by Nancy Moser
Laughing. Yes, yes, Bro could always make me laugh. I could hear him even now . . . but crying too. For Bro was always the adytum of all my secrets and plans. Who would I confide in now, if—
Suddenly, the tread of boots upon the stairs made my eyes shoot open. Bro? Is that—?
But it was only Papa who appeared in the doorway, and for a brief moment, I saw him to be an older version of the one who was missing from our clan; our family that had already lost one brother and one tiny sister when she was but four, as well as our mother.
I blinked the image away and shut the lid on my memory cache for later opening. “Anything?” I asked.
He shook his head and entered the room, walking between my sisters and my bed, heading towards the window where he had spent endless hours these past weeks, gazing out to sea, searching, pondering, praying.
And then . . . his back straightened and he took a step closer, touching the sill.
“What is it?” I asked, sitting full upright.
“A man is coming up the street. Running . . .”
“Is it Bro?” I asked.
Henrietta and Arabel rushed to the window. I was slower in coming but had to see—
“It’s not Bro,” Papa said before I could even fully stand. “I see now it is but a young lad.”
Henrietta put her hands on his arm, trying to see around him. “But he is running towards our house. Perhaps there is news?”
“I’ll get the door.” Arabel hurried down the stairs. Papa and Henrietta headed after her.
There was a knock below and my heart tumbled within my chest.
“Crow!” My maid appeared at a run. “Help me downstairs. Now. I must—”
I heard the front door open, then voices. I had to get downstairs! I had to hear!
Crow put her able hands on my arm and about my waist. “Easy, Miss Elizabeth. You have not been downstairs in months.”
“But I must. I must be there.”
My body rebelled at my request for full movement, yet I could not give in to it. Not this time. I reached the top of the stairs in time to see my sisters fall into each other’s arms. And then . . . and then their wails sped up the stairs and stabbed me in the heart.
The implications wove around me like greedy ropes, tightening, strangling, binding. No. No. No. No.
Needing more support than Crow could provide, more support than any human being could give, I gripped the baluster. “Papa?” I said.
He interrupted his conversation with the young man who stood in the entry beyond my sisters, his cap in his hands. Papa looked up at me, said a few words to the boy, and let him out the door.
And then he came towards me, one foot upon the stair, and then another, his own hand seeking guidance from the railing. He did not gaze at me, nor at the air between us, but kept his eyes downcast. I heard his breathing, far beyond what was demanded by the physical effort.
“Miss, oh, dear miss,” Crow whispered in my ear. She pulled me a step back, allowing Papa room upon the landing.
He took over my support, placing his hands upon my upper arms. His grip was firm, as though trying to transfer the strength I would need. . . .
“What?” I managed, but only a whisper. “What news?”
“Your brother has been found washed up upon—”
I heard no more. Could bear no more.
I collapsed.
I looked at my pen, glaring at me from across the room. Daring me, taunting me. Pick me up. Use me and I will set you free from your misery.
Over two months had passed since Bro’s body—and that of the pilot’s—had washed up in nearby Babbacombe Bay. His friend Charles had never been found.
Two days later, we had buried Bro at Torre Church. Two months later, I still suffered. And two years from now? I could not imagine my condition would be altered.
Ever since the sea had greedily taken my brother from me, I had been unable to write either poetry or letters. That task which was so innate to my very being became elusive. How could I return to that commission which was so essential to my life, that normally flowed so easily, when Bro had experienced feelings beyond those we had ever shared: fear, panic, desperation, and the ultimate pain?
Yet also the ultimate release of death. I tried to loose myself from the bondage of the heavy, cold chains which had entered into my soul, by thinking, not of the moments before my brother’s death, but the moment directly after, when all arduous feelings were dispelled with the singular sight of our Saviour, come to greet him and welcome him into paradise.
Although I knew Papa desperately needed to be back in London to attend to business, he remained with my sisters and me. He was our rock.
I owed him . . . too much. For I had caused his heir to die. He would not speak of it at all; would not let me voice my guilt. Bro gone, the second son, Sam, gone. The third son, Charles—Stormie—was . . . a nervous young man, shy, with an unfortunate stammer. George was a stuffy sort with too little sense of humour for my taste. Of the younger boys, Henry annoyed me with his stubborn, selfish will, and Alfred did not often fall or rise into enthusiasm. I could not condone such apathy. One must embrace life within the confines of the lot bestowed. To be apathetic . . .
The seventh and eighth sons, Septimus and Octavius—Sette and Occy—were still boys at ages sixteen and seventeen, and would always be boys to me. They were a sweet and enjoyable pair, always able to elicit a smile from those around them. But they were not near ready or able to take on the position of heir. Nor would the dictates of society allow such a thing.
Papa deserved a perfect child. Someone who would give him the respect, the interest, and the sense of his duty fulfilled that would allay his grief, his sense of hopelessness, and his aborted dreams. In spite of our shortcomings, Papa loved us all, and yet . . . my other siblings were immersed in their own concerns, and even attempted to push Papa to the edge of their lives—as much as was possible. No one loved him as I did. And so, since the love of my life was now gone, I vowed to love Papa with a greater love, a love that could look past his censorious ways. He was a good man. Considering my sin, he deserved all that I could give him.
He deserved to not have to worry about me.
Inspired by his sacrifice to stay with me during our grief and determined to strengthen my faith through witness of his own, I felt the responsibility—ready or not—to take up my pen again and write.
Not poetry, for my mind was still too muddled. But perhaps a letter?
That settled, I tapped a finger against my lips. To whom should I write?
Before Bro’s death I had been in correspondence with many elderly gentlemen scholars, and had been immersed in a stimulating exchange with the editor and critic Richard Henry Horne. He was incredibly witty and frank, and enticed me with gossip and news. He had made my separation from the literary society of London bearable.
Yet I did not feel it proper to offer my first letter after so long a silence to any of these gentlemen, for the fact being they were . . . men.
I immediately thought of the women in my life, and my thoughts flew to one special woman who deserved the honour of my first intention.
Mary Russell Mitford was my best friend and a fellow author. I, who was not easily befriended and who did not easily befriend, had been introduced to this woman over three years past. Nearly twice my age, never married, devoted to her invalid father, Miss Mitford had achieved success with Our Village, a series of essays on country life first published in Lady’s Magazine twenty years previous. Papa admired her work—which was not an easily earned compliment. He said the essays reminded him of our little world back in Hope End. A lifetime ago . . .
I sat back on my sofa and closed my eyes, once again letting memories wrap around me like a warm blanket. In hindsight, I was appalled at my reluctance to meet her. Papa’s cousin John Kenyon, an affable gentleman who knew everyone worth knowing, had been forced to urge me for months towards a meeting with Miss Mitford. My disinclination had stemmed from ne
rves regarding such direct contact—I so preferred the physical distance provided by letters. Cousin John became peeved at me, telling me I caused him to feel like a king beseeching a beggar to take a dukedom. He had deemed me foolish, a blemish I deserved yet found difficult to clear from my character.
I had finally succumbed to his gentle but persistent pressure and agreed to meet Miss Mitford at London’s Diorama and Zoological Gardens. At that time in my life’s journey I still ventured into public on occasion, but the anticipation caused me immeasurable worry. Yet it was not the visit into nature that caused me consternation but the contact with this stranger. What would we say to each other? Would she like me? What recourse would I have if it did not go well?
As usual, my worries had made me ill. My heart beat with an alarming rhythm, and I paced my room all morning. Adding to my disquiet was anger—at myself. How could I feel at ease discussing all manner of intellectual subjects with scholars (albeit through letters far more than in person), yet spin myself into a web of anxiety at the thought of meeting a revered spinster woman who by all accounts was amusing, kind, and had interest in meeting me?
Yet upon meeting her . . . I was made ashamed of my fears. I was delighted to discover that like me, Miss Mitford did not partake of womanly chatter, but spoke of life and books and interesting literary figures she had met. The very evening before our meeting she had been introduced to the young poet Robert Browning, and the very next night was going to a dinner at Cousin John’s home—to which I had also been invited—at which Robert Wordsworth would be in attendance. I had been fighting my fear regarding this dinner for weeks, looking for excuses not to go, yet knowing that the chance to meet this famous writer would prove irresistible, even amid my debilitating shyness.
During our meeting, as Miss Mitford and I walked among the chimpanzees and giraffes, I found myself sharing my life story with her, completely unbidden and unplanned. My childhood at Hope End, my mother’s death, the idiosyncrasies of my family, my health, and my hopes and dreams of literary greatness fell into the fresh air between us and were nourished by her kind interest.
Burgeoned by the success of the day, the next night I did attend the dinner at Cousin John’s with Bro and with Miss Mitford also in attendance. I sat right next to Wordsworth, nearly fainting from the very thought of his proximity. And yet . . . he did not impress me as I had imagined he would. He was an old man, his eyes lacked fire, and his countenance was void of the animation I had expected of such a great man who had written words that sparked my very soul. It was rather disconcerting to have my image of him dashed.
Another literary genius in attendance, who proved to be of far more interest, was Walter Savage Landor. He was opinionated, impetuous, high-spirited, and entertained Bro and me with witty epigrams. I enjoyed his presence as much as his work. His recently published Pentameron possessed some pages that were too delicious to turn over. On the way home, elated by the evening, I realized I had never walked in the skies before; and perhaps never would again when so many stars were out. I continued to live on those memories. . . .
Memories.
Suddenly, the memory of that special night faded, and another memory intruded. The words I had shared with Bro returned. I will die soon. The impulsive remark elicited great regret. Who was I to say such a thing? Who was I to complain about my lot? I was alive, and though I was not well, I needed to accept the benefit of my condition and go forth—for Bro’s sake, and for his honour.
Yet my heart was not in it. Each breath required effort, each thought was pulled from my mind with force, and each daily task was attended to by rote and with little recognition or feeling. I went . . . on.
What little energy I owned was used to mask my inner desolation from others who did not need to add worry for me to their burdens. I held my complaints in check and created a façade that carefully separated my serene appearance from the turmoil and angst which lay within.
How I longed to fully be what I pretended to be. Although I doubted it was possible, I was determined to try.
But who was I? Was I what people thought of me? Or someone altogether different?
Although I wished to think otherwise, to most people I was “the invalid,” the middle-aged spinster who lay abed all day, rarely venturing out-of-doors. Added to that, I was the sister-in-mourning, a woman to be pitied. When people walked past this house, did they whisper such things to one another? “See that house there? The woman who lives there never comes out. Her brother drowned last year and she blames herself.”
I looked towards the window, as if the parties in question were on the street outside. The people of Torquay had no reason to think any more of me. And beyond that . . . what more was there? Of me?
I let the pen and paper renew its invitation.
First and foremost, I was a writer. That was my calling, my destiny, my mission. The undefined illnesses that plagued my body did not define me. My mind, my thoughts, my feelings, my creativity . . . those were the things that determined who I was to myself and to the world. Those were the things that I had shoved aside after Bro’s death, and even before. I needed to regain the stimulation of intellectual discussion, the passion of thought, the exhilaration of imagination. . . . My book The Seraphim and Other Poems had been published in 1838, shortly before I moved to Torquay. I had been absent from London during the time when it had received its first response, its acclaim, however small. I had been set apart from its reality. Removed. Ostracized by circumstances beyond my control.
But no more.
I must reclaim the life I had once lived.
How?
I had to renew the correspondences which had previously brought me great joy and purpose. It was true that since becoming an adult I had not possessed a normal connection with anyone. The usual chatter of society bored me, and I was ill at ease in crowds. Only through letters was I able to sustain meaningful discourse with others of like mind. In most cases, they were men. Much older men. Men of learning and literature, such as Sir Uvedale Price and Hugh Stuart Boyd, both elderly scholars who miraculously treated me as a peer, far from equal, but a contemporary who was willing to learn. They gave my writing genuine criticism—which I encouraged. Although a good poet is one of God’s singers, it did not mean improvements could not, and should not, be achieved. If I only accepted accolades—whether the work be worthy or no—then I would be cheating the Almighty and revealing the sin of pride. Although I could be proud, I was not a cheater. I was also not a versifier as so many women were. I did not casually jot down stray verses that ambled through my thoughts. True poetry was sacred. It owned a dignity and sense of purpose, and as such, I strove to embrace those same traits as my own.
A few months earlier, in the midst of my mourning, I remembered Martin Luther had stated that a person’s entire life was a task set by God. The idea planted then now moved me towards action. I would try to please God, and please myself and others in the process.
Towards that end, I rang the bell, calling Crow to my side. “The pen, Crow, if you please? And paper and ink.”
Her smile was verification that it was time. “Anything else, Miss Elizabeth?”
“No. Thank you.”
She left the room, and I took up my pen to write to Mary.
And yet . . . my hand trembled. I set the pen aside and flexed my fingers, willing them to remember their duty to bring thought to paper. I grasped the pen again and willed my hand to obey.
It acquiesced, though tentative and not without a flutter to the script: Dearest Mary . . .
It was a beginning.
Three months had passed since I had renewed my correspondence with Mary Mitford. I looked forward to her letters above all others, above even those of Papa, who had returned to London in December, leaving Arabella here in Torquay with Henrietta and me. Miss Mitford’s letters gave each day a new purpose as we discussed our work and families and . . . life. But there was more than her letters which brought me anticipation. Mary was sending m
e a very special present, one I had objected to most vociferously and ineffectually because of its value.
A dog.
He was due to arrive at any time and caused me to rise from my pillows on more than one occasion when I heard a cart stop out front.
As it did now. Crow, who was putting some clothes away in the bureau, glanced at me. “It’s just a dog, miss, which, if I be honest, I’m not too keen on getting. Dogs are dirty and smelly.”
She was right—they could be. But they could also be pleasant companions. “It’s good you’ve only been with me here in Torquay, Crow, for back in London, Henry has a bloodhound and a mastiff, and Occy has a terrier. Myrtle is the ugliest dog in all Christendom.” I did not mention that at one time I had tamed a squirrel and had been owner to multiple rabbits, a hen, and a poodle named Havannah, as well as my pony, Moses.
“If that many dogs be there, then I be glad I’m here,” she said, pushing the drawer shut.
“This is not just any dog, mind you,” I said. “He is the son of a champion spaniel, one Miss Mitford could have sold for twenty guineas. I know she needs the money and yet she is sending him to me.”
Crow looked skeptical. “A spaniel. How big is—?”
I heard a bark outside and my heart leapt. “He’s here!” There was a knock on the door. “Help me up!”
Crow helped me into the hallway. And then I saw him. A rambunctious six-month-old golden cocker spaniel. Henrietta bent down to meet him and he put his paws upon her knees, his tail wagging madly. How I wished I could have run down the stairs to greet him properly.
Crow held my arm, then looked up at me. “You look flushed, miss.”
“If so, it is his fault,” I said. “Come here, my little Flush. Come see me.”
The dog heard my voice and, after a moment’s hesitation, lumbered up the stairway. I knelt to greet him and for my effort received a thousand wet kisses.
It was love at first sight.
I looked at the envelope, stunned. I had not received a letter from Richard Horne since soon after Bro died. Now, ten months later . . .
