How Do I Love Thee? (43 page)

Wilson unpacked my suitcase in Orleans. “I heard that Joan of Arc saved this city, that God talked to her and she led an army and—”

“Led an army against Britain. Yes,” I said.

“Oh.” She changed the subject. “The city is beautiful. The white of the buildings . . . so different from London.”

“That it is.” I was in no mood for her chatter. Robert had gone out to retrieve any mail we might have and—

He came into the room, a great packet of letters in hand.

“Mail,” I said.

“Mail,” he said. He nodded to Wilson. “If you please?”

With a quick bow, she left us. But I needed more than just Wilson’s absence. “My love . . . if you don’t mind, I would prefer to read these alone.”

“Don’t be silly. I will sit beside you and share with your joy, or your sorrow and—”

“No.” I had thought much about this. “Ten minutes. I must meet the agony alone.”

“But I will not let—”

I took his hand and squeezed, trying to showcase my strength. “I must.”

He searched my eyes for any hint of indecision and, finding none, kissed me once and left me alone.

With the letters. My death warrant.

Flush nuzzled his nose against my skirts, but even he could not be a part of this aftermath. I sat upon a chair with the packet in my lap. I untied the string. . . .

On the top letter I recognized George’s handwriting. George, my responsible, logical brother. Surely he would understand why things had to be done as they had been done.

I was mistaken. The salutation was simply
Elizabeth.

Not
Ba
, not
Sister
, but my given name, which was wholly unused by family as well as friends. As far as
Dear Elizabeth . . .
even that endearment was notably absent.

How could you? I speak for all the brothers in stating that the pain you have inflicted on this family by your elopement is immeasurable. I speak for all our brothers in saying that both you and Robert are without honour. You have exposed our entire family to ridicule and scorn. The slur cannot be withstood. The whole world knows the reason Mr. Browning took you away and such a gold digger should suffer the direst consequences.

You wished for me to intercede with Papa on your behalf? It will not happen. It cannot happen. For we feel the pain that he feels with full power within our own hearts.

We have been insulted and will not forget it. Ever.

I bowed my head, stunned. I had not expected congratulations, but nor had I expected such bitterness, nor to be cut with a sword. And for them to believe Robert had married me for my money? It was preposterous. And we did not elope! For anyone to say as much . . .

And
all
my brothers felt this way? Even dear Sette and Occy, and shy Stormie? I knew they would be hurt that I had not told them in advance, but their response reinforced my decision. Such scorn revealed before our marriage would have been a complication beyond measure.

But not beyond management. We
were
supposed to be married. God ordained our love and blessed it. That we had not had to deal with the complication before the fact was an additional blessing from the Father who
did
love me.

Father. Papa. His letter sat next on the pile. At the sight of his handwriting, my heart fluttered and I felt a faintness I had not experienced in weeks.

I started to put his letter at the back, to be read last, then changed my mind. I had dealt with the effects of my apprehension ever since I’d left Wimpole Street. Although I had been able to shove the fear aside for long moments of joy in Robert’s presence, it had doggedly returned to bite me with fresh teeth. I hoped for the best but expected the worst. So what was there to fear beyond my self-inflicted expectations? George’s anger had surprised me. Papa’s would not.

I slit open the seal of his letter. My eyes scanned the page, looking for key words that would either give me courage to read closer or warn me away.

Disappointed. Betrayed. Pained. Disinherited. Cast from my affection forever.

The words were hard and unsparing, and the last, cruel. I did not want my father’s money. But for him to disown me, to declare that I had never existed and he would no longer feel any affection for me . . .

I let the letter float to the floor, not wanting to touch it for a moment more. I waited for the pain to take hold, for a wail to build and demand release.

And waited.

Nothing happened. Although I was hurt to my core, although I suspected the wound inflicted by my father’s words would never fully heal, I did not deserve the full cup of vehemence he had served.

I heard the call of a street vendor below our window
. Pommes fraîches!
Pommes fraîches!

Fresh apples, clean air, lovely rivers, lush valleys, and happy people.

The life I was living with Robert—even with the travails and trials of travel—far surpassed the life I had left behind on Wimpole Street.

I closed my eyes and let the differences between then and now solidify.

In this life we all get used to the thought of the tomb, but I had been buried in one, buried there in Wimpole Street. That was the whole of it. Just a short time ago everything had been different. For years—after what broke my heart at Torquay—I lived on the outside of my own life, blindly and darkly from day to day, completely dead to hope.

Nobody quite understood this of me, because I was not morally a coward and had a hatred of all forms of audible groaning. But God knew what was within. . . .

Even my poetry was a thing on the outside of me, a thing to be done, and then done. What people said of it did not touch
me.
My old life was a thoroughly morbid and desolate state, which I looked back on with the sort of horror with which one would look to one’s graveclothes if one had been clothed in them by mistake during a trance.

I opened my eyes and traded the dark memory for the sunny day. I had survived death and had chosen—of my own free will, and with God’s grace—life. That my father and brothers begrudged me the chance was not something I could change. I wanted their acceptance and their forgiveness, but I would not discard or waste the happiness that had been gifted me. To do so would be an affront to God, the giver of the blessings, the guide of my journey.

I looked upon the next letter, from Cousin Kenyon. How we had wanted to tell him our plans. . . .

Nothing but what is generous in thought and action could come from you and Browning. And the very peculiar circumstances of your case have transmuted what might have been otherwise called “imprudence” into “prudence,” and apparent willfulness into real necessity.

I laughed with pure joy. Someone understood our actions.

Heartened, I looked at the last two letters in the pack. One was from Arabel, and one, Henrietta. I opened them freely, and with highest hopes.

I was not disappointed. They were happy for me, elated that I was now with the man I loved, and
away. . . .
Tears appeared and I let them come. Tears of joy were always welcome.

The only hint Henrietta made of repercussions at home was to mention that Papa had declared he could no longer handle my finances—I suppose because I no longer existed—and so had asked Cousin Kenyon to do so. He had also boxed up all my books and put them in storage and was sending me the bill.

That his slight brought me relief was ironic. I would send for my books someday, and I trusted John with the rest.

There was a knock on the door and Robert peeked in. “May I join you now?”

I held out my sisters’ letters for him to read. Tears appeared in his eyes, and he kissed the letters and declared, “I love your sisters! It shall be the object of my life to justify the trust shown in these letters. May God bless them.”

Although I did not wish to distress him, it was necessary to complete the moment. “There are also letters from Papa and George.”

“Are they . . . as expected?”

“Worse. If I had committed a murder and forgery, I don’t see how Papa could have shown his sense of it other than he has done for my offence of marrying.”

With a sigh, Robert leaned down and swept me up into his arms. He laid me down on the bed and sat beside me. . . .

For hours he poured out floods of tenderness and goodness, and promised to win back for me—with God’s help—the affection of those who were angry. It was strange that anyone so brilliant should love
me
, but true and strange it was.

And so, it was impossible for me to doubt it anymore.

Orleans . . . the place where Joan of Arc, while depending on God, had defeated the British in a great battle for freedom.

Joan and I had a lot in common. But there would be no burning at the stake for me.

Robert would not allow it.

S
IXTEEN

“Grazie, Signora.”

“Prego.”
Signora Romano offered a little nod, then took her empty basket away.

Robert rubbed his hands together. “So. What did she bring us today?”

I removed a plate from the top of a deep pottery bowl and let the delightful aroma waft over me. “Mmm. Vermicelli soup.” I uncovered more bowls. “We have sturgeon, turkey, stewed beef, mashed potatoes, and . . .” I indicated that Robert should reveal the contents of the last bowl.

“Ah,
delizioso
. Cheesecakes.” He put his fingers to his lips and kissed them.
“Squisito.”

I laughed at his enthusiasm and offered him a napkin for his lap. And one for Wilson.

The city of Florence agreed with us. The Arno River rushed through the midst of its palaces like a crystal arrow. It was the most beautiful of the cities devised by man.

The daily meals brought to us by Signora Romano from her nearby
trattoria
were a constant pleasure. We never knew what she would bring, and she seemed to delight in pleasing us. All for the equivalent of two shillings and eightpence a meal. In London we would have paid twenty times as much. And our
donna di servizio
came in every day to clean for a few hours for only six shillings a month. Astounding.

Florence was our second home in Italy. During the months we had stayed in Pisa, the gossip was that we were millionaires, all because we had not haggled with our landlord over the rent. No wonder he’d periodically sent us gifts.

But we had learned much over the following two years. The key word in Italy was
trattare
: bargain. It was a hard concept to embrace, and we were still not skilled at it, not ruthless enough, and yet . . . we were aggressive enough for our tastes and pocketbook.

Robert and I grew up in Italy, in so many ways.

When we were traveling with Mrs. Jameson, she called Robert the most impractical of men, the most uncalculating, rash, and in short, the worst manager she had ever met. And it was true. At first. I know Robert’s desire to please me and to ease my journey had led to unnecessary spending. But we soon adapted and found our way. We were told we could live in Italy for £250 a year and it had proved true.

We stayed in Pisa for six months. We did little but recover there, and regroup from our flight from our old life in England to the new one in Italy, which was spread before us like sunshine over a field of sunflowers.We led a quiet life, reading to each other, seeing no one, taking walks to the lovely baptistery. Though I was never strong enough to venture up the stairs in the leaning bell tower, I was much improved over my condition in London. Mrs. Jameson told me, “You are not improved, you are transformed.”

And it was true. I was stronger and taking far less opium. By spring of our first year of marriage, I had gradually diminished my intake from twenty-two doses taken in eight days to that amount over seventeen days. And now, two years later, I took far less than even that. And soon . . .

Life was bliss. There was not a shadow between us, nor a word. Only an increase in Robert’s affection, and my own.

Sometimes I felt he loved me too much, so much that I felt humiliated, as someone crushed with gifts. Robert’s goodness and tenderness were beyond words. He read to me, talked and jested to make me laugh, told me stories, improvised verses in all sorts of languages, sang songs, explained the difference between Mendelssohn and Spohr by playing on the table, and when he had thoroughly amused me, he accepted it as a triumph. I was spoilt to the utmost—who could escape?

Though he was inherently obedient to me, he did not require the same in return. I remembered a day when Flush stole a piece of beef from off a plate and I failed to chastise him. Robert had said, “I do wish, Ba, you wouldn’t let him do that with no consequences.”

“Well,” I said. “I won’t do it anymore.”

He surprised me by saying, “Don’t say such words to me, Ba.”

I was confused, for what words were more innocuous than mine? “What ought I to say?”

“Say that you will do as you please as long as you please to do it.”

What? What he asked me to do was against my nature.

He observed my puzzlement and said, “Have you not had a lifetime of blind acquiescence? Enough rules and harsh consequences for menial offences?”