How Do I Love Thee? (16 page)

“You know why she has traveled so much, do you not?” John asked.

I had heard many rumours but wished to hear his version. “Not really.”

“Her father painted court miniatures and made sure Anna learned Persian, French, Italian, and Spanish.”

“Persian?”

“By the age of seven.”

“Truly a precocious child.”

“As was someone else I know.”

I accepted his compliment. “The languages would certainly have come to good use in her travels. Did she go with her father?”

John shook his head. “She became a governess at age sixteen and traveled with the family. She is a great observer.”

I used this moment to bring up the rumours regarding her marriage.

“I heard at first that she rejected her husband, and that after they became betrothed, he, in revenge, rejected her at the altar.”

“Not true,” he said.

I found myself disappointed, for the story read like a scene in a novel.

“But she is
Mrs.
Jameson.”

“She is. Though her husband is not here. He has a position in Canada.”

“Why is she not with him?”

“Their marriage is not . . . amiable.”

“Oh,” I said. And suddenly, my inappropriate pleasure in the gossip turned to sympathy. “I am sorry for her.”

“It is what it is.” His face brightened. “But I know she would enjoy meeting you. She is aware of your work.”

That such a woman would know of me. Suddenly, the idea of receiving her opinions . . . “Perhaps she could write to me?”

“She would much rather meet you. Do you remember that I wanted you to meet her two years ago, but you sent your sisters instead?”

“But through them I gained knowledge of her-in her whole anatomy. You know how talented I am at living vicariously.”

“Perhaps you should try living directly?”

It was an old argument and I shook my head adamantly. “A letter, cousin. Could you request a letter?”

He sighed with his usual frustration. “I will suggest it.”

I was satisfied. To acquire another correspondent gave me great joy. I may not have had face-to-face friends, but my friends of the pen . . .

I would hold such relationships against any others.

I stared at my copy of
A New Spirit of the Age
, certain I must have read the line wrongly.

I reread a comment I recognized as originally my own but found that Richard had completely changed its meaning by the addition of the word
not.
I had said I admired a work, and Richard had made me say the opposite. How could he?

This was not the first edit that was misappropriated. On an earlier page I found that my description of Mrs. Shelley’s work had been ascribed to Mrs. Trollope.

It was one thing to edit a word here and there, but to change my meaning was . . . was unconscionable.

I scratched Flush fiercely behind the ears. “No wonder the book is being disparaged so. Surely others have found the discrepancies and the sheer falsehoods . . .”

Suddenly I feared what Mr. Horne had written about me. I had thought it too pretentious and prideful to seek the passage first thing, but now . . .

I found the page regarding my own literary contributions. I was horrified to see that Richard had paired my name with Caroline Norton-my nemesis!

I read part of the pairing aloud. “ ‘One is all womanhood; the other all wings.’ ” I knew very well which was which, and resented that it implied I was not womanly.

I read further and found more distress.
In spite of poor health and being
shut up in one room for six or seven years as an invalid—often spending several weeks in
the dark—she is deeply conscious of the loss of external nature’s beauty. Her work too often
contains an energetic morbidity on the subject of death, together with a certain predilection
for terrors. And yet, she is like an inspired priestess whose individuality is cast upwards in the
divine afflatus, and dissolved and carried off in the recipient breath of angelic ministrants.

“What?” I pressed a hand against my chest, trying to calm the sudden palpitations. Richard had made me out to be a freak, owning macabre tendencies while holding myself up to be some ethereal seraph.

I slapped the book closed and tossed it across the room. “How dare he!”

Crow rushed in to check on the commotion.

“Go!” I yelled, which of course did not send her running but caused her to withdraw with a shrug. I did not have tantrums often, but when I did, Crow knew it was best to leave me alone with them.

With one hand pressed to my chest, the other found my head—which had begun to ache. This morning had started well, with my feeling in reasonable health, but now, because of Richard Horne’s duplicity . . .

What should I do?

What could I do? There was no way to defend myself—especially since the essence of how Richard had defined my personal life was based on truth. I could not publicly defend myself without going public, and that, I could never do. I now saw the lack of my name on the cover as a blessing.

But the pairing of my work with Caroline Norton’s, that hurt me more than the exaggeration of my situation.

And that . . . that I could do something about.

If I had wanted to get a new book published before, now . . . I was determined to make the world see that Elizabeth Barrett and Caroline Norton were not in any way similar.

Weakened from the emotional upheaval, I did not feel well enough to get up and gather my work. I rang the bell for Crow.

She entered my room and said, “It is safe now, I assume?”

I ignored her comment. “My work. Please bring it to me.”

She shook her head. “Not after that outburst. I know you, Miss Elizabeth, and I know that at such times what you need is—”

“My work,” I said again. “If you please.”

The strength in my words—however applied—was enough to get her to gather my pages.

In spite of my fragile state, I took up my writing where I had left it off.

Richard Henry Horne would not get the better of me.

Just let him try.

“You are what?”

Crow stood before me and raised her chin defiantly. “Married, miss. Since the thirtieth of last December.”

“But it is nearly April.”

“I . . . we . . .” Crow faltered. “My William thought it best to keep things as they were as long as possible.”

Things “as they were” was having Crow minister to me, and her new husband, William Treherne, hold the position of our butler.

“ ’Tis not like we—the both of us—have not been loyal, miss. I’ve been with you five years, since before you went to Torquay. And William,
he’s been with the family since Hope End, starting out as a tenant farmer before coming to work for you as a stable boy. We are loyal, miss. You know that.”

I knew that. Most of our servants were loyal. Minny Robinson had started out as Arabel’s nurse and was now our housekeeper, meaning she had worked within our family for over twenty-five years. Although I would miss my maid—for Crow had become much more to me than that—what soured me the most was the deceit involved, for deception was a wicked transgression worthy of the highest disdain.

“And . . .” Crow shifted to her other foot. “You might as well know that I am with child.”

My mind reeled with the implications and I felt a headache coming on. “And you married in secret? Do you realize what people will infer?”

Crow blushed. “Let them infer all they will. William and I are legally wed, and . . . and we’ve done our jobs well all these months, being man and wife yet not truly living, not staying . . .” Her blush deepened.

I tried to think of a time I had seen them together where they might have given some indication . . . I could think of no such time. As far as my eyes had seen, they had been discreet. Actually, I could be certain that no Barrett had suspected anything, or I would have heard of it.

She continued. “We know you don’t approve, so we are both giving our notice. We’re going to start a bakery shop.”

A laugh escaped. “You are not a cook and neither is William.”

She shuffled her shoulders. “We knows enough, and we can learn the rest. With a baby on the way, we need to ’ave our own business. We stayed as long as we could.” She put her hands over her midsection.

“Has my father . . . ? Has William given his notice too?”

“Aye, miss. Today. He’ll be leaving straightaway to get the shop set.”

“And you?”

“I can stay a few weeks, to help you find a replacement.”

I shook my head, stalling until I thought of some argument against that which was already accomplished. I soon thought of something. “He is not good enough for you.”

“Ah me, do not say such a thing.”

“He is honest and good in a common way, but he is not remarkable.”

“Neither am I, miss.”

“
Au contraire
, dear Crow,” I said, taking her hands in mine. “You are the essence of all things good. You manage me with infinite wisdom and kindness, and you carry me—in all ways.” I thought of the times Crow had actually lifted me wholly and carried me. “You are my keeper, sheltering me from any and all who would harm me.”

“No one wants to harm you, miss,” she said.

“Upset me, then,” I countered. “You keep the world away and are due great credit towards creating my lovely sanctum here.”

“I merely want you to be happy,” she said.

With those words, without warning, even from within my own being, I hurled myself towards her, encasing her in my arms. “What will I do without you? You are more than a maid to me. We have sat in this very room and read aloud together. I have lent you some of my prized volumes.”

She gently, but determinedly, pushed me towards standing alone. “You are dear to me too, miss, as dear as a sister, and I have enjoyed our times together through sickness and . . .”

She could not say
health
because in the five years she had been at my side, I had never been truly well.

“Sickness and hard times,” she finally said. “When your brother died I was saddened as if he were my own.”

This time, it was I who put some distance between us. “And so . . . knowing the loss I have suffered, you cannot leave me. I will not allow it.”

She gave me one of her looks that was stemmed with patience yet edged with condescension. “William and I ’ave a new life now, miss, and with the baby . . .”

I knew I should be happy for them, for wasn’t it every woman’s dream to have a family and a home of her own?

Not every woman . . .

Yet even with my inner acknowledgement the pettiness leached out. “Fine,” I said. “You leave. Abandon me to fend for myself while you . . .
you . . . go and . . . bake something.”

There was that look again, but this time, a smile was added. She patted her abdomen and said, “Yes’m, I guess I’ll learn how to deal with two types of buns in the oven.”

Her wit and use of words had been another endearing attribute. I could not withhold a smile. With difficulty I forced it away and shook a finger at her. “You have angered me, Crow. You know that, don’t you?”

She clasped her hands in front of her apron. “I know that,” she said with a nod.

“You have saddened me beyond words.” Tears threatened, which was, after all, a right response to having one’s world torn apart.

“I know that too,” she said. Her eyes glistened as well.

We stood there, looking upon each other a good moment. Then, both needing release, she held out her arms to me, and I went to her, and let her take care of me-one more time.