How Do I Love Thee? (17 page)

Henrietta helped me with my hair, curling the ringlets around her finger and setting them as a frame about my face. “There,” she said, taking a step back. “You are lovely.”

“I am never lovely,” I said. “But I suppose I am presentable to a
maid
.”

I hated the disdain in which I had pronounced the last word. For I prided myself on treating servants well. It was my mother’s doing; she had set the tone for us. That some people of society taught their children not to talk to servants . . . it was an atrocity both in morals and instincts.

Henrietta did not comment on my faux pas. She knew how stressed I was about the changeover from Crow to this new maid she had interviewed and hired. Her name was Elizabeth Wilson. She had been referred to us by a Barrett cousin and was from Northumberland. Supposedly she was gentle-voiced and of a bright and kind countenance.

It did not matter. That she was not Crow outplayed any of her supposed attributes.

There was a knock on the door below. Henrietta jumped to her feet. “That must be her.” She pointed a finger at me. “You will behave, won’t you, Ba?”

I could only give her a shrug.

As she left me I allowed myself one last thought of Crow, who was now leading her own life, away from me. Although she had vexed me horribly by getting married—in secret besides—I had given her a large sum as a wedding present. And I had done her the favour of not telling Papa about her condition.

In thanks, I was the unwitting victim of collusion. My family and Crow decided I should not know which day was her final day, so as not to send me to bed weeping at the mere thought of it. And so, one day she simply did not come back. I expressed my dismay to all who would listen, but in truth, I welcomed their intervention. In a life full of
lasts
I had embraced a method of self-preservation: I did best if I did not allow myself to acknowledge the
last
of anything until after the fact. For some reason, then, it was easier to accept. It was a game I played with myself, for I knew what I was doing when I refused my thoughts to think beyond the moment, to enter that bastion where the
last
designation resided. And yet, by not allowing them full access to wallow in that label, I gained enough strength to get through, to carry on into the time beyond the
last.

I heard two sets of feet upon the stairs. I braced myself for disappointment, not that the looks of a maid had anything to do with her true dispensation. Crow had given every appearance of gentleness, and yet had come to assert a great authority over me, like a parent to a child. At age thirty-eight I knew this was an odd arrangement—especially when it was preferred by the one subjugated—but I did not require or request a maid who slunk into the shadows as if fearful I would bite.

Henrietta led the woman into my room. “Well now. Here we are. Ba, Elizabeth, I would like you to meet Elizabeth Wilson. Wilson, my sister, Elizabeth Barrett.”

Wilson did a little bob for a curtsy and blushed. “Two Elizabeths,” she said, adding, “Miss.”

Yes. Well. I decided not to mention that Crow’s first name had been Elizabeth too.

On a whim, I pointed to the window and said, “Would you please close that?”

Wilson did—after bumping a shin on the edge of the sofa and nearly knocking a bluebird figurine to the floor. The window closed and she turned towards me, her face begging for affirmation.

I did not give it to her. For the window had been a test. It was a warm day in May and the breeze was necessary on this, the top floor of the house. Crow would have given me a look, shook her head, and said, “You will
not
have that window closed, Miss Elizabeth. I will not have you expiring from lack of air.”

That Wilson had acquiesced to my request was understandable and yet . . . I did not want acquiescence. I wanted . . .

What did I want?

“May I leave you now?” Henrietta asked. “I have some shopping to do.”

“Yes, yes,” I said. “Thank you. We shall be fine.”

Wilson’s expression looked as though the thought of being left alone with me would be anything but fine. Her face took on the expression of a child left with a stern headmistress or a demanding stepmother.

“We shall be fine,” I repeated for her benefit.

She quickly nodded. “I will do my best, mistress. But I am afraid it is nobody equal to Miss Crow.”

Mrs. Treherne now.

It was a true enough statement, but her humility made me take pity.

“We will learn this together, Wilson.”

“I
am
willing to learn, mistress.”

Good. “Then the first thing you can do is open the window.”

She looked confused.

I tried to explain. “You must learn what is best for me, Wilson, even when I proceed otherwise.”

She looked even more confused.

I tried to explain. “If left to my own devices I will take too much morphine, go to bed far too late, and talk as long as I like, none of which are to my ultimate advantage.”

It took her a moment, but I saw recognition in her eyes. Yes, yes, although I was a grown woman, old enough to be Wilson’s mother, in action I was a disobedient child who needed scolding on occasion, reminders of right action when I proceeded otherwise, and stern direction when appropriate.

“Oh,” she said with a nod.

I could not tell whether she disapproved of my weaknesses—as I certainly disapproved of them—but she seemed willing to accept them, and address them.

Perhaps she would work out after all. If we both behaved.

S
EVEN

I held them in my hands. It had been six years since I had experienced such a thrill. I traced my fingers along the simple title of the two volumes, which was set in gold against the dark green covers:
Poems.
“They are beautiful,” I whispered.

“They are long overdue.” It had been Cousin John Kenyon who’d brought me the first box of my newest publication. Without his influence and his prodding Edward Moxon, the publisher, I knew the books would never have become a reality. After all, just two years previous hadn’t Mr. Moxon declared my work “uncommercial”? The only thing that had changed between then and now was having John as my champion—and becoming a better writer. For this work
was
superior to my last,
The Seraphim.
It was fuller, freer, and stronger, and worth three times over.

Opening the front cover and spotting the dedication, I immediately regretted not dedicating the volumes to my dear cousin. Instead I had given the dedication—once again—to Papa. An odd thought skittered across my mind regarding my motive for penning the lengthy bit of adoration. Had I hoped to gain something through my choice? A special blessing? A paternal dispensation?

John interrupted my musings. “Now, to get it out to the masses,” he said. “I assume you wish to send copies to Wordsworth, Landor, Carlyle, Miss Martineau . . .”

“Do you think I should?”

“Of course. Word of mouth is essential. And I will make sure the proper reviewers read it.”

I shuddered at the thought, for although I longed for critical intercourse and took critique well, I also knew that I had no real inkling of whether or not the work was good—in other people’s eyes. And after Moxon had taken yet another chance on me . . . it had to be moderately successful, for his sake. And for my own. For if there ever was to be another book . . .

Would there be another book? I
worked
at poetry—it was not for me a reverie, but art. Writing was my life, and until my body succumbed I would allow my mind full release and expression. God willing.

Of course, being able to show Papa some sizable royalties would also be a thrill. To show him that I too could contribute to our family’s sustenance would be nearly as exciting as holding the books.

John took his usual seat by the fireplace. “Of course we could implement a marketing strategy like your friend Mr. Horne did with his
Orion
. We could instruct Mr. Moxon to sell the book for only a farthing—with no change given.”

I took up the well-known anecdote where he left off. “And no one will be allowed more than two copies.”

“And if anyone does not say the title correctly, they will be denied purchase and sent away empty-handed.”

Although we laughed at the details, the astonishing point remained: Richard’s ploy had worked. The illusion that a reader might not get a copy had enticed sales and
Orion
was a success. On that success Richard had ventured to publish his
New Spirit
tome—which had
not
enjoyed success at all, either critically or financially.

“So,” John said, with a dangle of his foot. “Are you fulfilled?”

It was an odd choice of words. “Because of this book?”

“You
are
a writer. An author. Surely there is no higher achievement.”

I measured the weight of the books again. They were heavy. With words. With thoughts. With droplets of my life, pooled together into this stream of one page leading to the next. Would readers feel refreshed by my offering, or would they drown in it and snap the pages shut for want of air?

And yet . . . I reluctantly possessed an inkling that this might be my final offering to the world. My health, my life, my creative power . . . although I dabbled with the notion of additional publications, I did not distinctly imagine any future accomplishments and attainments. What was now was accessible. Even in my mind’s eye, in my heart’s beat, I did not clearly foresee
more.
Although I tried not to dwell on it or even verbalize it, I knew that what stood as a barrier between now and
more
, was death.

“Ba?”

“Yes. Sorry, cousin.”

“Are you pleased?”

“It is something,” I said.

“It is more than most women achieve.”

I did not argue with him, and yet what most women achieved—the love of a husband, the joy of children—these would never be mine. Were these volumes my surrogate family? My proxy for flesh and blood progeny?

The complexities of the issue threatened to taint the moment, and so I left John’s statement of achievement as it was and responded with a simple nod.

I heard Wilson come bounding up the stairs—only she came in such a fashion. She burst into the room out of breath and thrust a note in front of me.

“This just came from next door. Their butler is waiting for an answer.”

Next door? Although we knew the family, we did not
know
them. Why would they send us a message? Me, a message?

Flush sniffed at the envelope, reminding me that the note was mine to read. I pulled out the card:
I am visiting next door. May I come by to meet you
in person? Yours, Mrs. Anna Jameson.

I gasped.

“Who’s it from?” Wilson asked.

“An acquaintance. A fellow writer. She wants to stop by.”

“Stop by?” Wilson repeated my words with full disdain. “No one stops by the Barretts’.”

She had learned well. Although some of my siblings did not mind such casual practices, Papa and I found such actions objectionable. And yet my desire to meet this woman who was the very genius of literary criticism . . .

“What excuse should I give?” Wilson asked.

Even to my maid it was not a question of yes or no, but a question of how to decline the offer. I retrieved my pen and wrote a reply on the back of the card.
How very nice to hear from you, Mrs. Jameson. But alas, if only I had heard
from you at the hour of five instead of six, I would ask you to step in, but, unfortunately,
a visit is not now possible.

I considered adding
perhaps another time
but I did not want to be put in this situation again. And so I added my close and slipped it back in the envelope. “Take this,” I told Wilson.

I held my breath in order to hear her exchange with the neighbour’s butler. Then the door closed.

And
that
was that.

I was relieved.

And disgusted at my own cowardice.