How Do I Love Thee? (45 page)

“I would not look up thither past thy head
Because the door opes, like that child, I know,
For I should have thy gracious face instead,
Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me low
Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together,
And lift them up to pray, and gently tether
Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment’s spread?

“If this was ever granted, I would rest
My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands
Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast,
Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands,
Back to its proper size again, and smoothing
Distortion down till every nerve had soothing,
And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed.

“How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired!
I think how I should view the earth and skies
And sea, when once again my brow was bared
After thy healing, with such different eyes.
O world, as God has made it! All is beauty:
And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.
What further may be sought for or declared?”

He closed the book and took it to his chest. I hated to break the moment with a word, but I knew he wished for one. “It is beautiful. I hear your voice in every line. There is such comfort there, with the angel coming down to minister to you, to offer you relief from the burdens of the world.” My eyes filled with tears. “I am sorry to have created so many burdens for you. If I could relieve them like this angel, I—”

He sat beside me, his knees touching mine. “Do not say such things, Ba. That our path was hard does not mean it was not also right, nor that it is not paved with blessings. ‘For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more.’ We have been given so much, Ba. And writing again . . . it is the
more
I wish to give back.”

As always, our hearts and minds meshed with communal agreement. God was good to send an angel to minister to my husband.

I would seek to add my own comfort to the lot.

If it were possible to
will
oneself to be well, so it was during my confinement. I desired no company besides Robert and Wilson, and ordered white muslin from England to make curtains for my bed. Robert found a lovely chest of drawers to sit nearby made of walnut with ivory inlays. It was indeed a room fit to wait upon a birth.

A box of my belongings arrived from England, including a portrait of my father. I trembled to look at the dear face again, and yet I had it placed so I looked upon him first thing at waking and last thing at night.

“Why do you distress yourself so?” Robert had asked, with Wilson chiming in with similar words.

And though I tried to express why, I found there was no answer—none that could be expressed through logic. Although I was eminently happy in Florence and in my marriage to Robert, the desire to reconcile with Papa was a constant pang within my heart. Did he know I was having his grandchild? Did he care? My sisters had sent me various baby clothes they had made with their loving hands, but they refrained from mentioning Papa, even when I specifically asked. My letters to Papa, my eager hands outstretched across the miles, were never answered. Were they read? Again, such questions asked of my sisters received no response.

I was not certain which alternative suited me better—that Papa read my letters and did not respond, or never read them at all because he had deemed me dead to him. Either way, his silence was a pall upon my happiness.

I sat in my sitting room and hand-stitched a baby gown. I had never considered myself good at needlework, but found a curious talent in it at this late date in my womanhood. When Wilson commented on the excellence of the stitches, I teased that this was my new profession. Poetry would hereby be abandoned.

Actually . . . in my husband’s case that was far too accurate. Although I had been encouraged by his poem about the angel at Fano, he had created nothing since. But more worrisome was his acquiescence towards the condition. “I am fine, Ba. When it’s time to write, I will write. Have no worries.”

But I did have worries. When he had lived at home with his parents, writing had consumed him. His parents had encouraged his focused application, taking care of all the concerns of daily living. But now, living with me . . . Robert was forced to attend to the responsibilities that had heretofore been embraced by others.

It was my fault. Would the literary world blame me for silencing a great poet? When in the mood, Robert could create prodigiously—as could I. But he was so rarely in the mood. . . .

Wilson entered, her face beaming. She carried something pink. “Here it is,” she said. “The lining for the cradle. For our darling girl. And in honour of your birthday today.”

I ignored the mention of my day. I did not make much of birthdays—unless it was the birth
day
of my child. “Girl?” I asked.

She tucked it into the wicker cradle and added a pink pillow. “Of course.”

“How do you know it’s a girl?”

“I . . .” She stood upright and cocked her head. “You are such a slight woman I just assumed . . .”

Ah. In truth, I’d also had the notion that I would have a girl because of my small stature. Surely someone like me could not give birth to a robust boy. I was not afraid of the pain—I had suffered pain before, and with birth, knowing the blessing of the outcome . . .

But I did wish for it to begin soon.
That
would be the best birthday greeting.

Hello, dear child, please come and meet us. . . .

Robert sat by my bedside. Another pain began low in my back, and I gripped his hand hard as the pain grabbed me in its vise and squeezed.

“Ba! Cry out! Do not hold yourself in control on my account. I would rather you scream and cry than expend your energy being strong.”

I could not answer him, as I had to concentrate on breathing through the agony. I shook my head at his words, and once the pain had released me, I said, “I do not cry out because I feel no need to do so. The pain is intense but does not control me. I am strong enough.”

An Italian nurse was getting towels at the ready while Dr. Harding stood on the other side of the bed and nodded. “Indeed you are, Mrs. Browning. In fact, in all my practice I have never seen the functions of nature more healthfully performed.”

“See?” I said to Robert.

Robert took out his pocket watch. “But it has been twenty hours. How can anyone endure such—”

Another contraction gripped me, more intense than the last. They were coming more frequently now, and the desire to push was demanding.

Dr. Harding pointed to the door. “Out, Robert. The timing is close now. It will not be long. You must leave us.”

I saw the battle in my husband’s eyes. He wished to stay by my side, but also, desperately, wished to distance himself from the pain. I gave him leave. “Go. I am in capable hands—both Dr. Harding’s and the Almighty’s.”

Robert kissed me. “I adore you. May God keep you safe, dear Ba.” I closed my eyes and said my own prayer. And then another pain came upon me and I was forced to trust. Completely.

The baby cried out. A lusty cry, full of life.

“It’s a boy!” Dr. Harding proclaimed.

“A boy?” I gave birth to a boy?

I tried to see him, but the doctor and the nurse were busy, with the baby between them.

Sudden fears flooded over me. “Is he all right? Is he healthy?”

A few more moments passed before Dr. Harding turned to face me. He smiled. “He is a fine specimen. Perfect in every way.”

I, who was a good deal tired and exhausted, rose up suddenly in my spirits to a sort of ecstasy. I not only forgot the pain but I slapped my hands and clasped them together. “Praise God!”

The tears that had been held at bay during the labour now demanded release. I extended my arms to my child. My hands ached for his touch, my arms trembled with anticipation.

Upon our first touch, I was in love and unspeakable rapture. His face was oval—like mine—and his skin was pink with health. I put my finger against his hand and he took it with strength. He tried to open his eyes and I wondered what he thought about his first glance of his mama.

“Hello, dear one. I have waited a lifetime for you.” I gently kissed his head.

Suddenly, Robert burst through the doors. “Ba?”

He ran to my side, his eyes on me, and then . . .

He too saw the child and I saw the love in his eyes.

“It’s a boy,” I said. “A healthy boy.”

“May I hold him?” he asked.

I happily relinquished our son to his father. Robert made soft cooing sounds and rocked him as if he had owned this ability his entire life.

And perhaps he had. For I had just fulfilled the highest natural function of a woman. Was it any less miraculous that my husband—rocking his child and loving him with unconditional love—was fulfilling the highest natural function of a man?

My world was now complete.

S
EVENTEEN

“I do like a man who is not ashamed to be near a cradle.”

Robert did not look up to accept my compliment but continued to gaze upon our son: Robert Wiedeman Barrett Browning. Pen for short.

He picked the boy up and settled him into his arms. I could not hear what soft words he said and did not need to. I found myself the opposite of a clinging mother. I was very content to see Pen in the arms of others. Who was I to declare myself a glorious mother, knowing best in all things
baby
? I had never imagined having a child, so had long ago suppressed any inklings of maternal instinct. Not that I was a bad mother. God was good and kind in that regard, and reignited in me that which I had pressed into dormancy.

But I enjoyed seeing others pleasure in our baby. Wilson was a doting auntie, and Signora Bondi, his wet nurse, supplied him with more than enough nourishment. Although I had come through the birth with laudable ease, Dr. Harding had drawn the line at my nursing the babe. Seeing how the stout and rosy Signora accomplished this feat, I did not let disappointment gain a foothold. For my son to be surrounded by four adults who loved him . . . considering the distance between real family, I was happy to provide him with willing substitutes.