How Do I Love Thee? (26 page)

I lay upon my sofa and arranged the silk of my black dress around me. I had never before despaired of not having frocks of lighter colors— until now. I had worn black since Bro’s death—velvet in winter and silk in summer—and had always been pleased enough with it. But now . . . would the somber colour add to the oppression of my room? I did not think it oppressive, but in the past three days, trying to envision it as seen through Robert’s eyes . . .

Flush whimpered and jerked his head. I realized I had been stroking a trough within the fur of his neck. “Sorry, boy.” I forced my hand to lie elsewhere.

And then . . .

I heard two voices, one Wilson’s and one . . .

I jerked aright, sending Flush to the floor. I did not apologize and urge him back, for all my thoughts and emotions were tuned to another.

I heard his feet upon the stairs!

I reminded myself to breathe.

“Just here, to the right, sir,” I heard Wilson say.

“Thank you.”

And then . . . he was there. His eyes quickly searched the room until they found mine. He smiled. “Dear Miss Barrett. Finally we meet.” He drew front and center a bouquet of flowers. “From my mother’s garden to your hands.”

“They are beautiful,” I said. “Wilson?” She took them away to find a vase.

His hands free, he came to my side and took my hand in his, drawing it to his lips. . . .

The word
swoon
came to mind as I felt myself become heady at his touch. And yet, I was not one to do such a thing. I was not a young girl aching for the attention of a young beau. I was a woman, nearly forty and far beyond the frivolities of—

I barely felt his lips upon my hand, and yet I wished for them to linger. . . .

He seemed to feel the same, for he held my hand a moment longer, peering into my eyes.

Suddenly, I worried what he would see. I knew I was deathly pale, and when seeing myself in the mirror was struck by the two dark caves that were my eyes. Although I never expected anyone to count me pretty— and had told myself such vanity was absurd—I now wished for some measure of beauty.

If only in Robert’s eyes.

He stood above me and I realized I had not offered him a chair. At the moment I began to do so, he fetched one for himself and pulled it close, but not too.

“And so, my dear, dear, Miss Barrett. We are finally met.”

Somehow I found my voice—which had been another worry, since I knew it tended towards reediness and softness to the point of nonexistence. “I am very glad you have come, Mr. Browning.”

He took a large breath and scanned the room. “So this is the chapel.”

“It is my room—such as it is.”

He rose to stroll about it, and I sensed he was not one to sit still long. He moved to the window. “What an interesting shade.” He extended it full down in order to see the castle that was painted upon it. “Your castle in the clouds?”

I had never thought of it as such, but the description was apt. “My father says it makes my room look like a confectioner’s shop.”

“Light and sweet. I can see that.”

He adjusted it to the halfway point where I had placed it to control the afternoon light. “And this ivy,” he said, fingering a leaf. “It is quite . . . copious and healthy.”

“My cousin, Mr. Kenyon, gave that to me. I am afraid I have let it have full run of the room.”

“Since you are unable to travel, you have set it free to roam?”

Again, he gave apt words to items that I had long taken for granted. But before I could respond, he said, “How long have you been unable to walk?”

I looked at him agog. “I can walk.”

He looked genuinely surprised and returned to his chair. “I had heard you were crippled because of a childhood fall from a horse.”

I laughed. “I have heard that too, but I assure you, my legs are quite sufficient.” On a whim I felt the need to show him. “Here,” I said, extending my hands to him. “Help me up.”

Even as he took my hands in his I questioned,
What am I doing?
And yet, looking into his brown eyes, feeling the strength transferring from his hands to mine . . .

I swung my legs to the side and let myself be lifted to my feet. We both peered down, as if my legs were a separate entity to be watched in case of mutiny.

But they did not betray me. I looked up at Robert and he down at me. “See? I am not disabled.”

“Indeed, you are not.” He pulled my hand into the crook of his arm. “Shall we take a stroll about the room, Miss Barrett?”

Although it was ridiculous—to meander in and around chairs and tables that were barely set wide enough for myself in my crinolines, it was as exhilarating as if we had strolled through Regent’s Park itself. Flush danced around us, as excited as I. We paused at my library and chatted over this volume and that, and at the fireplace he commented on the portrait on the mantel of my mother, calling her “as lovely as her daughter.” Then we stood at the window discussing the habits of the pigeons that populated the rooftops.

On the way back to the sofa, we passed a mirror, and both, at once, looked into its reflection. “No,” he said. “Do not look away.” He straightened his back and adjusted my hand upon his arm as if posing. “Behold the poets!” he said.

My thoughts flew faster than my logic and made me consider what a fine-looking pair we made. He was more masculine than his portrait (which I had instructed Wilson to remove from the wall), his head a tad large for his body, which was solid yet slim. He was short for a man—I would guess him to be five and six, and wore fashion with an impeccable flair.

What were his thoughts of me? I didn’t wish to know. He must have sensed my dis-ease, for he moved us on our way.

“Here we are,” he said as we returned—far too soon—to the sofa. “Safely back home again.” He eased me to seating and waited patiently as I moved my legs to their familiar recline. “So. How did you enjoy our journey?”

“It was quite delightful. And just the right length.” I felt myself out of breath and my legs weak, but was determined to ignore both symptoms.

Once he was settled across from me, he asked, “If you will pardon my intrusion . . . you wear mourning, or do you simply prefer black for fashion?”

“I . . .” I found I had no explanation that I wished to share—even with Robert. “Both,” I said, leaving it at that.

“I am sorry. I shouldn’t have asked such a thing. A thousand pardons.”

“Granted,” I said. But since he had breached the personal subject of looks, I asked a question of my own. “Your appearance does not match your work.”

“Match . . . ?”

Could I explain it well? “You do not look the poet. You are not timid or withdrawn, nor do you act pensive or overtly intellectual.”

His laugh was boisterous. “Oh no, I try very hard to hide my intellect.” He leaned forwards in confidentiality. “You see, London society disdains undue inflections of the mind as much as they disdain a paletot for evening wear. Or if one does possess a mind as well as the coveted wit and fashion, it is best to keep it hidden in a pocket until one is alone.”

“Or among true friends,” I said.

His smile was genuine. “Or among true friends.”

Then, to my dismay, he sat back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other, and began to dissect me with his gaze. “But as to you, Miss Barrett, does your appearance harmonize with the essence of your work?”

I chastised myself for ever initiating the subject of appearances. “I hope not,” I said.

He seemed surprised. “Whyever do you say that?”

“Because I am here, like this . . .”

“I find
here
to be an interesting locale, and your
like this
to be completely acceptable, as it is you I have come to see. Extraneous details have no bearing in
you
any more than my coat and walking cane have any bearing on me. We each are as we are.”

I knew he was exaggerating for my benefit, and loved him for it. But I had to turn the conversation from our façades. “Speaking of our work . . .”

“Were we speaking of our work?”

He made me smile. “We are as of now. How do you go about the task? Writing is such joy to me and—”

“Joy?” He shook his head. “I take no pleasure in writing—none, in the mere act—though all pleasure in the sense of fulfilling a duty, whence, if I have done my real best . . . judge how heartbreaking a matter it is to be pronounced a poor creature by this critic or that acquaintance. But I think you like the operation of writing as I should like that of painting or making music, do you not?”

“I do. Greatly.”

“I thought as much.”

“But,” I said, “you will never persuade me that I am better at the process, or do as well as you. We look from different points of view. Yours is the point of attainment.”

He shrugged. “I know there is a great delight in the heart of the thing; and use and forethought have made me ready at all times to set to work. But I don’t know why my heart sinks whenever I open my desk and rises when I shut it.”

“I cannot believe that,” I said.

He raised a hand to take a vow. “Writing is my life, but it is work.” He grinned. “And I have always disdained work.”

I remembered Mary Mitford’s objection to Robert—that he had never held a job, that his father financed his publishing ventures. But I could not let my thoughts linger there too long. His father loved him and supported him in all ways. That was to be commended.

“And you, Miss Barrett. I suppose you run to your pen each morning as if it were fresh air just waiting to be breathed in and exhaled into beautiful poetry.”

“If only it would be created as easily as breathing.”

“But you enjoy the process, in spite of the challenge.”

“Perhaps because of the challenge.”

“Ah, there it is,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “The difference between us. You embrace the challenge and I seek an easier way.”

“Whether struggle or ease, we both gain results,” I said.

“But you to a greater degree. For who knows my name?”

“Plenty, I would think. Your work, your plays—”

He laughed. “Have earned the scorn of many, the praise of few, and too few shillings to repay my father for the process. But you, Miss Barrett, you are heralded as the greatest poetess of the age. All Britain has heard of you—and America besides.”

I did not want to compare our successes, for it would cause both of us embarrassment. “I do not care for money or fame,” I said, “only for—”

He laughed and slapped a hand upon his thigh. “Oh, to not care for money! I admire you for that, Miss Barrett.”

He took me wrongly. “I only meant that I have resigned myself to never gaining good compensation from my writing like Wordsworth or Dickens. If only I can write enough, earn enough, be known enough to be allowed to continue to be published . . .”

“Aha! So your joy in writing
is
connected to being published?”

I felt myself redden. “The Bible says we are not to place our light under a bushel, but place it on a stand for all the world to see.”

“On that stand your work is surely a beacon. And mine is a flickering candle, ready to be snuffed into darkness by the faintest breeze.”

“No, Mr. Browning. Do not say such a thing.”

“I may say it because it is true. But be assured, Miss Barrett, that I hold no jealousy towards your success, only admiration and pleasure. I did not come here to compete with you, but to know you. You, just you, Miss Barrett.”

I believed him. And all my fears regarding his motivation, that he might want to see me out of curiosity, or to be able to say that he had attained what no one else ever could, was stifled and extinguished. I felt assured enough—even after this short knowing—that he wished to visit me for me, and me alone.

“I just thought of something,” he said. “If you had not mentioned my work in your ‘Lady Geraldine,’ I would not have written to you and—”

I held up a hand, stopping his words. “You wrote to me because of a mention in one of my poems?”

“Why, yes. I told you as much in my first letter.”

“No, you did not,” I said.

“Yes, I am quite certain I did.”

“No, you did not,” I repeated, and I knew I was right, for I had read and reread the letter so many times that I nearly knew it by rote. “You said, ‘I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett’ and—”

“Did I say it so?”

“You did. And you did not mention ‘Lady Geraldine.’ ”

He shrugged. “Well, then, perhaps I didn’t. But I did mention your poems, I do remember that distinctly, so whether or not I pointed out your mention of my ‘Pomegranate’ by name, the effect of my contacting you—and the sentiment within that letter—are the same.” He reached across the space between us and touched the edge of the sofa. “I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett. And now, having met you, I have even more to love.”

He had passed over the point in contention, but it still hung with me. “If not for the mention of your work in mine—” I said again.

“That whim to mention a fellow poet . . .”

“We would not be—”

“Here. Now. Fully met.”

Oh yes.

The clock on the mantel struck the half hour. I would not have been surprised if it had struck six, but it was only four-thirty. And yet that was enough. For now. Our first meeting had exceeded all my hopes and expectations. It was best to let it end on this perfection.

As if reading my mind, he stood. “I should go.”

“Yes,” I said, although reluctance was heavy upon me. “You will come again?”

His eyes sparkled and his face beamed. “Tomorrow?”

My, my! “Next Tuesday, at this same time?”

“So long . . .”

I agreed it would seem a lifetime, and yet I wished a bit of time to fully digest . . .

I thought of something. “Please, Mr. Browning, a favour. Tell no one of our meeting.”

He pondered this a moment. “I suppose that means I cannot dance through the streets, shouting your name to the heavens, exuberant with glee?”

“Not today.”

He reached down to kiss my hand once more. “As you wish, dear lady. Till Tuesday, then.”

I called for Wilson and she showed him the door. I held my breath in order to hear every footfall, every word, wishing to hold on to his presence as long as possible.