How Do I Love Thee? (10 page)

“None of us are beyond improvement,” John said.

“I do have good news, though,” I said. I would wait for them to ask.

“Oh, do tell,” Mary said.

“Cornelius Mathew, an editor in New York City, is interested in my work. He has deigned himself to be my trustee for the further extension of my reputation in America.”

“Bravo!” John said.

Mary shook her head. “Just like Jesus. His hometown spurned Him, and He only gained followers elsewhere.”

I did not feel comfortable with the comparison. “Many people are better known beyond the boundaries of their home ground.” I nodded once for emphasis. “I like Americans. From what I’ve heard, they are kind and courteous.”

Out of the blue, Mary changed the tone of the conversation. “Caroline Norton was just ranked first in a list of the top ten British poetesses.”

My breath stopped. “Who created this list?” I hoped for some obscure publication.

“
The Quarterly Review.
I believe Hartley Coleridge assembled it.”

John pursed his lips and nodded. “Admirable.”

I waved my hands. “Admirable? She is a machine, churning out four volumes of poetry in this year alone.”

“Poetry that is selling well,” John said. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“She is so young,” Mary said. Then she looked at me. “Two years younger than you, isn’t that right?”

“Are you trying to make me feel bad?” I asked.

Mary extended a quieting hand. “I am trying to make you focus on your own creations.”

I knew she meant well, and I too enjoyed the creative process more than the reviews I was doing for Mr. Dilke. And yet it was still frustrating to hear of the success of Mrs. Norton. She was not a good person.

As if reading my thoughts, John said, “She has had a hard life, Ba. A marriage that was . . .” He leaned close and lowered his voice. “It is said her husband beat her so that she was forced to leave him. He refuses to allow her a divorce. That is why she writes so prolifically, to earn her own money.”

I had not heard that. All I knew was that a few years previous she had partaken of an adulterous affair with Lord Melbourne, who had been prime minister at the time.

Mary pointed at my face. “I know what you are thinking. But Mrs. Norton was just friends with Lord Melbourne. You must remember the facts correctly, Ba. Her husband tried to blackmail him, demanding fourteen hundred pounds, but Melbourne would not bite. There was no proof though the accusation nearly brought down the government. Her cad of a husband continues to keep her from seeing their three sons.”

My envy faded to compassion. “That is unconscionable. A mother needs to see her children.”

Mary shrugged. “So you see, her commercial success is necessary for her very survival.”

Guilt assaulted me, for though I would have enjoyed monetary success, it was not a necessity for my subsistence. “God does provide. Mrs. Norton obviously needs success far more than I do. I apologize for the sin of envy. And pettiness.”

“You are hereby forgiven,” John said. “Really, Ba, you are allowed such feelings, especially among friends.”

I was glad he had exonerated me. And yet, especially among friends . . . should I not show my best self?

“Do you wish to know who causes me to envy?” John asked.

“Who?” Mary asked.

“Charles Dickens. In only six years he has produced six novels and is now in New York City, giving lectures and attending a ball in which three thousand of the highest society turned out to see him. Three thousand,” he repeated. “At London readings we are lucky to gather a handful.”

“I enjoy his stories,” I said. “Though I find his women characters to be rather passive. I far prefer Frederika Bremer—even more than Jane Austen.”

“Whyever would you say that?” Mary said.

I had never been forced to defend Bremer and so was not sure . . . I felt Flush nudge at my skirt, and pulled the fabric aside to allow him exit from his retreat. He took a seat at my feet, signaling all was forgiven. “I think I like Bremer because Serena, the character in
The Neighbours
, is so completely self-sacrificing. Her refusal to marry because it would mean leaving the grandparents who had raised her . . . the serenity, the sweetness, the undertone of Christian music in her choice . . . it’s a poignant example of Christian sacrifice.”

“Ill-conceived sacrifice,” John said. He cleared his throat. “ ‘Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.’ ” His voice took on a polite but slightly condescending tone. “Children are supposed to leave their families and create new ones.”

Mary put her hands on her hips. “You are speaking to two spinster women, Mr. Kenyon. You will get no takers to your argument. That both Ba and I have chosen to remain loyal to our fathers—”

“Loyalty does not require being caged. Though, Ba, as your identity comes out, your readers are fascinated with the notion that you are a nightingale, kept hidden from the world in your Wimpole Street cage.”

“My readers need to concentrate on the worth of my work, not the details of my personal life.” Just as my anger began its rise, Arabel appeared at the doorway. “Hello, Miss Mitford, Cousin John.” Her eyes strayed to Flush. “Would you enjoy a walk, young man? Shall we escape this stifling heat to find the fresh air in Regent’s Park?”

Flush sprang to his feet, his wagging tail his answer.

John stood. “It is incredibly warm up here. Perhaps we should all join you.”

Arabel glanced in my direction. “I could get your wheelchair, Ba.”

“No, no, you go. I am fine here.” I pushed myself to standing. “In fact, if I could presume on Miss Mitford, I should like to retire to my bed.”

“We will wait for
you
to join us, Miss Mitford?” John said.

She looked at me, asking permission. I answered for her, “Yes, by all means wait for her. We will be just a moment.”

As they left, Mary took my arm and helped me into bed. “You have made great strides, Ba,” she said in my ear as she adjusted a pillow behind me. “Venturing out-of-doors for an outing would be the next step.”

A step I was still unable—or unwilling—to take. “I must not strain myself,” I said, falling back to my usual excuses. “I know the results of becoming overtaxed.”

“You know best,” Mary said. “I suppose.”

I was not certain she was right, but only certain I could not go out. I just couldn’t. It was as though there were a wall erected at the front door, prohibiting me from egress.

Mary kissed my forehead and descended to the foyer, her voice adding to that of Arabel and John. Then the door clicked shut and I heard Flush’s excited barks fading. Fading into the distance.

Crow returned with a tray of tea and scones. “They have left.”

“To seek the cooler air outside.”

“Would you like to go with them?”

Like? Yes, I would like to go with them. But could I? I shook my head and waved her away, to leave me.

John had accused me of being caged. Was I? I looked across the room at the dove I kept caged there, the dove I had nurtured when it was but an egg. Its mother gone, I had warmed its shell, rolling it over and over in my fingers until the bird had broken free.

No longer free. For I had rewarded its birth by placing it in a cage for my own enjoyment. Its soft
coo-coo
was a lullaby that often accompanied my descent into sleep.

I looked to the window, open as an invitation to the summer breezes. What I should have done was stride across the room, fling open the dove’s cage, and carry him to the windowsill where he could fly away, soaring into the freedom of the sky.

I waited a moment. Then two. My body did not respond but lay fixed. Rebellious.

Or was I giving it undue blame? For I
was
better—better than I had been in years. I could have gone for a walk in Regent’s Park with my sister and friends, or at least been taken for a walk in my wheelchair. That I had decided not to do so, when able . . .

“Am I a recluse?” I asked the air.

As if in answer to my question, I heard feet upon the stairs. Heavy feet. A man’s feet.

Father’s feet.

I sat upright, prepared to greet him. He knocked on the doorjamb.

“Come in, Papa.”

He stepped inside and greeted me with a smile I knew was mine alone. “Ba. How are you?” His smile left him and he came to my bedside. He put a hand upon my forehead. “You are flushed. Are you feeling unwell?”

For once, I, who always enjoyed his kind attention, wanted none of it. I took his hand and removed it. “I am fine, Papa. Just fine.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, his countenance heavy with concern. “You say the words, but I do not believe them.”

I sighed. He could always read me too well. “It is not a physical ailment that plagues me, but one of the spirit.”

When he looked even more worried, I hastened to explain. “Why do I not go out, Papa? The day is fine and Cousin John and Miss Mitford and Arabel asked me to go, and yet I chose to stay. Here. Alone in my room. Even Flush has gone.”

“You do not need people as others do, dear Ba. You have your books and the companionship of your creativity. And we, your family, are here for you.”

“But is that enough?”

He looked away, his face pensive. Then he looked upon me once more. “I have been reading the Roman poets. One such man, Juvenal, said this: ‘One path alone leads to a life of peace: The path of virtue.’ There is no one more virtuous than you, daughter. You are pure of heart and noble of thought. Let those attributes calm your discontent.”

I knew he needed a nod of acquiescence, and so I gave him one. He kissed my forehead and left me.

Alone.

Alone with my virtues and noble thoughts, neither of which—if they were in attendance at all—were good company.

I heard a commotion in the foyer below. Crow came running up the stairs and burst into my room. “You have a delivery!”

“What is it?”

“From Mr. Kenyon,” she said. “It’s a . . . you’ll see.”

I barely had time to get out of bed. Since a stranger was coming, I stood by the window and listened to heavy footsteps coming closer. . . .

A few minutes later, a workman appeared at my door, carrying a small table. Upon seeing me, he blushed, set it down, removed his cap, and said, “Mornin’, miss.” He donned his cap again and dug a note from the pocket of his dirty jacket. “ ’Ere’s a note I’s supposed to give you.”

Crow was the intermediary. On the outside of the envelope was simply
Ba
. Inside . . .
Accept this addition to your sanctum. The rails along the top of the table
should prevent canine paws from causing further damage.

I laughed and looked at the table with new eyes. The oval top was ringed with two rows of metal barrier, spanning three inches in height. “Over here,” I said, wanting it next to the sofa.

Crow quickly moved the current table out of the way, and the man placed its far-superior replacement in its stead. I gave the man a coin and he left us.

“Well, well,” Crow said. “What a novel idea.”

Flush sniffed the table suspiciously.
He
may not have approved, but I thought the piece delightful.

“Did Mr. Kenyon have it specially made?” Crow asked.

“I would not be surprised.”

I was so lucky to have friends who looked after all my needs.

F
OUR

Crow pressed towels along the edge of the window and sill, trying—with little success—to curtail the bitter draft that relentlessly strove to gain access. Outside, snowflakes danced in a celebratory tribute to their season.

I huddled beneath covers while sitting on my sofa, my heaviest winter shawl insufficient against the cold. The fire in the fireplace roared, trying its best to soothe me.

Flush suddenly rose from his place beside the sofa and barked.

“Someone must be here,” Crow said. She went into the hall and looked down the stairs. “It sounds like Miss Mitford. Shall I fetch her up?”

“Yes, yes, please,” I said.

I heard Mary’s slow ascent and her puffing upon taking the three flights from the foyer to my chamber. She hated our stairs, being far more used to the wide, open expanse of her home in Reading, where homes were not required to be built
up
.