How Do I Love Thee? (35 page)

I heard Wilson on the stair. “He’s here, Miss Elizabeth.”

Had I been so entrenched in my reverie that I had not heard the door below?

It didn’t matter. He was here and my world was once again complete.

Robert rapped on the doorjamb—as he always did—and entered, his face beaming—as it always was. He carried a bouquet of roses—as he often did.

“For you, dearest Ba,” he said with a bow.

“I’ll take them, sir,” Wilson said. She left to arrange them in a vase.

He came forward and kissed my cheek. “And how are you today?” he asked.

I turned around on the vanity bench, hoping that I blocked the view of the flowers. “I have a gift for you,” I said.

“You are my gift.”

I pushed past his fervent compliment, needing to complete my offering. I rose, took his hands, and led him to the chair. “You must sit and close your eyes.”

“But then I cannot see you and—”

I put my hands upon my hips. “Robert.”

He acquiesced, settled into the chair, rested his elbows upon the arms, and clasped his hands between. He leaned his head against the cushion and closed his eyes. “There,” he said. “I am ready.”

I hurried to the teacup and took the blossoms from their holding place. I wiped their drips upon my skirt and carried them to Robert. I held them beneath his nose. “Inhale,” I said.

“In—?”

“Sniff.”

He took a breath in through his nose and his eyebrows rose. “Vanilla?”

“Open your eyes.”

He opened them and found the yellow flowers within my hands. His face was curious for a moment.

“I picked them for you.”

The room was silent as the full implication took hold.

“You? You picked them? Outside?”

I nodded and felt tears intrude. “I . . . I went out and saw them and had to have them—for you. You have brought me so many flowers. It’s time I gave a few of my own.” I had to explain more, try to explain what I’d felt in the park. “When I picked them I turned around with the feeling that you were there with me, and was rather surprised you were not. For you
are
always with me in thought and . . .” I extended the flowers to him. “For you, dear Robert. A humble offering and small token of my love.”

He extended his hands, cupped before me, and I transferred the sprig of blossoms into his care. He held them there a moment, gazing down at them. Then he looked upon my face and I saw tears in his eyes to match mine. “You have entered the world,” he said. “You have been set free.”

I knelt before him, resting my head upon his knee. “You are my saviour, Robert. You have helped me move from the dark door of death into the bright light of life.”

He lifted my head and placed his hands upon my cheeks. “Then let it be finished. Marry me, Elizabeth. We are neither one complete without the other. Let us do what God has ordained through our love.”

He had spoken of marriage before—as early as last autumn—but I had not allowed myself to think with full reason, with full heart . . .

He must have seen my hesitation, for he said, “My own Ba! My election is made, or God made it for me, and it’s irrevocable. I am wholly yours. I see you have yet to understand what that implies.”

As the implication became fully clear I found it hard to swallow.

He laughed and stroked my cheek. “Dearest love of my life, light of my soul, joy of my heart. Marry me.”

My heart leapt forward, commanding my mind, prodding my words, determining my fate. “I . . . yes. I say yes.”

I watched his face transform as happiness and relief removed all shadow and doubt and replaced it with the smooth glow of contentment. Then he gently put a finger beneath my chin and lifted it just so—just so he could move close and finally touch his lips to mine.

The kiss lasted but a moment, yet in that moment, sealed a lifetime.

“Are you all right, miss?” Wilson asked as she brought my evening coffee.

Had I ever been right before now?

I tried to suppress the smile that had not left my countenance since Robert’s proposal, but . . . so pleased with the miracle of such an act, it would not comply. I knew I looked crazed, for I was not—had not previously been—one for expressions of utter joy. My previous life held no comparison to
now.
There was no measuring stick with which to compare it.

“I am quite fine, Wilson. That will be all.”

She looked askance at me a moment, and a slight smile seeped onto her face. She was a smart woman. And though she had no way of knowing the content or significance of Robert’s last visit—unless she had been listening at the door—she always took pleasure in my happiness after seeing him. That this visit had yielded an extraordinary happiness . . .

To my relief she did not ask more but said, “As you wish, miss,” and left me alone.

But not alone. Never again alone. For wherever I was, wherever my heart beat and my thoughts soared, Robert was with me. A year ago he came to me for the first time and the miracle was begun. Did I ever think I should live to thank God that I did not die six years ago?

There was only one truth: My thoughts were of Robert—all the time. No man could mean as much to any woman as he did to me. The fullness was in proportion to the vacancy: the black gaping hole that existed before this silver flooding. Who could blame me for standing—as if in a dream—and disbelieving my own fate? Was ever anyone taken so suddenly from a lampless dungeon and placed upon the pinnacle of a mountain, without their head turning round and their heart turning faint, as mine did? He loved me more and more . . . Should I thank him or God?

Both. And there was no possible return from me to either of them. I thanked Robert as one unworthy . . . and as we all thanked God. How could I ever prove what my heart was to him? How would he ever see it as I felt it?

I took a sip of the coffee and let its warm bite flow through me. Then suddenly, words interrupted my thoughts and formed lines. Stanzas . . .

Knowing that the words would only linger but a moment before dissipating into a mist I could not recapture, I hurried to the desk and drew pen and paper close.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Upon writing that last awful word—a word which had hovered round me for twenty-five years—I found that I could now say it without fear. For God had not let death take me. He had saved me and seen me through my suffering—for this. For Robert. For love.

I pressed a hand to my chest and let the tears flow. Tears of relief, tears of gratitude, and tears of joy.

I was alive and the past was no more. I was Robert’s, he was mine, and the future was ours to share. Unto death. Beyond death.

For love never dies. Did I not love Bro as much now as I had when he was with me? And Mother?

Was not God love? Did the Bible not say,
We love Him, because He first
loved us
?

And so . . . I would love Robert forever. It was God’s command:
These
things I command you, that ye love one another.

I would do my part and accept this wondrous gift.

Praise ye the Lord. O give thanks unto the Lord; for He is good: for His mercy endureth
for ever.

T
HIRTEEN

“I cannot go on like this!”

I put a quick finger to my lips and glanced at the door. Even though no one was home, the instinct for silence, just in case . . . “Calm yourself, dear Robert. I did not say I would not marry you, only that we need to plan things with great care.” I decided to add, “Wanting more than what we have . . . I feel greedy.”

Robert pressed a hand against his forehead and grimaced. He fell into the chair with his eyes closed.

“Another headache?” I asked.

“More of the one that never leaves me.”

The tacit reason for the headache remained unspoken. Instead I offered him medical advice—how odd that I was now the healthier of us two.

“I still think you should try strong coffee or smoking or putting your feet into a mustard bath. I have heard that—”

He opened one eye. “Can you imagine me? Sitting still with my feet in dingy water?”

Actually . . . no.

“And I’ve told you I detest coffee. You can extol its benefits from today to Christmas and I will not be compelled to suffer its bitterness. And smoking makes me cough. As for the bulk of your usual advice . . .” He pointed towards my dressing table. “Opium is out of the question.”

He was incredibly stubborn. “And so, you suffer.”

With a grimace he sat upright. “I suffer because our plans remain indecisive. You said we could marry in the summer, but summer is here and we have no plan. This living without you is a torment.”

Although I did want to marry him, the very thought of the logistics were a torment to
me
. How could it be done? Neither one of us were used to making such arrangements, and every time I thought of Papa’s certain wrath . . .

I made a concession to ease Robert’s present pain. “We’ve touched on it before, but perhaps we should further . . . How will we live?”

“Ah. Money.” Although Robert caressed the word with little enthusiasm, his countenance gained a hint of liveliness—albeit anger. “I have heard Mr. Kenyon speak ill of my earning capabilities, and he has told me of a Mrs. Procter being dismayed that I did not have seven or eight hours a day of an occupation.”

Mrs. . . . ? “The wife of the writer—alias of Barry Cornwall?”

“The same.”

I felt my ire rise. “I should tell her that you do not require an occupation as a means of living because you have simple habits and desires—nor as an end of living, since you find one in the exercise of your genius. If Mr. Procter had looked as simply to his art as an end, he would have done better things.” I raised my chin to add a final snub. “If I am correct,
his
last book was published nearly fifteen years ago.”

Robert laughed. “Ba, my champion!”

I regretted bringing up the subject. “Nobody should have the power to count whether the sixpence we live by comes more from you or from me . . . and as it will be as much mine as yours, and yours as mine when we are together . . .” I took a fresh breath to fuel my anger. I had enough money for both of us. “Let us join in throwing a little dust in all the winking eyes, Robert. But I would rather see winking eyes than those that stare.”

“Staring eyes? How so?”

I had not meant to say it so. “I . . . I do wonder what people will think.”

“They will think we must love each other enormously to undertake such a venture.”

That was true, but . . . “I am known to be an invalid, and forty years in age. You are younger, the quintessence of a man, with a world of women to choose from.”

He took my hand. “No world of women. Only you.”

I had to continue, to make him see our act through larger eyes. “ ’Twill be seen as odd. As desperation on my part—to escape my father’s house and my spinsterhood—and perhaps as . . . as a . . .” I hesitated to state it so plainly.

“As a what?”

“As a financial decision on your part.”

He drew back. “People will say I’m marrying you for your money?”

I shrugged.

“Do you think such a thing? If so, I would ask you to transfer your own money to your brothers and sisters, so that—”

It was my turn to take his hand in mine. “I don’t believe that.” I took a fresh breath, yet hurried to continue. “You are generous and noble as always—but no, I shall refuse to give away God’s gifts, which were perhaps given towards this very end, and apart from which, I should not have seen myself justified to cast the burden of me upon you. I care as little for money as you do—but this thing I will not agree to, because . . . I just shouldn’t do it.” And that, I hoped, was that.