How Do I Love Thee? (19 page)

He looked to Stormie, who nodded and smiled, but without the satisfied malice. “Papa . . . wwwwaassss . . . mmmmad.”

Henrietta sat on the side of my bed and took my hand. “I made it worse. I argued. I shouldn’t have argued.”

“It is not allowed,” Henry said. There was bitterness in his voice, and a note of finality. We all knew it was the truth. I abided by Papa’s pronouncements out of love and respect, but I feared some of my siblings did so for more mercurial reasons. Other than George, none of them earned enough income to subsist on their own.

“Where is Papa?” I asked. For it was his concern I desired the most.

“He is about,” Arabel said.

“Has he come to see me?”

The look they exchanged spoke in more layers than Arabel’s simple no. She hurried to add, “Not yet.”

Had he found out about Mrs. Jameson? And had that one impulsive act put me into the same league as Henrietta’s deception? I quickly thought of an excuse. I could tell Papa that Mrs. Jameson’s note had not allowed a refusal. Surely he would understand—

There was a communal cessation of breath, then an instant check in all movement, as we heard Papa’s feet upon the stairs.

Henry leaned towards the room. “Glad you are better, Ba.” He hurried out the door with Stormie at his heels. I heard the door to the roof click open, then shut.

They had made their escape, leaving behind the one who needed escape the most. To her credit, Henrietta remained seated at my side, though a twitch to her hand told me she had considered otherwise.

Papa’s massive presence filled the doorway, and the three women of the household waited to gauge his mood and motive.

His eyes quickly scanned the room, falling twice upon me—at first and at last. “I see you are awake.”

It was not quite an apt term for coming out of a dead faint, yet all I could say was yes.

“Good.” He nodded once. “Well, then. Good night.” With that, he turned to leave.

Henrietta made to rise. “But, Papa—”

I grabbed her arm and pulled her to silence. Arabel added her own shake of the head.
Not now.

None of us moved until Papa’s footfalls faded into the silence of the house. Only then did we breathe.

“Will he ever forgive me?” Henrietta said.

“Of course he will,” Arabel said. “The Bible insists on forgiveness.”

Henrietta shook her head. “But does Papa?”

They proceeded to ask after my needs and I assured them Wilson would take care of me. Then they kissed me good-night and departed.

Only after the solitude of my room was retaken did I realize that Papa had not stayed to pray with me.

He had never missed an evening. It was our special time together.

Yet tonight . . . had he deemed me so undeserving that he was repulsed by my very presence? Was he so disgusted with Henrietta’s sin that he now lumped me as one with her? Had I forever lost his favour?

I gazed at my Bible on the table near the sofa where we always knelt. I could pray alone. I often did so, but had never attempted these final prayers of the day without my father’s influence.

I could kneel down without him. And yet, somehow the idea of bypassing one father to speak with another . . .

I remained where I was, across the room from our holy place.

I had never felt so alone.

And unworthy.

E
IGHT

I should not care for praise.

But I did.

The Bible says that
Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before
a fall
, and because I do not wish to fall, I tried to keep my pride in check lest I demand divine repercussions.

“Do you need more paste, Miss Elizabeth?” Wilson asked me.

For the briefest moment I mistook her word
paste
for
praise
. I did not need more of either. “No, thank you. I am nearly through with my scrapbook.” I looked to Cousin John, who had brought me the various periodicals to peruse, then cut, then paste into my scrapbook of book reviews. “Yes?”

He lifted the much shortened pile in his lap. “Yes.”

I held out my hand for the next on the pile. John opened a copy of
The Athenaeum.
“Here is a good one. The tough-minded H. R. Chorley says, ‘Were the blemishes of her style tenfold more numerous than they are, we should still revere this poetess as one of the noblest of her sex.’ ”

I put a dramatic hand to my chest. “Blemishes? He finds blemishes?”

“There are a few, I would think,” John said.

“More than a few,” I admitted. “I wrote too much of the book in a rush when the publisher wanted the two volumes to be of equal length. In my quest, I resurrected
Lady Geraldine’s Courtship
from its standing as a work in progress and bounded off nineteen pages in one day.”

John handed me the Chorley review and I began to cut around it. He moved on to the next publication. “I do like this one from the
Metropolitan
Magazine
,” he said. He adjusted his spectacles to read. “ ‘Miss Elizabeth Barrett seems to us one bright particular star, shining from a firmament of her own. She deserves to be esteemed and admired at once and throughout future generations.’ ”

I didn’t know what to say to such acclaim. Although it pleased me (more than it should have) it also left me embarrassed, for although I believed my
Poems
to be good work, it was not this good. Speaking of . . . I thought of a magazine that habitually took pleasure in abusing my work. “What of
The British Quarterly Review
?”

John placed his hands upon the stack. “Are you certain you wish to hear it?”

Ah. So their abuse continued. “Fair is fair,” I said. “I cannot accept the good without acknowledging the bad.”

He pulled the bottom periodical from his stack—proof he had been protecting me. He cleared his throat and read. “ ‘We object to Miss Barrett’s fantastic images and phrases and find much of what she has written unintelligible. Whether this stems from her lack of knowledge on the subject in question or to her thoughts being too sublime and grand to be spoken out in clear, connected phrase we do not know.’ ” He looked up to gauge my reaction. “You are not weeping. . . .”

“One does not weep over the truth. I do write about things unknown to me in real life.” I spread my hands to encompass the room. “This room is my life. Only my work takes me beyond these walls. That a reader occasionally finds error when comparing my prose to reality is acceptable, and nearly expected.” I tapped a finger to my head and then my heart. “I write from a world that exists in places that are indeed grand and sublime.”

John applauded. “Bravo, Ba. That is the right attitude.”

I did not deserve his applause, for the attitude was what it was, and was not contrived for his benefit. But—to my shame—I returned the discussion of reviews to the positive. I turned back a few pages in my scrapbook, then put my hand in the page to mark it, deciding to summarize instead of quote. “I did receive a letter from the painter Dante Rossetti that said he and his brother reveled with profuse delight in my work. He wrote that they have read many of the poems half a hundred times over and could recite them from memory.”

“Perhaps you should instruct them to give public recitals. Your sales would surely benefit.” He pointed to the sheaf of paper on my desk. “There.
Write them a note now.”

I batted his finger away. “I will do no such thing.” I nodded at the reviews still left in his lap. “Is there one from
The Westminster Review
in your stack?” I asked the question with trepidation, for it was one of
the
most influential quarterlies.

“There could be,” he said.

His lack of effusion spoke volumes about their response. “Out with it,” I said.

He pulled it out and opened its pages. “ ‘The work in
Poems
lacks humour and wants for the ease of colloquial expression, which is surely caused by . . .’ ” He paused to look at me. “Are you certain you wish for me to continue?”

“Of course,” I said, although I was not certain at all.

“ ‘. . . which is surely caused by Miss Barrett’s prolonged isolation. She has lived too much in the world of books, which in turn, has become a handicap to her art.’ ”

Although this review was similar to the other for which I had found no fault, there was something about this one’s presentation that made my heart race with anger. “I . . . I . . .”

“You did say as much yourself,” John said.

He was correct, and yet the manner in which the reviewer had identified the truth reminded me what the public thought of my personal life. I was the odd recluse, a scholarly priestess held prisoner in her castle turret, handicapped by her situation. I was a woman to be pitied.

“I have upset you,” John said.

It was not his fault, and my reaction was beyond that which was required, or correct. “If they wish to know the truth, cousin, I would as a poet exchange some of this lumbering, ponderous, helpless knowledge of books for some experience of life and man.”

He perked to higher attention. “You
have
been feeling better these past months. Perhaps it is time to venture out and—”

I shook my head adamantly, my fear of life and man out
there
, away from
here
, overwhelming even my deepest desire to experience it.

Wilson saved the moment by bringing me the post. The letter on top distracted my inner keening. “Oh my,” I said. “It is from Mr. Robert Browning.”

John slapped a hand upon his thigh. “Well, well. Has the chap finally gained the nerve to contact you?”

“Have you been goading him to—”

“Me? Never.” I knew by his grin such an exchange had taken place. “Open it, Ba. See what the man has to say.”

I was not sure I wished to read the letter with him present, but since my cousin
was
the connection between Mr. Browning and me, I submitted. I read the first line in silence:
I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss
Barrett. . . .

“What does he say?”

I was not exactly certain. I was not used to effusive praise that went beyond polite convention. In fact, it frightened me with its implied passion while it enticed me to read more.

But I could not read on with an audience. “It appears he has read my book and enjoyed it.” I felt my face flush. “Quite a lot.”

“Excellent! I sent a copy round to his sister, Sarianna, because I knew him to be in Italy. He must be back. She must have given it to him.”

“You sent a copy . . . ?”

“You quoted him within one of your stanzas in
Lady Geraldine
, did you not? What was the line? Something about a pomegranate?”

I knew the line by heart. It was when Geraldine listed the books she delighted having read to her. “ ‘Or at times a modern volume, Wordsworth’s solemn-thoughted idyl, Howitt’s ballad-verse, or Tennyson’s enchanted reverie, or from Browning some “Pomegranate,” which, if cut deep down the middle, shows a heart within, blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.’ ”

“Obviously you have cut dear Robert deep down the middle.”

My blush deepened and I tried to hide it by lowering my head and letting my ringlets act as cover.

“What else does he say?”

There was much more to the letter which was written in a flowing cursive I found most amiable to the eye. I often shared letters with my cousin. Yet there was something about this letter . . . I could not read it in John’s company. With an attempt at apathy I set the letter aside, putting it within a drawer of my desk. “I will read it later.”

Suddenly, John rose. “I will allow
later
to be immediate.” He came to my side and kissed my cheek. “Enjoy his words, dear Ba,” he said, and shut the door with a gentle click.

The room was mine once more and lay completely still as if awaiting my next move. Even Flush lay unmoving at my feet. The moment lingered, hesitant to move on to the next. More surprisingly, I found that I too sat paused, caught in time, unsure what
should
transpire, what
could
transpire, and moreover, what
would
transpire next.

I was hesitant to allow my eyes to move too far, and felt the constraint of sight marked only by the placement of my neck and head. My eyes could move left, then right, up, then down, but were limited by this odd need to remain without motion, to remain
here
, right now. Still.

Expectant?

My brain did not abide by my body’s constraint. New thoughts were swift lightning, streaking through my mind’s sky with a fierce power that defied previous experience. I could not capture any thought nor predict the next, any more than I could capture or predict lightning in a stormy sky. Although all this happened within my own consciousness, it was as
though I were merely an onlooker, once removed, with no say, no power, no control.

I shivered—from excitement or trepidation?

The physical movement, small though it was, was enough for a cognizant thought to gain entry. Yet the intrusive thought seemed a statement made by a third party rather than one that originated within my own realm.

All is different now,
it said
.