How Do I Love Thee? (37 page)

He comforted me as I had comforted Henrietta. “A lifetime of submission is not easily overridden, nor is a lifetime under tyranny.”

I leaned my head against his chest, letting his arms encase me in their strong safety. “You spoke of going to Italy for a few years,” I said. “I think we should go. Away. Far away. Where Papa’s hands can’t reach us.”

He pushed back to see my face. “Really? You agree to Italy?”

“I’d agree to anything to be with you,” I said.

“Then Italy it shall be.”

I returned to his embrace. “You make the arrangements, Robert. You lead and I will follow.”

Soon after Robert left, I found that the words bursting within me demanded release. And so, I penned another letter, saying more of what was in my heart.

And now I must say this besides. When grief came upon grief and I lost Bro, I never was tempted to ask “How have I deserved this of God?” as sufferers sometimes do: I always felt that there must be cause enough . . . corruption enough, needing purification . . . weakness enough, the need for strengthening . . . nothing of the chastisement could come to me without cause and need.

But in this different hour, when joy follows joy, and God makes me happy through you . . .

I cannot repress the “How have I deserved this of Him?” I know I have not—I know I do not.

Could it be that heart and life were devastated then to make room for you now? If so, it was well done, dearest! They leave the ground fallow before the wheat.

I paused and thought about Bro, the one other man I had ever loved with pure affection. What would he say about the words I had written? Knowing how much he returned my love, would he accept his sacrifice if it truly was instrumental in opening my heart to Robert’s love?

As I would have died for him, Bro would have died for me.

Perhaps did die for me.

I pressed a hand against my chest, the fullness of blessings making my heart beat faster, but with no risk of faintness. For the blessings of love filled me with excitement, anticipation, and pure gratitude, elements abounding in strength.

How odd I had received such a bounty, all at once, in this phase of my life.

More words begged for release, and I took up my pen again.

Other human creatures have their good things scattered over their lives, sown here and sown there, down the slopes, and by the waysides. But with me . . . I have mine all poured down on one spot in the midst of the sands! If you knew what I feel at certain moments, and at half-hours, when I give myself up to feeling freely and take no thought of red eyes. Knowing myself, I have wondered more than a little how it was that I could bear this strange and unused gladness without sinking as the emotion rose. I was incredulous at first, and the day broke slowly, and the gifts fell like the rain . . . softly; and God gives strength by His providence for sustaining blessings as well as stripes. Dearest . . .

Dearest. Dearest.

I adored Robert. He adored me. We wanted to marry. But each time I allowed myself to imagine the logistics of our plan, to even think about telling Papa . . . I was a coward. I had to share the gist of my misgivings with Robert. “Might it not be wiser, dearest, more prudent, for us to remain quietly as we are, you at New Cross, and I here, until next year’s summer or autumn?”

With much drama he thrust an imaginary dagger into his chest and staggered backwards against the fireplace. “Oh, show me how to get rid of you!”

“It is just a consideration,” I said.

He stood straight and strong with the look of a man who had much to say. “Every day that passes before
that
day is one of hardly endurable anxiety and irritation, and the thought of another year of hope deferred— it’s altogether intolerable.” He put his hands upon his hips, his forehead furrowed. “Ba. No.”

He was right. Of course. Again. This was not the first time we had volleyed these views between us. My fear against his determination. And I knew that delay would not ease the furor our marriage would cause within my family.

His face softened. “We have nothing to gain by delay, and much to lose. Every minute that you are not mine, every hour . . .”

I nodded. We had managed to meet for over a year without Papa finding out. And though it was tempting to continue to ply our good fortune, it would be reckless, and more than that, ungrateful to God’s protection for blessings already given.

I offered him a smile of reconciliation. “We are standing on hot scythes, you and I, and because we do not burn our feet—by a miracle— we have no right to count on the miracle extending.”

I nodded.

He took my hand and pulled me to my feet, causing Flush to tumble to the floor. “Then let us go now! Right this very minute. Your father is out of the house, your sisters occupied. Tell Wilson to pack you a bag—” He rushed to my armoire and yanked the doors open, pulling a winter dress of black velvet into his arms. “Find me a bag and I will do it myself!” Suddenly he dropped the dress to the floor and took a step away from it. “On further thought . . . leave all these behind.” He took my hands and led me in a circle. “Come as you are and take me as I am, and together we will start anew.”

Feeling slightly dizzy—or was I merely giddy at the thought of it all?—I stopped our circling and pulled him close for a kiss. “You tempt me, Mr. Browning.”

“Only towards good things, Miss Barrett. Our love is the quintessence of all that is good.” He resumed our circling. “That I wish to rush towards our union is an attribute and far from folly.”

Flush barked, confused by our dance. I began to let one of Robert’s hands go in order to comfort the pet, but Robert held it fast and drew me close. He turned my arm behind my back, locking us together. He looked into my eyes with the intensity that was yet another facet of his personality. “I adore you, Ba. I have no heart for more nonsense about when I can take your dearest self into my arms. If my love overflows the bounds and needs to prove itself, so be it. I will prove it again and again. I dedicate my lifetime in the proving. But let us move on with our plans. To remain in limbo is inextricable. To survive, we must move forward.”

Forward was a fairly new concept for me. But one that continued to satisfy and entice.

The house was full of wedding talk.

Not my own.

My aunt Jane Hedley—my mother’s sister—came to visit in July with her husband Bernard—my favourite uncle—and their daughter Constance. They lived in Paris but had traveled to London to make plans for Constance’s marriage to a rich man named John Johnston Bevin, whose height at over six feet was as massive as his wealth. Although they did not stay with us, they visited daily and used our drawing room as the center of their plans. As they chattered with my family about wedding gowns and flowers and suppers, I marveled that I did not envy any of it.

I, who had never expected to marry, had not grown into adulthood dreaming of satin and walking down the aisle on my father’s arm.

Perish the thought.

And so, hearing my cousin discuss her plans did not negate the specialness of my own. To my mind, the wedding ceremony was just that—a ceremony for show. The vows Robert and I would exchange before God and a pastor would be enough. Our shared “I do” would echo through the heavens with as grand a sound as the mightiest church organ. The look upon our faces would make the presence of company unnecessary, and the final pronouncement as man and wife, under God, would own the scent of a thousand roses.

That there would be no lavish wedding meal, no reception line to embrace family and friends, and no gifts (to admire or appall), was of no import. Rich foods would cause me harm, strong hugs would overwhelm, and gifts would make me feel beholden.

I was set to do this thing simply, with honour and full pleasure.

Constance was in the midst of a discourse on lilies of the valley versus lavender. “I do so love the scent of lavender best, but the daintiness of the—”

Papa, who had not been a part of our discussion, entered the room with some papers. Surprisingly, he approached me. “Here,” he said. “You need to sign these.”

“What are they?” I asked.

Only then did Papa notice the Hedleys were present. “If you’ll excuse us a moment.”

“Of course,” Uncle said.

Papa angled his back to them just a bit and lowered his voice. “You remember that your uncle Samuel gave you an investment in a sailing ship.”

I nodded. The income usually amounted to two hundred pounds per year. The other day Stormie had told me I had eight thousand pounds in that fund. Along with the allowance of fifteen pounds a month that Papa gave me . . . I knew I had enough money to support Robert and me upon our marriage.

“I have determined it is time to transfer that investment to the Eastern Railroad.”

I had never been on a train—nor a ship for that matter—but trains were far newer and from what I had heard, loud and dirty and . . .

“The railroad, you say?” Uncle asked.

Papa made a face, showing his regret that the others had heard. He addressed Uncle Bernard. “I believe it to be a wise move. Do you think otherwise?”

Uncle waved his hands. “No, no. I leave such investment in your capable hands. I’m sure the railroad is the way of the future.”

Papa did not respond but placed the paper before me. “Sign here.” He handed me the pen, dipped in ink.

Aunt Jane looked up from her discourse with Constance and said, “Is that your marriage settlement, my dear?”

What?
My hand flinched and I signed my name wrongly. “Oh no, I—”

Papa snatched the paper from me. “Ba! Concentrate. Can you not even write your own name?” He took the pen, scratched out my mistake, blew on the paper, re-dipped the pen, and handed the document back to me. “Now, again. Carefully.”

My hand still shook, but I managed to sign the paper.

I was grateful when Papa left. Returning to my seat, Aunt looked concerned. “You’re pale, Ba. Are you feeling all right?”

I feigned a smile and masked my frayed nerves by asking after the flowers.

“Will they never leave?” Robert asked me. “How long does it take to plan a wedding, anyway?”

I flicked the tip of his nose. “Months—or so it seems.”