How Do I Love Thee? (22 page)

“He cannot give it up!”

Mary’s eyebrow again lifted upwards. “You show keen interest in—”

I waved a hand at her concern, hoping the gesture quelled her interest. “As a fellow poet I despair of anyone with literary aspirations and talent, as Mr. Browning most certain possesses, being forced into mundane employment rather than allowed the freedom of time and inspiration.”

“Men have to work, Ba. They have families to support.”

I was taken aback. “But you said Robert lived with his parents.”

She assessed me with a level gaze. “No, I believe you said that. And though it is true, I . . .” She sat on the edge of her chair. “You show more than the interest of a peer, Ba. Is there something you wish to tell me?”

I nearly looked towards the desk, where Robert’s letter was stored—but did not. I wished I were a more dramatic sort like Henrietta. My acting ability had never been fully tested, yet I had no choice but to test it now. “You know how I love gossip, and as much time as Cousin John spends here, he is a bad influence on me.”

Her gaze did not falter. “That is all, then?”

I attempted to laugh at the absurdity of her question. “I assure you I have never met Mr. Browning, nor do I have any intention—” With a start I realized this final statement was not exactly true. Yet, unable to linger in my realization, I changed direction. “I have never been romantically inclined, you know that, Mary. My passion is expressed through my work and within my own spirit.”

Mary looked to her lap and I could tell she was looking inwards. “You and I have talked about this before, Ba, about love, about our lot to never experience the love of a husband.”

“And we came to the determination that it was all right. We have both accepted it as God’s will. And as such, I cannot say I have regrets. I have been made this way and you your way, and our lives play out accordingly.”

She shook her head, but it was a movement of appreciation. “Your inner strength amid your physical weakness continues to amaze me.”

And suddenly, I knew she was wrong. Although my inner strength
had
been a constant in a life focused on adapting to my illnesses, now, with the reception of Robert’s letter—and my reply—everything had changed. I was not certain how exactly, but I could feel that a portion of my being had shifted from the known to the unknown, from the hazy towards the clear, from mere warmth to a heat . . .

I shook the thought away. I was not a woman of heat, of ardour, or romantic fervor. As I had told Mary, my passion was reserved for things other than a flesh-and-blood man. In fact, what did I really know of flesh-and-blood men? Although I had six brothers within the confines of Wimpole Street, I did not see much difference between them and my sisters and I—except that they, as men, held power, while we, as women, held none. And yet . . . alone in my room, I was a far step removed from their lives. Had any of them ever loved a woman? Felt the kind of passion that was—and ever would be—absent from my own life?

“Ba? You have left me well alone here,” Mary said.

“So sorry.” To make amends I changed the subject from Robert. “Tell me what you have been doing.”

But as she told me the goings-on of her life, I found my thoughts returning to the man who had invaded mine.

Where
was
his letter?

The light through my window was dimming with the quick coming of the winter dark. There had been no letter. Although my visit with Mary had distracted me, it had not erased the deep ache for Robert’s words. His thoughts. The precious allotment that would feed me until—

I heard someone coming up the stairs. Running? No one ran in this house.

Except . . .

Flush sensed the difference in the gait too, for he lifted his head from my lap and looked towards the door.

Wilson burst through it. In her hand she waved . . .

“A letter?”

“A letter!” She brought it to me. “Miss Henrietta had not gone through the post as she usually does, but as I was passing the drawing room, she called me in and gave this to me, to give to you, and—” she drew in an extra breath—“I brought it to you as fast as I could.”

Although I longed to rip open the seal, although Wilson knew of my interest, I restrained myself for the sake of decorum—and the risk that my eagerness might cause her to want to stay in the hopes of hearing details. “Your effort is much appreciated,” I said as calmly as I could. “That will be all.”

Her face fell and I could see her thinking,
all?
But being the good maid she was, she gave a little curtsy and said, “Yes, miss.”

I felt sorry for her and nearly called her back. But the lure of reading Robert’s words in solitude overrode any urge to satisfy her curiosity.

I let my legs dangle over the bed, broke the seal, and leaned towards the lamp for better reading:
Dear Miss Barrett, I just shall say, in as few words as
I can, that you make me very happy and that, now the beginning is over, I daresay I shall
do better . . .

I let my thrill in knowing that I had made
him
happy enrich my journey through his missive. He wrote of my work, of our common work, sharing details that solidified our connection. When he succinctly captured the essence of our art, I read the lines twice, as if taking two delicious sips of clear water.
For an instructed eye loves to see where the brush has dipped twice in
a lustrous colour, has lain insistingly along a favourite outline, dwelt lovingly in a grand
shadow. For these “too muches” are so many helps to making out the real painter’s-picture,
as he had it in his brain.

I felt the same way about our art, the same deliciousness in sensing not only the result, but the process of the artist.

But then, in his next line, I nearly panicked as he spoke of signing off. . . .
Night is drawing on and I go out—yet cannot, quiet at conscience, till I repeat (to
myself, for I never said it to you, I think) that your poetry must be, cannot but be, infinitely
more to me than mine to you—for you
do
what I always wanted, hoped to do, and only
seem now likely to do for the first time. You speak out,
you.
I only make men and women
speak—give truth broken into prismatic hues, and fear the pure white light, even if it is in
me. But I am going to try, so it will be no small comfort to have your company just now. You
will nevermore, I hope, talk of “the honor of my acquaintance,” but I will joyfully wait for
the delight of your friendship, and the Spring, and my Chapel-sight after all.

I started at the last phrase. Chapel-sight? I had heard that before. . . .

I went to the drawer in my desk, where I had faithfully kept his first letter. My eyes scanned the page, and then . . .

I found it. The passage in question. Robert had been describing how he and Cousin John had come for a visit—a visit that had never transpired.
Then he went to announce me, then he returned. You were too unwell. And now it is years
ago, and I feel as at some untoward passage in my travels, as if I had been close, so close, to some
world’s wonder in chapel or crypt, only a screen to push and I might have entered. . . .

I pulled in a sudden breath. Chapel-sight. The meanderings of my imagination found reality. He did wish to see me. To come face-to-face with my person.

No!

In spite of any inappropriate thought otherwise, I could not let it happen. Except for a chosen few, I did not
see
people, and never anyone of the male persuasion who was so . . . so . . .

Young.

My head shook in short bursts, confirming my heart. No, no, never would I consent to meet him. But I did not wish to lose this precious correspondent-camaraderie we had already established.

And so, even though the hour was late, I pulled out paper and pen, ready to tell him what must be the boundaries of our relationship. And yet . . . I feared if I said it so plainly, he would take offence and write me nevermore.

Instead, I did what I did best. I ignored the hint of a meeting and responded solely as a writer to a writer. I requested—as I had requested my other correspondents—that he give a true opinion of my work, that he teach me how to be a better poet.

If life provided me more . . .

I could not think about
that
, yet my cowardice did nothing to dispel the possibility of experiences beyond my control.

The rush of fear—and excitement—overpowered me.

N
INE

Spring!

I stood at the opened window and peered out. Wilson had implored me to open the window wide, yet I had instructed her to open it but a little. Yet even though little, I could smell the difference in the air, the newness of it.

The winter was over and I had just escaped with my life. I might thank it for coming at all. Spring—until this spring—had never caused such elation in me. But for the end to the cold and the menace of the wind, it was always just another passing, as inevitable as night into day. But this year, seeing it—reading of its arrival through Robert’s eyes . . .

Had changed mine.

I returned to the stack of his letters to find one penned a week ago. Once again—one time out of many—I let his response to the season become mine.
Wednesday morning—spring! Real warm spring, dear Miss Barrett,
and the birds know it; and in spring I shall see you, surely see you. For when did I once fail
to get whatever I had set my heart upon?

My heart skipped at his last, and in its own defence returned to his glory of spring.

Without success. For though I could find pleasure in his mention of birds and warmth, and acknowledged my own relief in the disappearance of the east wind to mar their music, the intent that I so handily skipped over demanded attention.

I shall see you, surely see you.

The very thought of it sent me mentally staggering back, back, away from such a thought. Such a reality. My response was rife with alarm and angst. Two days ago I had reacted with panic and had written to Robert of my odd desire to lean completely out the window, escaping this prison with my life. It was a disturbing and unfamiliar desire of my soul to leap over the threshold of my world into another.

I had alarmed him by my talk. I held his subsequent letter and read the last line:
And pray you not to “lean out of the window” when my own foot is only on
the stair. Do wait a little for yours ever, RB.

I glanced at the window again. The air had changed from cold to fresh. The pigeons cooed upon the rooftop instead of lying huddled against the wind. And though I never
leaned
out the window, I often stood at the edge of it and—

Why did I never lean out the window? Was the act too bold? Too frightening? Too courageous?

Yes.

But also—since Robert—something more.

The words began to flow within my mind and I hurried to my desk to get them down.

Wednesday, 5 March 1845

I did not mean to strike a “tragic chord,” indeed I did not! Sometimes one’s melancholy will be uppermost and sometimes one’s mirth—the world goes round, you know, and I suppose that in that letter of mine the melancholy took the turn. As to “escaping with my life,” it was just a phrase. At least it did not signify more than that the sense of mortality and discomfort of it is peculiarly strong with me when east winds are blowing and waters freezing. For the rest, I am essentially better, and have been for several winters—and I feel as if it were intended for me to live and not die, and I am reconciled to the feeling.

I let my scribbling stop and allowed myself to fully comprehend my last words. Although odd, they were an essential—and surprising—truth. In the past two months, while corresponding with Robert (for he was decisively “Robert” to me now, at least within my own thoughts), I had turned a page of my own book of life. No more did I feel as though
now
was finite, or the future was a shadow that could never be caught. There was something beyond this room that perhaps
could
be mine.