How Do I Love Thee?

Books by

N
ANCY
M
OSER

F
ROM
B
ETHANY
H
OUSE
P
UBLISHERS

Mozart’s Sister

Just Jane

Washington’s Lady

How Do I Love Thee?

N
ANCY
M
OSER

A Novel

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Fact or Fiction in How Do I Love Thee?

Discussion Questions for How Do I Love Thee?

Sonnets From the Portuguese

O
NE

“I will die soon.”

My brother Edward leaned to an elbow on the company side of my bed. “Oh posh, Ba. You’ve been dying for years and you are still with us.”

He was right. Although I had celebrated a childhood of good health, the journey through my teen years, my twenties, and now my thirties had been greatly spent in a position of recline. And decline.

Bro popped a grape into his mouth and sighed. “No one can die here, Ba. Torquay is the happiest place in southern England. The sea will not allow such talk. So I must insist you desist.” The grape met its demise and another was plucked as Bro’s next victim.

I pulled my shawl closer, leaned back against the pillows, and gazed out the window at the sea sparkling in the May sunshine. We had come here in 1838, and though our initial intent was to stay only one winter here, we had spent nearly two years away from our family’s home in London, partaking of the salt air that was supposed to make me well. The situation had transpired due to an ultimatum from Dr. Chambers. He had informed Papa that if I were kept in London—with its soot and fog and unhealthy air—he would not be held responsible for the consequences. And so Papa had relented.

But unfortunately, in requiring such attention, two of my siblings had to accompany me: Henrietta as my helper and Edward as our chaperon. Other family came and went, and at times there was more family here than in London. I knew the situation was the subject of much tension back home—which was unfortunate—but I was not in charge. Papa was. It was regrettable that propriety forced three of us to be pulled from the family home, but in truth, neither of the others seemed to mind as much as I.

Henrietta—who, unlike me, found books and learning a bore—always discovered friends and society no matter where she was planted. And Bro . . . he was quite willing to lounge with me at Torquay if it prevented his being sent to our family’s plantation in Jamaica, where he would be forced to do more than paint a few watercolors and see to his poor sister’s happiness. As the Barrett heir, much was desired from Bro, although, alas, much was not expected. Bro took no interest in and had little aptitude towards carrying on the family business. It was as though he were waiting for Papa to
make
him interested and able. I loved him dearly, but I knew he
was not distinguished among men. His heart was too tender for energy.

When Papa had made murmurings that it was time for Bro to leave Torquay and take on some business responsibility, I, in a rare moment of assertiveness, had insisted he be left with me. To gain my own way, I had even sobbed, begging that Bro be allowed to stay. On his part, Bro, as a true alter ego, had declared that he loved me better than anyone and he would not leave me till I was well. But Papa . . . I never forgot Papa’s reply:
“I consider it very wrong of you to exact such a thing, Ba.”
I mourned his harsh words, but my desire—yea, my need—for Bro’s company allowed my shame only a short visit and was far outweighed by my delight in his presence.

And all had worked out well. Our brother Charles—Stormie—had gone to Jamaica in Bro’s stead. So for now, we had received a reprieve.

Jamaica . . . the thought of that awful place forced me to pull my eyes away from the calming view of the sea. For my most recent decline had been caused by the news that our brother Sam had died of fever there not three months previous—dead for two months before we even received word. Funny Sam, six years younger than I, boisterous and witty, though admittedly, a bit too fond of drink.

Bro sat upright and pointed at me, making his finger dance an accusatory spiral. “And what is this? Sorrow in my sister’s eyes? I will not have it.”

I adjusted the cuff of my mourning dress. “I was thinking of Sam.”

He used the moment to state his case. “Do you see why I do not wish to go to Jamaica? If Sam succumbed to its temptations, I most surely would—”

Temptations? I had only heard talk of fever. “What temptations?”

I watched regret and panic play upon my favourite brother’s face. “I misspoke. Sam died of fever. That is all—”

“Apparently that is not all. As the eldest I demand to know the truth.” My bluster was for show. I did not really want to hear the details. I was well aware of the peculiarities of my eight brothers and two sisters and loved them dearly, but in response to my familiarity with their characters, I oft preferred to turn a blind eye to their lesser qualities.

In turn, Bro, who knew
me
too well, gave me only partial disclosure. “Papa has warned us boys of the lures that dwell in Jamaica. So far from home, with great responsibilities and no family close to offer support and guidance . . .” He sighed with great drama—as was his way. “Sam was . . . Sam.”

“Ah.” I would let it remain at that. I pulled a volume of Balzac’s
Le
Père Goriot
close. “I do long for the day when we can all be together again under one roof. Although I may have found benefit in Torquay at one time, now I am too weak to bear being away. I find it dreadful. Dreadful,” I repeated. “I am crushed, trodden down, and death nips at me from afar, but also from far too near.” I sat upright to gain Bro’s full attention. “What is there to recommend this place when my own doctor has died here?”