How Do I Love Thee? (3 page)

The newest paper in my possession reported that she had recently died of a liver tumor, which had caused her symptoms. She, only thirty-three and innocent, yet forever scorned without cause. How could people be so cruel?

It was into this mood of heat, anger, and disgust that Bro had come. He sprawled upon a chair, linking a leg over its arm. “I am bored.”

“If you wish to be stimulated, read this.” I extended the newspaper to him.

He refused it with a flip of his hand. “I have no wish to know what other people are doing, what merriment they are having in my absence.”

“It is not merriment,” I said, pointing to the article. “Lady Flora has died.”

My declaration received a mere raising of his eyebrow. “That is one way to escape a scandal.”

“But she was innocent and the queen never acknowledged—”

“At least she had a chance to experience some excitement.”

That he could relegate Lady Flora’s tragedy to a pleasurable stimulation . . . “You are shallow, brother.”

“Of course I am. How can I be otherwise, embedded here in this tedious place?”

Embedded. With me confined to my bed. Did his use of this specific word indicate the degree of his enmity for the situation I had caused by being ill?

“You may leave if you wish,” I said, flipping a hand at him, as he had flipped his at me. “Go back to London! I will be fine without—”

His feet found the floor and his voice adopted a patronizing tone. “But I cannot leave, my dear sister. For you are in need of a chaperon, and I am the designated lackey.” He rose and bowed low with great exaggeration. “Your wish, and Papa’s command.”

My guilt increased, as did my anger. “You may leave,” I said. “For as you know, I have no real use for you here. Since I do not leave my room, what need have I of your services? And as for lackeys, I find they annoy more than amuse.”

He froze, and though his face did not reveal a change in emotion, I could see an alteration in his eyes. I had hurt him.

Suddenly, he was all movement, taking his hat, striding to the door. “Since my presence offends, I will be off.”

“No! Bro!” I tossed the throw aside to stand, but it wound about my feet and I could not be free of it. “Don’t go!” I called after him.

I heard his feet upon the stairs and the slam of the door.

Crow appeared in the doorway. “Miss Elizabeth?”

I rushed to the window and watched him bolt down the street, causing many a person on holiday to move out of his path. Never had I felt so helpless, never had I detested the lack of health that held my body hostage. A fleeting image appeared of the child Elizabeth, running through the fields of the family estate at Hope End, with Bro running beside me. Carefree. Laughing. Inseparable. Well.

I felt Crow’s hand upon my arm. “You must get back in bed. You know upsets of emotions do your health no good.”

Nothing did my health good.

Suddenly, the truth of that statement took me by the shoulders and gave me a shake. If nothing did my health good—in this place so far from home, which was causing Bro and Henrietta absence from
their
home— then I need not stay a moment longer. I could not stay.

I allowed Crow to help me back to bed, but when she began fussing with the covers, I said, “Please get me my writing desk. I have a letter to write.”

In spite of the heat, she tucked the throw around my feet. “There will be no letters, miss. You must rest.”

Although I rarely went against her wishes, in this . . . “I will rest later. I must write a letter to Papa. At once.”

She eyed me a moment, then nodded and fetched my desk. Although I was proud to call myself an author, I prayed I would find the right words that would convince our father to bring us home.

I heard the front door open, then feet upon the stairs. Good. Bro was coming back to me. I would have a chance to make amends. Earlier, in the afternoon, Crow had posted my letter to Papa. It was a good letter, persuasive and respectful. Papa did not condone disrespect, and I would not consider wearing that sin. I was excited to tell Bro that soon, very soon, we would all be going home.

The steps on the stair stopped, yet Bro did not enter. “Come in, brother. I am not asleep. I long to—”

The door opened and Henrietta came in.

“Oh. I thought it was Bro,” I said. I looked at the darkness descending upon the day. “Surely he has returned.”

Henrietta put her fingers to her lips and shook her head. Then she forced a smile. “I am certain he will come at any moment.”

“I do wonder where he has been all day.”

“The
Belle Sauvage
is a good yacht. It has won prizes at regattas.”

It was an odd statement. “Yacht? Why do you speak of yachts?” I asked.

“Bro went sailing.” She looked to the window. “But it is a fine day for such a thing. A fine day. Such a sea could harm no one.”

“Harm?”

“No, no, surely not harm. The yacht is simply overdue. There are rumours . . .” She shook her head against them.

I too looked to the window. The darkness no longer signified the inevitable visit of my brother, ready to make amends and spend a pleasant evening in each other’s company. With him not yet home, and with Henrietta’s anxiety apparent . . .

She gave an exaggerated sigh. “While we wait I will ask Crow to get us some tea and scones. Yes, yes, Bro does love scones.”

She escaped the room. I was glad to see her go, for her nervousness only intensified the fear that had begun to gnaw at me.

Alone in my room, I managed to get out of bed and stood shakily at the window.
Why are you so late, brother? Come home to me. Don’t tease me so viciously. I am sorry about our quarrel this morning. Please don’t test me so.

I watched the sun sink into the sea, and with its passing, so went my heart.

And my hope.

Henrietta dozed on the bed nearby. Crow lay sprawled in the chair, her head lolled back, allowing soft snores to escape.

I could not sleep.

I could not think.

I could only feel.

Too much.

And yet not enough. For if my emotions were of any use, then surely my desperate desire for Bro to return to me safely would wield some power. And if my emotions were powerless, then I had to turn to the source of true power.

I prayed, although my petitions held no structure, no noun, no verb, no adjective. My talent in using these structures of grammar was rendered worthless by my fear.

My prayers to the Almighty came forth in moans that words could not express.

The morning dawned. As mornings do. And yet on that day, I, who found hope in sunshine and blue skies, accosted them with annoyance. For how could the sun raise itself in the sky and the clouds stay hidden so the day could be deemed fully fair, when my brother had still not returned?

Suddenly, Henrietta awakened and sat upright. “Uh.” She saw me. “It is day.”

“So it is.”

“He is not back.”

Her declaration did not deserve a response. If Bro had returned, the house would be alight with celebration, not alight with verification of his absence.

As yet. As yet. I vowed to keep my faith. If only for my sister’s sake.

“I will get breakfast,” Crow said. She slipped out of the room.

Henrietta moved to the window, stretching her arms above her head.

She gazed at the sea that I had grown to know by heart. Her shoulders lowered as the facts of the day came into focus. She turned to me. “Should we send word to Papa?”

I was torn. The thought of Papa rushing towards us from London gave comfort, and yet, the thought of Papa, broken with an anguish I wished no one to bear unnecessarily . . .

“Not yet,” I said.

Hopefully, not ever.

Near night on the second day, Henrietta burst into my room. Her eyes widened and she pressed a hand upon her chest. Her breathing was rapid and short.

“What?” I demanded.

Her gaze moved to the window.

“Henrietta!”

She rushed to my bedside, pushing me back in order to sit beside me. She took my hand, an act that made me wish to snatch my hand away, not wanting to hear the news that surely accompanied such an action.

Her hands were cold. “There seems to have been an accident.”

I pulled away from her touch. My head began to shake with a compulsion all its own.

“A boat,” she said, “was seen wrecked after an unexpected storm in Tor Bay.”

I glanced out the window at the bay that looked far too innocent for such an accusation. “But yesterday was fair.”

“There was a squall,” Henrietta said. “Though short in duration and not fierce by any measure.”

I put a hand to my forehead, trying to comprehend. “Who says it was Bro’s boat?”

My sister shook her head. “At half past three, a yachtsman spotted a boat similar in description go down four miles to the east of Teignmouth.”

A witness. A saviour. “Then certainly he saved them.”

“He set sail for it, but by the four or five minutes it took to get there, he only saw the point of her mast.”

An odd smile pulled my lips, reacting to the sheer inconceivable nature of this conversation. “But Bro is an excellent swimmer. And his friends . . . even if the boat went down, they would be there, treading water.”

“There was no one.”

“Then another boat picked them up first. Or Bro . . . he swam to shore and any minute now will come traipsing into this house, soggy wet and exhausted from the experience.”

Henrietta’s head hung low against her chest. She had already given up. I, however, would not do so.

I pushed against her shoulder, forcing her off my bed. “Do not sit there and mourn. He is alive! He has to be.” I thumped a fist against my chest. “I would know if he were dead.”

She stood a step away, her hands finding comfort in each other. “It is true they have not found any . . .”

I finished the statement, needing to bring it to full view. “Bodies. They have not found any bodies.”

“No.”

“Then there is no death to mourn. Now go and be useful. You have many friends in this place. Go find them and have them arrange search parties. If they balk, tell them I will pay whatever it costs. We must have full news. When Bro returns we must be able to prove to him the extent of our devotion. And faith. We must express our faith in God’s mercy.” I suddenly wished Papa and my other sister, Arabella, were here. They were the pious ones. Of all of us Barretts, they knew best how to pray.