How Do I Love Thee? (8 page)

Needing a witness to my new resolve I took the bell that sat upon my bedside table and rang for Crow.

She appeared immediately. “Yes, miss?”

“Help me up,” I said.

She looked confused.

“I wish to go downstairs with the others.”

Her head shook no. “You do not go down.”

“I do. Today I do.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed and held out my arm for her. She took it and helped me to stand. I wobbled.

“Miss, you need to lie down. You are too weak.”

She was right. My legs had grown apathetic to their intended use. I sat back upon the bed. Perhaps I could not descend downstairs as yet, but that did not mean I could not implement changes that would make me stronger.

Once she had me settled again, I took hold of her arm and said, “I need you to help me get better.”

“That is what I always try to do, Miss Elizabeth.”

“I know, and I appreciate all you do for me. But . . .” How to put it into words? “It is nearly spring. The world will soon be coming alive again. I wish to be a part of that.”

She patted my hand and smiled. “An admirable goal.”

“I want you to help me do that. Help me get strong again. Help me find the right combination of rest, warmth, and healthful foods. And no more doctors.” I was surprised most with this declaration. “I am sick to death of doctors.”

She laughed. “The whole of the profession will despair at your declaration. As will their bank accounts.”

Indeed. How many pounds had been spent on their opinions? Yet had any of their lofty views and prescriptions cured me?

My resolve fed upon itself, gaining strength. It was time I cured myself.

At the exertion required to make such a choice I found I was hungry. I thought of my usual coffee and scone. What would give my recovery fullest benefit?

The foods God created, the foods that came from the ground . . . those had to be the most wholesome.

“Do we have any fruit about?”

“You do not like fruit.”

“I will learn to like it,” I said. “And fresh vegetables.”

“Fresh vegetables are hard on your digestion.”

“Raw vegetables. But surely cooked . . . the rest of the family eats them. I need to eat more than soups, gruel, bread, and mash. I will eat mutton. And roast beef—which is Flush’s preference.” Upon hearing his name, the dog looked up at me and I scratched under his chin.

Crow’s eyebrows rose. “It is Flush’s preference that his bread be buttered thick and plentiful. Would you like that too?”

The thought of it was not appetizing, but I said, “Perhaps.”

Crow placed her hands upon her hips. “And who will bear the brunt of the consequences such foods will surely elicit?”

She was right. Being on the third floor, any . . . regurgitations that might transpire would force Crow to carry the ill-matter down four flights of stairs to the basement. I did not need to add to her burden. I had been too much burden already.

She must have seen my consternation, for she said, “We shall start slowly, miss. Small changes taken gradually. Surely those will bring you good health.”

Whatever it took. I was determined.

Occy entered my sanctum and fell upon the company side of my bed in a way that immediately propelled my thoughts back to Bro. That I could have such thoughts and not grow instantly morose was progress. I had been home six months to this day and continued my quest to be content.

“So,” he said, tugging on Flush’s tail as the dog lay beside me. “Henrietta is all atwitter. You are letting her go to one of Cousin Kenyon’s literary soirees in your place?” He added the final condemnation. “Again?”

“She enjoys them.”

“You would enjoy them too. You come downstairs to socialize with us, so why not go out and be among your peers? You are the writer. Henrietta cares nothing for books but that they can offer her a place to set a glass or potted plant.”

I had to smile. “And you? Have you come to appreciate books for their content?”

“I am eighteen now.”

I did not respond to his non-answer but continued to smile. It was true he was no longer a boy. When I had departed for Torquay, I had left Sette and Occy as children and came home to find them fully grown.

“I am not a scholar like you are, Ba, but I do find diversion in a book—once in a while.”

Once in a great while was more the truth. Yet I did not expect Occy to embrace reading as much as I. He was a vibrant young man who had a charm that could take him far—or cause him trouble. Again, I thought of Bro. If only Bro had used his charm to succeed in a vocation. One of my greatest regrets for him was that he had been so aimless and without purpose. A sense of purpose was vital to moving from day to day. To day. I had been unable to spur Bro towards a sense of calling, but it was not too late for Occy. “When I was your age—”

Occy interrupted. “When you were my age, I was born.”

I was taken aback. Yes, indeed, I had been eighteen when my youngest brother was born. In so many ways he could have been my own, for our mother died when he was barely four and I assumed many of her responsibilities.

He left Flush’s tail alone. “I missed you,” he said simply.

“I missed you too. I missed you all. I missed home.”

“Don’t ever go away again, all right?”

I was moved by his request and reached for his hand. “I have no intent to ever leave. I’m trying very hard to be well so I can stay here.”

He nodded once, then said, “At least you’ll never marry.”

Again, I was taken aback.

He saw my surprise and rushed to explain. “There’s Papa’s general opposition to the institution—that I will never understand. But beyond that, you are . . . I mean, your age . . . I . . .” He snapped his mouth shut. He got off the bed and picked up a book. “Aeschylus? Who’s he?”

He’d mispronounced it. “It’s Es-ka-luss. He’s a Greek playwright.”

He set the book down and looked at me through thick lashes. “I apologize for the comment about your age. You are not that old.”

“But too old to marry.” I did not add the obvious,
at thirty-six too old to
start having children.

He lounged on my sofa, lifting one knee and placing the other foot upon it. “Did you ever wish to marry? I mean . . . were you ever in love?”

They were good questions. “I did want to marry—in theory,” I said. “As a child I assumed I would marry. Yet as I got older and saw how our mother suffered . . .”

“Mother suffered?”

I should not have brought it up. It was not something a man—young or old—could ever understand. “Nothing. I overspoke. She loved her life.”

He pivoted on the sofa and let his feet find the floor. “Was it because of me? I was the youngest. Was I too much for her? I was so little I don’t remember anything except the smell of honeysuckle.”

I nodded at the memory. Mother had often used a toilet water scented by that flower. “You did not make her suffer, Occy. She loved you. She loved every one of us. But . . .” I hesitated, but decided to say it. He was eighteen. He was not completely ignorant. “She had twelve children in eighteen years and all but one lived. Mother’s body was spent. Weak. Her entire life was given in service to others—especially Papa. Yet he was rarely there. He had our flamboyant house built at Hope End, then was off in London most of the time.”

“He had to make a living to support us. And the estate. Nearly five hundred acres, Ba. That is commendable.”

Guilt nipped at me. “Yes, it was. And of course Papa did his best, but Mother, with all those children . . . she was completely worn out. And isolated.”

“Isolated? At Hope End? There were thirteen of us. It was a heavenly place, built like a Turkish castle, with minarets and ponds and grottos and horses and fields to run in. I remember green, lots and lots of green.”

“Too much green. The foliage was so dense that it seemed to be a wall keeping us in. A prison.”

He looked shocked.

I waved a hand, needing to explain. “As a child I loved the place as much as you. I did not see the walls. Our total seclusion in our own little world, built especially for us by dear Papa. He built it, set us up inside his creation, and then left us to fend for ourselves.” Was I being too harsh? To talk of Papa this way . . . And yet, the only time I allowed myself dissention in regard to Papa was when I thought of Mother. Occy had a right to know her as more than the memory of honeysuckle. “As I grew older, I saw the effect of our isolation on Mother. She wanted adults to talk to. She wanted friends. She wanted to see her family up north. But Papa was determined to keep us—” I tried to think of a proper word—“contained.”

“As we are contained here in London?”

He spoke a truth I could not address—as yet.

I returned the discussion to our mother and tried to think of better times. “I remember one special occasion when Papa took Mother and me to Paris. I was only nine and felt very special to have been singled out, as Bro, Henrietta, and Sam were left at home.” I did not mention that our sister Mary had died the year before, nor that as an adult I had recognized our trip as an escape for Mother’s grief. Occy had never known Mary. She was never mentioned—except in my heart. “In crossing the Channel to Calais, I did not get seasick at all. Papa did not fare as well. And then a Frenchman came and carried all of us through the water to the pier.” I smiled at the memory. “Papa did not like that one bit. I think it made him feel unmanly.”

“I can imagine.”

I leaned my head back, letting the memories rush in. “Mother was at her finest in France, for she knew the language and had to take charge since Papa knew not a word. She and I went to the Louvre and spent hours looking. . . . I don’t remember any one thing, just the joy of being with her alone, and of seeing her so happy.”

“I want to go to Paris. Papa said perhaps I could. Henry got to go on a grand tour.”

“You should go. Absolutely,” I said. “Although I do remember it to be a filthy place. But that was in 1815, right after the Napoleonic wars. Perhaps it is cleaner now.”

“I can’t imagine Papa in another country like that.”

“I don’t think he ever returned. He has never felt at ease in society of any sort.”

“Why not?”

It was a good question I had not pondered in years. Then I thought of a possible answer. “Papa was moved here from Jamaica when he was twelve and put in school at Harrow. But there was some incident with another student where Papa burned his toast and was beaten so severely for it that—”

“For burnt toast?”

It was as absurd as it sounded, but I remembered Mother trying to explain the incident to me. “The other boy was expelled, but Papa was pulled out of school by his mother, and though he was accepted at Cambridge for college, he never attended.”

“
He
didn’t have to go to school, but I—?”

I leaned forwards, offering a deep confidence. “The lack of education did not serve Papa well, Occy. Honestly, with the wealth of the Jamaican plantations, his mother did not see the need. The Barretts were
the
richest plantation owners on the island.”

“But we have money now,” Occy said. “Perhaps there is no need for me to attend—”

I shook my head adamantly. “Papa works very hard to take care of us now, but back then we were quite rich.”

“What changed?”

“The slaves in Jamaica rebelled and much of our plantation was destroyed.”

“Slavery is a horrible institution,” Occy said. “It is good it has been abolished.”

“It is detestable,” I said. “But at the time, it was vital to our family’s livelihood. Without the income from Jamaica, and with money needed to rebuild there . . .”

“That is why Papa sold Hope End, yes?”

In an instant I decided it was not necessary for my brother to know that Hope End was seized to pay debts. Even I had not known of this until much after the fact. Papa always kept our finances close to the chest. To answer his question, I said simply, “Yes.”

“I do not remember it much,” he said.

I shared his grief in this. As the eldest, I had benefited from many happy years there, but Occy, being the youngest—eighteen years younger than I . . . I tried to remember what we were talking about before the conversation turned to the perniciousness of financial necessities. “Ah. Paris. The lovely trip I took with Mother and Papa. Even after we returned, Mother kept the memory of it going. She hired a French governess and encouraged me to write her notes in French—even when we were in the same house. I remember her saying to me in French, ‘
Un jour de travail dur
vaut mieux que deux de repos
.’ ”

Occy looked at me blankly.

“One day of hard work is worth two of idleness.”

He made a face. “Oh.”

“Cheer up, little brother. When you find your true calling, hard work will be a joy. You are so lucky to be a man.”

“Because I
have
to work, because I am expected to work?”

“Because you
can
work. I used to tease Bro because I longed to do scholarly work and was not allowed, and he, who could have embraced it, had no interest.” I shrugged. Such inequities were timeless and would never change.