The House of Hawthorne (35 page)

Our winter of illness has reached its icy roots deep into Nathaniel’s soul. Gray has overtaken his hair, which has begun to recede on his lined forehead. The man who was rarely ill is now incessantly plagued in his lungs and in his stomach. He despairs over his daughter, his writing, and our finances, and I am so consumed by caring for Una that, for the first time since our meeting, I cannot comfort him.

Franklin has brought his wife, Jane, to vacation in Rome, though they spend much time apart. She keeps to her rooms, and he keeps to ours, and I am grateful for his tender and amiable presence.

Late one March evening, when the temperatures are still low enough for Nathaniel to pull on his winter cloak for his walk, I leave Ada at Una’s bedside while she sleeps to tuck Rose and Julian into bed, and to fetch a plate of beef they have set aside for me. I am just crossing the room with my cold supper when Nathaniel enters with Franklin, who bears two bottles of wine. Though lines extend around his eyes, his hair is grayer, and he
has put on some weight, Franklin is still impressive in his appearance. I touch my hair, which is escaping its loose bun, and run my hand over my soiled, wrinkled apron. What a fright I must look.

“Franklin,” I say, placing my plate on the side table while my stomach growls. “If I had known we would be graced with your company, I would have taken a moment to make myself presentable.”

“You are always a figure of grace and loveliness,” he says, placing the wine on the table.

He gives me an embrace that loosens my stiffness with its warmth. I stare over Franklin’s shoulder at my husband, who also looks as though the simple company of an old friend who has suffered trials relieves some of his own burden. He hangs up his cloak and hat, and comes to fetch Franklin’s.

“Please do not allow me to interrupt your dinner,” our friend says, pointing at the plate. “But do join us with a glass of wine.”

I peek into Una’s room to see that she still sleeps before agreeing. Ada looks up at me from her book and down at Una, but waves me off to show that she is happy to stay. Franklin walks to the door, and when his eyes find my sickly girl, he frowns and places his hand on my back. Even across the darkened room, one can see how fast Una breathes, how fitfully she sleeps, and how wasted she appears. I pull the door so that it is almost closed, and escort Franklin to the fireside, where Nathaniel has poured three glasses of wine and has set my plate on a small table next to the wingback chair nearest Una’s room. Franklin joins Nathaniel on the settee.

“How is Jane?” I ask.

He takes a long drink before answering. “Jane is . . . Jane. She is a sad woman, rightfully so.”

“But you are not a sad man,” I say.

“I am,” he says. “But I am capable of placing that sadness in a secret place so I may live in the day and tend to my grief alone at night. If I could not do that, I could not exist. But I do not want to talk about the Pierces. I want to know about Una. Is she improving?”

“Not enough,” says Nathaniel. “Sophia works tirelessly at her side, scarcely sleeping or eating a thing all day and night, but every time Una’s fever breaks and we have a whisper of hope, the cursed illness returns with a vengeance.”

“And likely will continue to do so throughout her life,” I say. “Dr. Franco tells us that if one survives the initial infection, it is likely to reassert itself through the weeks and months and years to come, though not with such severity as it does now.”

Nathaniel adds, “If we can just get her to the place where she exists more in health than in illness, it will be a great relief on us all, though none so much as my wife.”

He looks into the fire while he speaks. His words are kind, but shallow of feeling. We are all ghosts to him while Una suffers, or rather, he is a ghost to us—separate, blurred at the edges, inaccessible.

“There is no agony like that of watching your children suffer,” says Franklin. “We would all gladly take it on for a lifetime so our young ones did not have to endure even a moment of discomfort.”

“Indeed,” I say, chewing the cold beef that I must force down with the wine. I have no appetite.

“I know that there is nothing I can do or say to ease your burden,” says Franklin. “But please allow me to keep you company, even if it is only to share a drink at the fireside or a walk through the city. Do not ever feel as if you must entertain me or be anything but what you are, while you endure this hardship.”

“Thank you,” says Nathaniel. He wipes his eye with the sleeve of his jacket and turns to his friend with a quivering smile. Franklin reaches for Nathaniel’s hand.

I stare at their joined hands, and push away my unfinished dinner. My husband and I have not had such ease of contact between us in weeks, and in just one night with his old friend, Nathaniel’s shoulders have relaxed, his smile has returned, and he has spoken a string of words. While I appreciate Franklin’s presence and offer, I cannot stifle my jealousy, though I am ashamed of it.

Una’s cry brings me to my feet, and I nearly upset my glass of wine. Franklin stands with me, but I motion that he should sit, and I leave the men so I may attend to my daughter.

Over the following weeks, while Nathaniel and Franklin spend hours touring the city, taking in the sights, reflecting on the gloomy state of politics in America, and simply existing with each other, I attend to my daughter’s health. I obey every instruction from Dr. Franco, even the latest, most distressing directive to cut off Una’s hair. When Nathaniel hears this prescription, he
turns stony and leaves the room. I hear an intake of breath from the corner, where Ada shrinks. The doctor vexes and stimulates Ada with his amorous attention, so she is forever hovering in the shadows, unsure of whether to show her sweet face.

Una is in one of her fits, and mumbles incomprehensibly. I almost dread when she regains full consciousness from this mutilation, for she is a girl at the threshold of womanhood. Her hair is a crown. Her body has begun to develop, but her sheltered mind is still very young. There is, and has always been, however, a deep wisdom in Una. She has an intelligence for life’s truths that surpasses her limited years, and I know she is Nathaniel’s favorite child. She is so much like him.

“Would you like me to do the deed, signora?” asks Dr. Franco, laying his large, dark hand on mine. “I know this will be difficult. I could even stay. This night will determine the outcome of her illness.”

“No, Doctor. Una wants only my care and attention. I will do whatever needs to be done to save my child.”

He stares at me with a creased brow, and then nods and stands to pack his bag. I feel affection for this man who has so faithfully attended to us day and night. I wish I were wealthy and could bestow a large sum on him. Instead, I stand to escort him out, not missing the look of longing he gives to Ada. It does something to me to see this wanting that cannot be satisfied, and I realize that part of his attention for my daughter comes from his love for our governess. She will not have him, however, because she is spoken for, and while I am sorry for him, I cannot help but think that if he really cared for Ada, he would not
burden her with his desire. It is disorienting to have such distraction, and I suddenly wish him gone. He lingers, though, and when he speaks it is with great effort.

“Signora Hawthorne, you know it has been months.”

“Yes, and I am so grateful we have had you to care for Una.”

“She has endured much, and I am afraid that more quinine will be fatal.”

“I know, Dr. Franco. We have discussed this.”

He stares at me from under dark eyebrows, his lips pursed, and perspiration on his forehead.

“I am sorry, but—”

Una cuts him off with her screech, and I rush to her bedside to hold her through a fit of convulsion. She feels sticky and clammy, and spittle comes out of her mouth. After a few moments, she becomes deathly still, and her skin is the color of marble—so gray she could be a statue in a gallery. I look back at our doctor and know what Dr. Franco was going to say, though I cannot bear for him to voice it. He thinks she will die.

“We shall call you tomorrow if necessary,” I say, with more sharpness than I intend.

He turns to leave the room. Before he goes he looks at Ada once more and then at me.

“I am sorry, signora. Deeply sorry that I could not . . .”

He does not finish, and soon he is gone.

Ada lets out a sob and joins me on the bed, where she runs her hands through Una’s sweaty hair. I feel like one in a nightmare as I rise to fetch the scissors. Nathaniel stands by the
window in the parlor, looking old and worn. I hardly know what to say to him, but I must prepare him.

“This evening and the night will be critical,” I finally manage.

He covers his eyes with his hands, but I have no consolation for him. I reach for my sewing shears and leave him alone.

In the room, Ada still cries over Una, whose chest barely rises and falls with breath. I have no tears in me now. For the first time in my life I am angry with God. Bitter and angry, and unwilling to give up.

I steel myself and lift Una’s tangled, matted auburn hair in my hand. Without hesitation, I begin to cut it off, and soon it is shorn to her head. I gather the hair and throw it into the wastebasket, leaving only a lock for myself. Ada is so beside herself I must escort her to bed. I tuck the covers up to her ears, and run my hand over her silky hair, and then her forehead so she knows I do not blame her.

“If I had never taken her out,” says Ada, the sob in her throat choking her words.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “You are not to blame.”

“I do not deserve your kindness.”

A strange brightness gilds the city and creeps into the room, turning it gold. I look up at the glass of the window, and I am reminded of the windows we etched at the Old Manse. I will use those words to console Ada, though I do not know whether I believe them anymore.

“Man’s accidents are God’s purposes.”

I leave Ada to rest, and when I enter the parlor I am surprised
to find Robert and Elizabeth Browning there with Nathaniel. Elizabeth carries a bouquet of lilies that she places on my writing desk.

“He came to us,” says Elizabeth, pointing at Nathaniel. “He told us that the end might be near.”

I try to catch my husband’s eyes, but he stares at the floor. It is as if he inhabits another world from me, and I am chilled at the thought that I have no impulse to enter into his sphere until I know Una is either recovered or dead. This separateness gives me almost as much pain as my languishing daughter.

“Life’s sufferings are a mystery,” says Elizabeth in her low voice.

I take the seat nearest her, sitting heavily from fatigue. She reaches for me, and I clasp her slender, cool hand in mine. I am astounded at the comfort her touch affords, and it is as if she has opened a great dam. My tears fall, and soon I am weeping.

“Good, Sophia,” she says. “You must release the burden. You have been so strong, so hopeful during this ordeal. It must be balm to your soul to cry.”

I pull my hand away, and use my handkerchief to wipe my eyes, relieved to unleash the pressure that has been building up for so long. I did not want to allow myself the indulgence of tears for fear they might never stop, but soon they do, and I am left feeling lighter, though still very sad.

Nathaniel and Robert have gone to Una’s room, but they come out shortly, looking ashen and shocked.

“You are a comfort to me,” I say to Elizabeth. “I know your health makes it difficult for you to leave your villa, and your
generosity in visiting us and offering your kindness will never be forgotten.”

“Think nothing of it,” she says. “You are not alone. We will hold you in our hearts, even when we are not here.”

We embrace, and Julian and Rose come tumbling into the room from their chambers. Rose stares at all of us with wide, dark eyes, and when she sees me, she looks very troubled. Elizabeth kneels down to speak to her.

“The lovely Hawthorne Rose,” says Elizabeth. “A rare variety. How fortunate your parents are to have you growing in their garden.”

“I am a knight, guarding the garden,” says Julian, which brings smiles to the company.

“You are,” says Nathaniel, placing his hand on Julian’s shoulder. “And will you help me to escort the Brownings home, my knight?”

“First I must get my sword!”

While he runs, Nathaniel reaches for Rose and lifts her.

“What about you, Rosebud?” he says. “Will you come with us?”

She nods and rests her head on Nathaniel’s chest. I reach for her cloak and tie her into it while she is in her father’s arms. When I glance up, the desperation in his gaze threatens to unmoor me. I stare at him a moment, fighting my tears, and try to hear his thoughts, but there is no understanding past my own distress.

Once they have gone, I return to the sick chamber, my prison. I have scarcely ventured out for months, and only recently have I discovered that spring has come, since I no longer shiver indoors,
and Julian brought me a bloom. I sit vigil with Una all night, aware of the world outside the door only when I hear my family return and the silence following their going to bed. I watch Una’s chest in a state of mounting panic. Her breathing is labored, and it sometimes seems as if an eternity passes before she takes her next gasp. After midnight, heat begins to emanate from her wasted body like a torch. I lay my hands on her head and flinch at the temperature, which feels higher than ever before. I snatch my fingers back and pace to the window, stuffing my knuckles into my mouth so I will not cry aloud. I open the shutters, no longer caring what foul air I let into our rooms, only wishing for the fever to reach me and take me with Una into death. The sky has clouded over and no stars are visible. I have never felt so alone and abandoned by God. I begin to weep and whisper frantic prayers and petitions, bartering with God about what I will give if He gives, what I will sacrifice if He allows my Una to live.