How Do I Love Thee? (6 page)

And so I set the letter from Richard aside with the careful diligence of setting aside a sacred relic, then got out of bed. I moved delicately across the room to my desk. I pulled out the chair and sat. It was far less substantial than my bed or sofa, yet there was something enticing about sitting well up, forcing my back to be the support God had intended.

I pulled out paper and pen and let the thoughts flow.

And felt once more, finally, alive.

The boat tossed in a windswept sea. The rain assaulted my face, a thousand pinpricks forcing my eyes shut, compelling my arms as ineffectual shields. Although all instincts implored me to shudder in the stern, taking shelter in my rain-soaked cape, I stood at the bow, determined to be stalwart and brave, determined to be the first to see him bobbing in the water, waving to me.

“Come save me, Ba. Come. Come!”

A bolt of lightning joined with thunder, compelling me . . .

I shot upright.

In my bed.

Eyes open wide.

Wounds open wider.

I pressed a hand against my chest, willing my heart to calm, my lungs to stop their turbulent gasps.

I tried to press nightmare and night into separate corners, choosing the darkness of the latter over the blackness of the former.

But even in the true moment of
now
, I felt guilt as a cape that offered no protection. It was a smothering confinement, a prison for my sin.

My bedchamber lit up in a flash of light, God’s lamp illuminating my transgression.
See it? See? You cannot escape!

Thunder rumbled its affirmation, and rain pelted against the windows as the wind wailed: conspiratorial jurors in the trial against me.

I could not endure their condemnation. I huddled amid the covers of my bed, making myself as small as I could manage.

Making myself as small as my worth decreed.

I was surprised to awaken the next morning to sunlight streaming in my window, to a new day dawned. To time continuing forwards. Surely the storm would have claimed me as a sacrifice in exchange for Bro’s death.

But I was alive.

A horrible error that would one day demand correction.

“You do mope so, Ba.”

Henrietta stood at my bureau, rummaging for a scarf she often borrowed since I had no use for it, never venturing out-of-doors.

“I do not mope.” I knew my defence was weak, if not false in its entirety. The continuing nightmares pulled me away from the hope of writing a play with Richard Horne and shrouded me with daily doom.

The scarf retrieved, my sister closed the drawer. “Then come outside with me. It is a lovely day.”

Lovely
was a measurement I could not fathom. For my nightmare refused to let me think otherwise. Always present, tormenting me with its closeness, was its author: the sea. Its proximity was a battlement that held me captive, tormenting me with every nip of the ocean breeze, the stench of the salt air, and the thunder of the waves breaking upon the shore. And the people of Torquay, daring to make their living in its wake . . . and those visitors on holiday, parading past my window, having the audacity to laugh and chatter about nothing of importance. Henrietta was one of
them
, and to venture out with her would be to surrender to the enemy.

“You go along,” I said. “I have another letter to write to Papa.”

She rolled her eyes. “He is not going to let you go home. Not until Dr. Scully declares you well. Coming with me on my outing will help prove your case with him. Playing the part of the invalid will not aid your cause.”

“I am not playing a part.”

She shrugged and headed to the door. “Have a morose day, Ba.”

I sucked in a breath in order to reply, but she was gone too soon to be the recipient of my anger.

Let her mock me. Let this place mock me.

Although I persisted in my quest to be allowed to go home to London, I could not help but feel that being stranded here was a suitable purgatory. I resisted calling it hell, because in hell there was no hope. And hope was what sustained me and kept me striving for heaven.

I pulled out paper and pen for yet another plea towards that end.

Getting home to London would be my heaven. My release.

If I ever got there.

In spite of my best intentions to remain despondent and punished, my nightmare eventually receded into a dark pocket, hidden and only remembered when I accidentally reached in and touched it, immediately withdrawing, recoiling from the memory of my trial upon the waters.

I gave thanks to God for His respite and interminable mercy; to Flush, who loved me without restraint; and to Richard Horne, who trusted me completely and utterly by persisting towards our partnership. Through their determined intervention the despondent portion of my character took a much-needed rest, and the poet within me attempted once again to grow fresh and strong, a seedling responding to nurturing care.

While I was not physically stronger, my mental and emotional capacities had improved. Although I was loath to admit it, Henrietta had been right. If I was ever to be deemed healthy enough to travel home, I had to make an effort to at least assume such an appearance.

I had come to Torquay to improve my health, yet despite my assurances I was better—and would be better still, safely ensconced in the Barrett home—our family doctor, Dr. Chambers, worked against me, continuing to warn Papa of the sure state of my health if I spent any time in foggy, sooty London. As such, Papa saw no advantage to bringing me home, not when I was still in such a weakened state. I appealed to him on all fronts, though I did not want to press with as much alacrity as I had when I had pushed and prodded to make him let Bro stay here with me. The outcome of my pressure, then . . . I would not insist on my way again. Ever. Poor Papa’s biases were sacred. I would never again stir them with even a breath.

But that did not mean I was averse to laying out my case plainly and with determination. If he understood that the sea, the maddening sea, which at one time had given me such pleasure, was now torture to me . . . The very sound of it, the smell of it, the sight of it—even in its most tranquil moments—elicited a pain as great as any discomfort sourced from within my physique.

Plus there
were
things I could do back in London to help the family. Some of my brothers needed additional guidance. That I also needed
them
would be a point later made if necessary.

Beyond sending letters directly to Papa, I elicited the help of my brother George to plead my case. If I were at home perhaps I could help my brother Henry settle down. He had great dreams of being in the military—which was not an objectionable occupation but for the fact that Henry saw only the gain and the glory, and refused to acknowledge the hard life and true dangers involved. He had always been impulsive and a bit selfish. When he’d been on his grand tour, he’d purposely run off by himself in Switzerland, causing no small amount of worry.

Stormie would also benefit from my help. After Bro’s death he had returned from Jamaica, but had changed much. He barely stirred from his room. Did he feel guilty for not being present when Bro died? Would anything have changed if he had been here? Surely I could appease his distress, for only I was guilty.

My other brothers needed me less—Alfred was doing well studying art, and Sette and Occy . . . I missed them so. Sette and his desire to be historical, logical, and oratorical, and Occy’s obsession with Dickens’ Mr. Pickwick, and his talent at judging the weather. If only he had been here the day Bro had died . . . would
he
have foreseen the freakish squall?

But most of all, I did not long for any
one
of my siblings, rather for the set of them. Alone they were unique and precious, but as a collection of eight they were an entity that gave me strength.

Henrietta popped her head in the door of my room, interrupting my thoughts of home. “I am going out,” she said, tying her bonnet under her chin.

“Again?” I asked. There was condemnation in my voice. I did not know how she could traipse about this seaside city which had taken the life of our brother. “I can’t understand your craving for excitement, sister. Mine is for repose.”

“And I do not understand your fear of stimulation. I have errands, Ba. Errands and people to see.”

It was as though nothing had happened to Bro at all, and her cavalier attitude enraged me.

When I did not answer her, she sighed heavily. “So you wish me to sit in this prison you have created for yourself, and moan or say little? You are
not
the instigator of lively conversation of late, Elizabeth.”

She was right. When we fell back on
only us
we were found hard and dry.

She tucked her hair beneath her bonnet. “And I am not up to your reading me dreadful poetry from that Browning man.” She caused herself to shudder.

“It is not dreadful,” I said, defending the
Bells and Pomegranates
series I’d been reading. “Although it is a bit hard to understand.”

She expelled a puff of air. “I, for one, do not enjoy reading anything that requires a dictionary.”

No, she would not. And I could not argue that Robert Browning’s poetry required work. It had taken me three readings to access its full glory and see its genius.

Henrietta opened her drawstring purse to search inside. “Arabel is gone too, off helping those children.”

“Those children” attended a school nearby and benefited greatly from Arabel’s philanthropy. I was quite certain Henrietta would have had trouble even spelling the word, much less understanding its meaning.

“I will not be gone long,” she said, ready to leave. Then she stopped and turned back to me. “Oh. A letter came from Papa—for you.”

The “for you” included a hint of bitterness that was justified. And yet Henrietta frustrated me anew. “Why did you not bring it to me?” I asked. “You know I’m trying to get us home.”

She shrugged—a common answer. Then she thought more of it and answered fully. “Have you ever considered that perhaps I do not wish to go home?”

I was shocked. “But I thought . . .”

“You think only of yourself, Ba.” She looked towards the hallway leading to the door below. “I enjoy it here in Torquay. I have friends here. And the beauty of this place versus dark and grimy London . . . I would miss the sea.”

I was once again stunned by the differences between us. “The sea that took our brother’s life.”

“The sea, which acts according to its nature, came into contact with our brother, who acted according to his. If there be any fault, it is with—”

“No!” I would not let her say it. For if Bro acted in any way impetuously, it was I who was to blame for spurring him towards that action.

Henrietta’s face softened. “Oh dear. I apologize. I know how sensitive you are, how vulnerable.”

How guilty.

“I will fetch the letter for you now, before I go out.” She made her escape from the awkwardness of the moment—another Henrietta trait I had come to expect.

I pulled Flush’s head close and let him lick my cheek. “She will get us the letter,” I reassured him. A few moments later she returned, letter in hand. I greedily read through the contents looking for the magic words
You may come home now, Ba.