all that I could give him.

He deserved to not have to worry about me.

Inspired by his sacrifice to stay with me during our grief and determined to strengthen my faith through witness of his own, I felt the responsibility—ready or not—to take up my pen again and write.

Not poetry, for my mind was still too muddled. But perhaps a letter?

That settled, I tapped a finger against my lips. To whom should I write?

Before Bro’s death I had been in correspondence with many elderly gentlemen scholars, and had been immersed in a stimulating exchange with the editor and critic Richard Henry Horne. He was incredibly witty and frank, and enticed me with gossip and news. He had made my separation from the literary society of London bearable.

Yet I did not feel it proper to offer my first letter after so long a silence to any of these gentlemen, for the fact being they were . . . men.

I immediately thought of the women in my life, and my thoughts flew to one special woman who deserved the honour of my first intention.

Mary Russell Mitford was my best friend and a fellow author. I, who was not easily befriended and who did not easily befriend, had been introduced to this woman over three years past. Nearly twice my age, never married, devoted to her invalid father, Miss Mitford had achieved success with
Our Village
, a series of essays on country life first published in
Lady’s
Magazine
twenty years previous. Papa admired her work—which was not an easily earned compliment. He said the essays reminded him of our little world back in Hope End. A lifetime ago . . .

I sat back on my sofa and closed my eyes, once again letting memories wrap around me like a warm blanket. In hindsight, I was appalled at my reluctance to meet her. Papa’s cousin John Kenyon, an affable gentleman who knew everyone worth knowing, had been forced to urge me for months towards a meeting with Miss Mitford. My disinclination had stemmed from nerves regarding such direct contact—I so preferred the physical distance provided by letters. Cousin John became peeved at me, telling me I caused him to feel like a king beseeching a beggar to take a dukedom. He had deemed me foolish, a blemish I deserved yet found difficult to clear from my character.