How Do I Love Thee? (7 page)

I came away from the reading confused. Papa was still uncertain regarding our return. It seemed Dr. Scully, my doctor here in Torquay, had told Papa that although he would not forbid me to go home, no trip could be taken any later than the tenth of September.

I stared at the words. “But it is already August the fourth. A mere month to arrange our journey?” As I reread the page a question arose. Why September tenth? Why that date in particular?

I did some calculations. The tenth was a Friday. It was not a holiday. And as far as I had ascertained in all my time in Torquay, the world did not change on this day. And the weather . . . September was far too early to worry about snow or sleet. I saw no reason or logic for the time limit.

Yet reason or logic aside, I knew Papa would elevate Dr. Scully’s proclamation to law. I felt like a prisoner who had been given a date of release, but whose joy was unfairly burdened with conditions bordering on impossible.

If only we could discuss it in person. The exchange of letters was excruciatingly slow and time was running out.

Yet what alternative did I have but to send a message accepting the offer and pleading with Papa to facilitate our departure before the ominous September the tenth.

As I took up my pen to create my petition I added a plea to our heavenly Father. Surely He would allow us to go home.

Calm, Ba. You must stay calm.

Finally, we were leaving Torquay. After my letter earlier in the month, Papa had relented. I saw no reason for his decision, as the words I had chosen in my argument were no more persuasive than any others I had used over the past fifteen months, and so, I gave credit to God for changing my father’s mind.

The question upon everyone’s mind—especially my own—was whether I was well enough for the journey, which was expected to take a week or more. Over two hundred miles of travel. Four women and a dog, unaccompanied by male escort other than the driver. Papa had ordered a carriage specially altered, allowing me to recline, but I knew there would be much to bear, much to dread. Yet I had to remain strong. I had wanted this, begged for it. If I suffered, it was my own fault.

Crow tucked a blanket around me as the driver finished tying our trunks. “There you be. All snug.” She gave me the pointed look she often utilized, lowering her head, her eyes intense. “You all right, miss?”

I hugged Flush closely, finding comfort in his warmth. “I have to be, don’t I?” I whispered.

Crow glanced at Henrietta and Arabel as they settled on the facing seat of the carriage and whispered back to me. “I will help you through this. I will. There will be no turning back, not with me here.”

I squeezed her hand, taking succor in her presence—and her strength. God had been very wise and merciful when he had brought Elizabeth Crow into my life. And now it had come to this, two Elizabeths, united by determination.

I had the feeling this was not the last time we would be so joined.

I reminded myself to breathe.

The carriage was moving. We were off to London. Soon, very soon, I would be ensconced in our Wimpole Street home, a part of the family again, no longer separated by endless miles.

Henrietta looked out the window and sighed. “Oh, how I will miss this place,” she said.

Again, the differences in our opinions astounded me. But I did not argue with her. I, for one, was glad to be finally away from this place that had taken the life of our brother and that had not granted me the full health that had been promised.

“Look out the window, Ba,” Henrietta said. “Most likely it is the last time we will ever see this vista of the sea.”

I shook my head and leaned it against Flush. To further express my view, I closed my eyes.

Thankfully, she turned her attention to Arabel, and together my two sisters recounted the good times they had experienced in Torquay.

In defence, I forced myself to remember Bro and
our
good times long before this awful place had come between us . . . until sleep came and blessedly took me into its arms.

“Ba, contain yourself,” Henrietta said. “Papa would never forgive us if you expired before you got out of the carriage.”

She was right, of course, and I closed my eyes and forced my breathing to abandon its rapid rhythm. I was less successful with the beat of my heart but hoped that agitation resulting from such a happy occasion would not prove detrimental. I wanted to show Papa that his decision to let us come home was made wisely. For even though the eleven-day trip had been exhausting, pushing me beyond many levels of comfort and its opposite, I had persevered. We were home!

The carriage passed Portman Square, and I looked upon the trees and gated gardens in front of Montagu House knowing that in just a few blocks . . .

I hoped Papa and the boys would be at home. We had sent word after our last stop that we would be arriving today, but such messages were only partially reliable, as there was little to stop the messenger from lagging along, or never delivering our message at all.

But if they weren’t home . . . I had allowed my imagination a pleasant succession of circumstances to cover this possibility. We would get fully settled, and if there was time, we would have the cook put up a grand tea and be waiting in the drawing room when the men of our family arrived. Upon seeing their surprise, I would rise to my feet as casually as my weakness allowed and simply say, “Tea, Papa?” We would fall into each other’s arms, and the three years of my absence would dissipate with our laughter.

The carriage turned from Wigmore Street onto Wimpole. The familiarity of our neighbourhood warmed me as no blanket ever could.

I suddenly wondered if I looked too pale. “Do I look well?” I asked.

Arabel reached over and took my hand. “You look fine, Ba.”

“Fine as you ever look,” Henrietta said. “Though you could pinch your cheeks a bit.”

I did as she suggested, causing Flush to nip at my hands’ unaccustomed busyness.

“Whoa!” we heard the driver shout.

The carriage came to a stop. Henrietta exited the door nearly before the driver had a chance to unfurl the steps, and Arabel right after. How I wished I had their energy and health. I would have fought them for the privilege of being first into the house.

“Help me, Crow. Please help me.” Together we pulled the blankets away, causing Flush to tumble to the floor of the carriage. He exited the door and I was about to call him back—would even my dog enter our home before I did?—when I heard Papa’s voice.

“Well, well. You must be Flush.”

I cried out with such joy I felt my heart would burst. “Papa!”

He appeared at the carriage door, tall and handsome but for the weak chin of all Barretts. But even that one flaw mattered not a bit. His face was alight with joy. “My dearest Ba.”

He held out his hand to me. Suddenly my awkwardness fell away, and I easily moved to the door of the carriage and let him wrap his able hands about my waist and lift me to the ground as if I weighed nothing.

My arms found his neck and I clung to him, there on the street, my ear to his chest. “Oh, Papa, I am so glad to finally be home.”

He kissed the top of my head and whispered for my ears alone, “Your absence has pained me more than any other.”

I relished being his favourite and, as such, vowed to never make him worry again.

He gently pushed me back and threaded my hand through the crook of his arm. “Come now. Come inside and greet your brothers.”

I was home. Here I would be content. And here I would stay.

Forever.

T
HREE

Crow adjusted the hooks on the back of my dress, finishing my toilette for the morning. Flush nipped at the black hem, wishing for me to settle so he could follow suit.

“The sofa or the bed today, miss?”

I quickly made an inventory of my ailments and chose the bed. She helped me to it, adjusting a myriad of pillows to use as backing for my throne.

“Anything else, miss?” she asked.

“Just my desk and pen. Thank you.”

Crow retrieved them for me and left the room. I opened to yesterday’s page and began to make my list:
malaise in morning, slight convulsive twitches of
the muscles, a general irritability of the chest. Treatment: draught of opium.

I closed my eyes and let my thoughts settle upon this morning’s symptoms. My head did not hurt. And my chest? I took in, then released a few breaths, gauging its condition.

Nothing.

Nothing?

How could that be? I always had symptoms to report.

When I opened my eyes I noticed the window box that my brother Alfred had made and planted for me. “Every sanctum needs flowers,” he had said as he pressed the scarlet runners, golden nasturtiums, ivy, and blue morning glories into the soil.

Their beauty was vibrant. The very sight made me happy.

And yet . . . the blooms of the morning glory—alive for but a single day—were already beginning to fade and list towards their afternoon’s demise.

Am I at risk of fading into my own demise? Am I rushing toward the afternoon of
my life?

A sudden anger welled within me and I sat upright. What kind of foreign thoughts were these?

Yet I felt compelled to answer them.

I had been home five months. Spring was fast approaching, a time of renewal and fresh beginnings. I had been established in this lovely third-story room with family all around me. Cousin Kenyon often visited with literary gossip and new books for me to read. I was just about to bloom. I could not fade into the afternoon, into an early death.

I looked at the notebook before me and saw it with fresh eyes. Pages and pages of daily notations of symptoms and ailments. Years’ worth. A catalogue of misery and despair. An enumeration of hopelessness.

Suddenly, the sight of it and the very the touch of it filled me with disgust. Was this all that I was? All I had to look forward to?

I tossed it across the room, where it bounced off my bureau and fell with pages open to the floor. “Take that!” I declared. “I want no more of you.”

I took a few breaths—which came with surprising ease—and buoyed by my new resolve, I smiled. Yes, yes, this was better. To some extent there
was
a choice to be made, and perhaps—just perhaps—I had made the wrong one for too long.