How Do I Love Thee?

by Nancy Moser

  “Ill-conceived sacrifice,” John said. He cleared his throat. “ ‘Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.’ ” His voice took on a polite but slightly condescending tone. “Children are supposed to leave their families and create new ones.”

  Mary put her hands on her hips. “You are speaking to two spinster women, Mr. Kenyon. You will get no takers to your argument. That both Ba and I have chosen to remain loyal to our fathers—”

  “Loyalty does not require being caged. Though, Ba, as your identity comes out, your readers are fascinated with the notion that you are a nightingale, kept hidden from the world in your Wimpole Street cage.”

  “My readers need to concentrate on the worth of my work, not the details of my personal life.” Just as my anger began its rise, Arabel appeared at the doorway. “Hello, Miss Mitford, Cousin John.” Her eyes strayed to Flush. “Would you enjoy a walk, young man? Shall we escape this stifling heat to find the fresh air in Regent’s Park?”

  Flush sprang to his feet, his wagging tail his answer.

  John stood. “It is incredibly warm up here. Perhaps we should all join you.”

  Arabel glanced in my direction. “I could get your wheelchair, Ba.”

  “No, no, you go. I am fine here.” I pushed myself to standing. “In fact, if I could presume on Miss Mitford, I should like to retire to my bed.”

  “We will wait for you to join us, Miss Mitford?” John said.

  She looked at me, asking permission. I answered for her, “Yes, by all means wait for her. We will be just a moment.”

  As they left, Mary took my arm and helped me into bed. “You have made great strides, Ba,” she said in my ear as she adjusted a pillow behind me. “Venturing out-of-doors for an outing would be the next step.”

  A step I was still unable—or unwilling—to take. “I must not strain myself,” I said, falling back to my usual excuses. “I know the results of becoming overtaxed.”

  “You know best,” Mary said. “I suppose.”

  I was not certain she was right, but only certain I could not go out. I just couldn’t. It was as though there were a wall erected at the front door, prohibiting me from egress.

  Mary kissed my forehead and descended to the foyer, her voice adding to that of Arabel and John. Then the door clicked shut and I heard Flush’s excited barks fading. Fading into the distance.

  Crow returned with a tray of tea and scones. “They have left.”

  “To seek the cooler air outside.”

  “Would you like to go with them?”

  Like? Yes, I would like to go with them. But could I? I shook my head and waved her away, to leave me.

  John had accused me of being caged. Was I? I looked across the room at the dove I kept caged there, the dove I had nurtured when it was but an egg. Its mother gone, I had warmed its shell, rolling it over and over in my fingers until the bird had broken free.

  No longer free. For I had rewarded its birth by placing it in a cage for my own enjoyment. Its soft coo-coo was a lullaby that often accompanied my descent into sleep.

  I looked to the window, open as an invitation to the summer breezes. What I should have done was stride across the room, fling open the dove’s cage, and carry him to the windowsill where he could fly away, soaring into the freedom of the sky.

  I waited a moment. Then two. My body did not respond but lay fixed. Rebellious.

  Or was I giving it undue blame? For I was better—better than I had been in years. I could have gone for a walk in Regent’s Park with my sister and friends, or at least been taken for a walk in my wheelchair. That I had decided not to do so, when able . . .

  “Am I a recluse?” I asked the air.

  As if in answer to my question, I heard feet upon the stairs. Heavy feet. A man’s feet.

  Father’s feet.

  I sat upright, prepared to greet him. He knocked on the doorjamb.

  “Come in, Papa.”

  He stepped inside and greeted me with a smile I knew was mine alone. “Ba. How are you?” His smile left him and he came to my bedside. He put a hand upon my forehead. “You are flushed. Are you feeling unwell?”

  For once, I, who always enjoyed his kind attention, wanted none of it. I took his hand and removed it. “I am fine, Papa. Just fine.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed, his countenance heavy with concern. “You say the words, but I do not believe them.”

  I sighed. He could always read me too well. “It is not a physical ailment that plagues me, but one of the spirit.”

  When he looked even more worried, I hastened to explain. “Why do I not go out, Papa? The day is fine and Cousin John and Miss Mitford and Arabel asked me to go, and yet I chose to stay. Here. Alone in my room. Even Flush has gone.”

  “You do not need people as others do, dear Ba. You have your books and the companionship of your creativity. And we, your family, are here for you.”

  “But is that enough?”

  He looked away, his face pensive. Then he looked upon me once more. “I have been reading the Roman poets. One such man, Juvenal, said this: ‘One path alone leads to a life of peace: The path of virtue.’ There is no one more virtuous than you, daughter. You are pure of heart and noble of thought. Let those attributes calm your discontent.”

  I knew he needed a nod of acquiescence, and so I gave him one. He kissed my forehead and left me.

  Alone.

  Alone with my virtues and noble thoughts, neither of which—if they were in attendance at all—were good company.

  I heard a commotion in the foyer below. Crow came running up the stairs and burst into my room. “You have a delivery!”

  “What is it?”

  “From Mr. Kenyon,” she said. “It’s a . . . you’ll see.”

  I barely had time to get out of bed. Since a stranger was coming, I stood by the window and listened to heavy footsteps coming closer. . . .

  A few minutes later, a workman appeared at my door, carrying a small table. Upon seeing me, he blushed, set it down, removed his cap, and said, “Mornin’, miss.” He donned his cap again and dug a note from the pocket of his dirty jacket. “ ’Ere’s a note I’s supposed to give you.”

  Crow was the intermediary. On the outside of the envelope was simply Ba. Inside . . . Accept this addition to your sanctum. The rails along the top of the table should prevent canine paws from causing further damage.

  I laughed and looked at the table with new eyes. The oval top was ringed with two rows of metal barrier, spanning three inches in height. “Over here,” I said, wanting it next to the sofa.

  Crow quickly moved the current table out of the way, and the man placed its far-superior replacement in its stead. I gave the man a coin and he left us.

  “Well, well,” Crow said. “What a novel idea.”

  Flush sniffed the table suspiciously. He may not have approved, but I thought the piece delightful.

  “Did Mr. Kenyon have it specially made?” Crow asked.

  “I would not be surprised.”

  I was so lucky to have friends who looked after all my needs.

  FOUR

  Crow pressed towels along the edge of the window and sill, trying—with little success—to curtail the bitter draft that relentlessly strove to gain access. Outside, snowflakes danced in a celebratory tribute to their season.

  I huddled beneath covers while sitting on my sofa, my heaviest winter shawl insufficient against the cold. The fire in the fireplace roared, trying its best to soothe me.

  Flush suddenly rose from his place beside the sofa and barked.

  “Someone must be here,” Crow said. She went into the hall and looked down the stairs. “It sounds like Miss Mitford. Shall I fetch her up?”

  “Yes, yes, please,” I said.

  I heard Mary’s slow ascent and her puffing upon taking the three flights from the foyer to my chamber. She hated our stairs, being far more used to the wide, open expanse of her home in
Reading, where homes were not required to be built up.

  “Catch your breath, Mary, and get warm by the fire.”

  But upon seeing her face, I knew it was not the trek up the stairs nor the cold that was causing her discomfort. I rose from the sofa to go to her. “Mary . . .”

  She fell into my arms. “My father. He has died.”

  Beyond the initial shock, my first response was mentally expressed in two words: Finally died.

  I was ashamed at my reaction and with Crow’s help, removed Mary’s cloak and led her to the sofa, where we sat side by side. “Were you with him?” I asked.

  She nodded and retrieved a handkerchief to blow her nose. “He succumbed peacefully.”

  In spite of proper decorum for such situations, a small laugh escaped. “That is a change.”

  I was relieved when she returned my smile. “He was a difficult man.”

  “Demanding.”

  “Stubborn.”

  “Reckless.” I hastened to add, “With money.”

  She agreed with a nod. “My money.”

  I ran a hand across her back. “You supported him for so many years.”

  “Money ran through his fingers. He’d always been that way. When I was a child he spent Mother’s inheritance, and then even my lottery winnings.”

  I had forgotten about that. When Mary was ten she had won twenty thousand pounds, which her father had spent with great speed and abandon. His penchant for spending often ended him in debtors’ prison, where he was repeatedly rescued by his loyal, hardworking daughter.

  Mary gripped the handkerchief in her fist. “I wanted to be the greatest English poetess of all time, yet my poems have never sold. How ironic that my prose, The Village, which I was forced to write to pay the bills, found success. And now I am alone. So alone.” She fell into my arms once again.

  “You are not alone, Mary. You have many, many friends, most of all me. And this house. You must come and stay here.”

  She shook her head vigorously. “Your father would never allow it. When I visit he barely nods and always appears stern, as if I am an intruder.”

  I hurried to defend him, for she was not the first to misunderstand Papa’s reticence. “He is merely shy and feels intimidated by those he admires, those with high intellect and wit. He doubts his ability to host, not in your ability to be a suitable guest. He is really very kind and caring and . . .” I thought of a point that would be his best defence. “He has been praying for your father during his illness. I did not ask him to. He did so out of his own mind, and quite from the heart. He was the one who suggested we send your father gifts to cheer him.”

  “The chocolates from Jamaica. Father loved those.”

  I nodded earnestly. “That was Papa’s doing. And the oysters. And the grapes.”

  Suddenly she sat erect. “Why did I never marry?” She gave me a pointed look. “Why did you never marry?”

  Her question took me by surprise. “I . . .”

  “Why did love pass us by?”

  I had never thought of it in this manner. “Perhaps it was we who did the passing.”

  Her eyebrow rose. “You received offers?”

  Although the question was innocent, I felt myself blush. “No, there was never anyone—anyone that was . . .”

  I had piqued her interest. “Was . . . ?”

  I chose the first word that came to mind, even though it was insufficient. “Feasible.”

  “Love and feasibility do not belong in the same sentence.”

  “They do when they describe a young woman falling in love with an elderly man; a middle-aged blind man, four years older than Papa.”

  She scooted away from me, as if to study me better. “Who?”

  “You do not know him. Hugh Boyd.”

  “Hugh Stuart Boyd, the Greek scholar?”

  I was pleased she did know of him. “When I was but twenty-one and we still lived at Hope End, he was staying in nearby Malvern and sent me a letter, saying he admired my writing in An Essay on Mind. It was utterly unexpected; he was a complete stranger.”

  “How exciting.”

  I nodded. “Through extended correspondence I discovered we were of like mind. He was so learned, so well read, and was also a poet. I wanted him to teach me.” I hurried to clarify. “By letter. Although he wanted to meet me, I made excuses—feeble though they were—as to why I could not meet him.”

  “You prefer to test a friendship on paper first, do you not?”

  “I confess, that is the case.”

  “But you did meet him?”

  I gave her a chastising look. “You get ahead of the story.”

  She held up a hand, yielding.

  “Our correspondence eventually moved beyond a scholarly discussion to a more personal vein. He was fascinated with our family and life at Hope End, and . . . and he saw through the excuse of my bad health, the weather, my lack of transportation, and . . . such . . . as barriers to our meeting. I finally had to tell him that Papa would never approve. Papa had told me that, whatever gratification and improvement I might receive from a personal intercourse with Mr. Boyd, as a female—a young female—I could not visit him without overstepping the established observances of society.”

  “Oh posh,” Mary said.

  I allowed myself a moment to access the fuller truth. “Actually, although Papa did object, the main obstacle to our first meeting was my fear.”

  “Ah,” Mary said.

  Suddenly, I realized how many years had passed from then to now. I had started being reclusive fifteen years ago? Or even longer? Or had I always been this way? I let myself remember those last years of my youth, when my health had caused me to change so drastically. . . .

  Yet with those memories came a few that were unflattering. . . . “I remember feeling quite well more often than I let on. I would tell Papa otherwise to suit my whim. I knew he did not like society much, and so I played into that—at will—knowing that he would not force me to do what brought him discomfort.”

  Mary smiled and pretended to chastise, “Ba! I am shocked.”

  So was I, in retrospect. Yet at the time . . . “Mr. Boyd deemed my excuses ridiculous. And as far as propriety? He was blind, a married man, and had a daughter as old as I.”

  “At the risk of jumping ahead . . . you did meet him?”

  “Finally. I had been walking with my sisters on the street and—”

  “So you were well?”

  “Well enough. I did get out occasionally to visit an aunt and Grandmother Moulton, who rented a cottage close by. And on one of these occasions, I spotted Mr. and Mrs. Boyd, walking. Although I had never seen them, Henrietta knew who they were and suggested we go say hello, but I could not, just could not, and slipped into a shop without greeting them.”

  “Ba, that was rude. That was your chance.”

  “I know that now. I knew it then, but I have always been low on courage.” And yet . . . I remembered otherwise. “Actually, soon after that incident I showed great courage, perhaps one of the few times I have ever done so.”

  “What happened?”

  “On that day, Mrs. Boyd had recognized my sisters, realized I was their companion, and told her husband of my slight. He wrote me a scathing letter pointing out that if I were well enough to visit others, I should have been well enough to visit him, a respectable, married man. But no matter, they were leaving the area soon, and so that, quite simply, was that.”

  “He had a point.”

  “He did. But his letter wounded me so, I went to Papa and showed it to him, and asked him to give me good reason why I could not call on the Boyds.”

  “And he . . . ?”

  “He had no good excuse since I was well enough, and the situation was respectable enough, so—”

  “He admitted he was wrong?”

  A laugh escaped. “No, no. That would never happen. Has never happened. Ever. But he did say, ‘Do as you like,’ which I considered a victory. And so I did. As I liked.”
<
br />   “Bravo!” Mary offered soft applause.

  The full memory spurred me to urge her to stop. “I was too nervous to go alone, so I asked Bro to accompany me, and Henrietta and Arabel agreed to go in the little carriage as far as a friend’s home. But on the way down the Wyche—a very steep hill—the pony’s trot turned into a panicked gallop, and though Bro warned everyone, ‘Don’t touch the reins!’, I instinctively did just that, and the carriage overturned.”

  “Were you hurt?”

  “Henrietta hurt her ankle and my hat was torn, and we were all dirty from the road, but no serious injuries. And luckily another carriage came along and took Henrietta off to our friend’s home. Bro ran after the pony, but I was so scared, I would not let him connect the animal back to the carriage, so Bro took the shaft and pulled Arabel and me as if he were the pony.”

  “What a sight that must have been!”

  I held up a finger, for the story was not finished. “In such a state we came upon Mr. and Mrs. Boyd, and I was so rattled because I was dirty and torn and—”

  “Did you not say he was blind?”

  I remembered others in my family presenting that same point, yet at the time, his blindness didn’t matter. “This was the first time I had ever been in such close proximity, and . . . I made a fool of myself and rambled on about how our visit would obviously have to be cancelled.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Not a word. His wife was very gracious, but he, he said nothing.” I could still see him, his face paler and more amiable than I had imagined. “This man who instructed me, argued with me, critiqued my work with such power and compassion, had a gentle countenance, but had eyes quenched and deadened.”

  “As you said, he was blind.”

  I shook my head. “I knew that, but during our correspondence, I had forgotten or set it aside, for his words and thoughts were full of sight and insight.”