How Do I Love Thee? (36 page)

He stood a moment, looking at me. A year ago I would have looked away, embarrassed or uncertain, but now I held his gaze, for it was important for him to take my words in true sincerity.

As was the norm, the smile that broke across his face raced the room to find me, and was returned. He said, “Do you remember that the first words I ever wrote to you were ‘I love you, dear Miss Barrett’? It was so—could not but be so. I have always loved you, as I shall always love you.”

It was, most surely,
not
coincidence, but precedence, or even prescience of what God had in store for us.

I gathered a cold compress for his head and urged him to sit back down. “Although I was hesitant about your love at first, Robert—unbelieving that you could ever love someone such as I—now I am fully convinced you do love me, for me, as I am.”

He kissed my hand. “I want
you
, dearest Ba. All of you. I have told you—warned you perhaps—that I am supremely passionate.”

I felt myself blush and covered his view with the compress. To think of myself as the recipient of passion was still new to me, yet I embraced the notion as another miraculous blessing. “Let this be a point agreed upon by both of us. The peculiarity of our circumstances will enable us to be free of the world . . . of even our friends. We must use any advantage, act for ourselves, and resist the curiosity of the whole race of third persons, even the affectionate interest of such friends as dear Mr. Kenyon.”

“And Mrs. Procter.”

“Especially her.” I left the subject of money behind—for good, I hoped. “We will marry and leave England within the fewest possible half hours afterwards. For I shall not dare breathe in this England and wonder
There is my father
and
There is yours
. Do you imagine that I am
not
afraid of your family? I would be even more so if it were not for the great agony of fear on the side of my own house.”

He moved the compress aside. “I know, dearest, and—”

I covered his eyes once more. I had to finish. “I must love you unspeakably even to dare think of a plan such as ours.”

Robert set the cloth aside and pulled me close. “Listen to me, Ba. Listen to Scripture: ‘If two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone? And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.’ Hmm?”

“But we are not three, only two.”

“God is our third. He has brought us together and will help us remain so.”

I put my head against his chest. I did not dare argue against my Robert—or against the promises of our God.

Robert had just left when I heard new footsteps on the stairs. I glanced about the room. Had he forgotten something?

“Robert, I—”

Henrietta came in the room, stopping my words.

“Oh. I didn’t know you were home.”

She shut the door behind her. “I saw him leave.”

Before the inane “Who?” escaped, I caught hold of my senses. “Did you say hello?”

She rushed to have a seat beside me on the sofa. “Hello? Good-bye? I knew Mr. Browning occasionally came to visit, but I never thought you took his company when no one else was in the house.”

There was so much she didn’t know.

Her eyes moved furtively. “He said something to me. . . .”

I imagined an impulsive Robert taking Henrietta’s hands and proclaiming,
“I love your sister dearly. Madly. We are betrothed.”

To my relief she said, “He asked after Mr. Cook.”

“So?”

Another glance towards the door and a lowering of her voice. “He knew far more than he should about our . . . about my . . .” She shook her head in a short burst. “Why would you tell a mere acquaintance about my private matters, Ba? What if he tells others? What if Papa finds out that Surtees has been visiting me far more often than he realizes, and that we wish to . . .”

“Marry?”

She put a finger to her lips, clearly afraid of the verbalization of that forbidden word.

Feeling emboldened by my own secret, I asked, “Why do you not just do it?”

Her laugh was tinged with bitterness. “Why don’t you?”

I moved to protest that marriage for me was a ridiculous notion when I felt my face grow red.

Henrietta clutched at my arm. “Ba? Is Mr. Browning more than a mere acquaintance?”

It was my turn to put a finger to my lips.

Happiness washed over her countenance and she faced me, taking my hands in hers. “Do you love him? Does he love you?”

“I will not speak of such things.” I looked to my lap, but I felt her eyes upon me.

“You do love him, I can see it! Oh, Ba, isn’t love grand? Papa always spoke against it as if it were some forbidden fruit that would do us harm, but I see nothing harmful in my love for Surtees. If I could run off today and be married, I would bolt out the door with my next breath.”

“Why do you not do it?” I asked. “In spite of . . .”

“Surtees has no money, and neither do I. You are the only one with funds, Ba. Do you not realize the blessing of your inheritance from Uncle Samuel?”

I understood full well. “I never think of it, of money,” I said.

“That is because you do not go out much. You do not need new dresses and bonnets, and so your money grows. I am forced to take Papa’s meager allowance and save nothing. It is up to Surtees to support us, and right now . . . he cannot.”

I thought back six years to a moment when Bro stood before me, needing money to marry. I had offered some funds to him, but he had declined. And now, although I would have liked to offer my sister the same, I could not. My finances were a blessing that would allow
me
to marry, and though I loved my sister, I loved Robert even more. I would not abandon our dream for anything.

Or anyone.

“So,” she said. “Are you and Robert very close?”

“We are dear friends.”

“Are you considering marriage?”

“No, no. You know me, Henrietta. I nearly faint at the very thought of confronting Papa. And you also know he would rather see me dead at his foot than yield the point: and he will say so, and mean it, and persist in the meaning.”

She nodded, her face forlorn. “He loves us too much. Too hard.”

I nodded my assent. Possession was not love. Robert’s written words came back to me:
Will it not be infinitely harder to act than to blindly adopt his pleasure,
and die under it? Who can not do that?

I was the eldest. Although long an invalid, my sisters looked to me for wisdom—the wisdom of books and common sense, rather than that of the world, but wisdom still. I could not encourage Henrietta to stand up to Papa and risk all. Not when I was afraid to do as much.

I laid my hand upon hers. “We must accept the blessings we have been given through the friendship of these two wonderful men. We must let it be enough.”

She shook my hand away. “I do not want to accept clandestine meetings the rest of my life. I have wasted too many years already.”

Henrietta was three years younger than I. If she considered her years wasted, then mine, at age forty . . .

Suddenly, I saw the moment with complete clarity. There we were, two middle-aged spinsters, mourning our dependence, worrying over what our father would say to us like two little girls without confidence or maturity. It was absurd.

Then, just as suddenly I found myself telling Henrietta, “I will talk to Papa.”

She gasped. “Oh, would you, Ba? If he would accept Surtees as my husband, then maybe he would help us financially, at least until Surtees is established.”

I will talk to Papa about us, about Robert and me.
Again, as the eldest, I knew I had to go first, had to take the first fall for the sake of my siblings. Papa had always loved me most. It was time to take measure of that love, to test it for the good of all those living in this house.

I did not tell Henrietta all this. It was best to let her think I was going to address
her
love,
her
wish to marry. If all went well, I would do so, but if not . . . I did not wish for her to know the extent of
our
plans. I had made such a point to Robert about keeping our love a secret. I would do so—until after I had talked to Papa. That one act would allow full truth to be revealed. That one act would allow me to burst through the door onto Wimpole Street and shout to the world,
“I am Elizabeth Barrett, I am
alive, and I am in love!”

“When?” Henrietta asked. “When will you talk to him?”

My heart flipped a double beat. “Today. When he gets home send him up to me. I will speak to him today.”

May God help me.

I heard Papa’s footsteps upon the stairs. The sound that used to fill me with joy now caused shivers to course up and down my spine.

He entered my room, his brow stern, his hands behind his back. “Yes, Ba. What is it?”

It was clear he had not had a good day at work. I should have instructed Henrietta to gauge his mood before telling him that I wished to see him. And yet, she was so eager for me to broach the subject of marriage, there would have been no guarantee she would have heeded such instruction.

“I . . . I wish to speak to you about something.”

“So I understand. Henrietta seemed quite adamant.”

He took out his pocket watch, looked at it, then returned it to his pocket. And I knew—I knew—that I could not speak to him about any of it.

My body responded to my decision and confirmed its wish to refrain from the stress. My breathing came in short bursts, and my heart beat so rapidly I felt light-headed. “I . . . I . . .”

Papa came towards me. “Lie down, dear girl. I will not have you fainting on me.” He helped me to the sofa. “Wilson?”

Wilson appeared in the doorway and with a look saw my need. She busied herself with a fan, supplying me a course of air.

Papa headed for the door. “I’ll leave you, then.”

“But . . .”

“Obviously you are not well enough to have a discussion of any kind. Whatever it is will wait.”

As he walked out, he nearly collided with Henrietta, who must have been listening from the stairs.

“Watch yourself, girl,” he said gruffly. Then, with a flip of his hand in my direction, he told her, “Make yourself useful.”

She rushed to my side. “Enough, Wilson. I’ll take over.”

Wilson bobbed a curtsy and left us alone.

Henrietta fluttered the fan furiously. “What happened? I tried to hear but—”

I pushed her attention away angrily and sat upright. “Nothing happened. At his mere presence my heart, my lungs, my nerves . . . I thought I was stronger, but with the very inkling of confrontation I resort to the invalid again! I am a pitiful weakling. Where is my resolve, my strength, my determination?”

“Locked away,” Henrietta said. “As is mine. Long ago our ability to stand up to Papa was banished to a dark room in our characters. Unavailable. Invisible.”

“If it ever existed at all,” I said.

She leaned her elbows to her knees and put her head in her hands. “Oh, Ba, whatever are we going to do? Are we truly doomed to remain here our entire lives?”

I had no answers for her. Or for myself.

“I let her down,” I told Robert the next day. “I let
us
down.”