by Nancy Moser
And yet . . .
When Wilson excused herself to do the task which I had requested, I did not call her back.
Indeed, a small hidden part of me beckoned her to go faster.
I clutched Robert’s letter in a hand, stretched my arms above my head, and opened them to the heavens and the dear God who had listened to my prayers. Thank you, Father. Thank you.
I had been a fool. Robert had received my letter of admonishment and had replied immediately. There had been a misunderstanding, his dramatic nature taking hold when it should have been held silent.
I lowered the letter to read a portion again:
I wrote to you in an unwise moment, on the spur of being again “thanked,” and, unwisely writing as if thinking to myself, said what must have looked absurd enough as seen apart from the horrible counterbalancing never-to-be-written rest of me. If I could rewrite it, if it could be rewritten and put before you, my note would sink to its proper and relative place, and become a mere “thank you” for your good opinion, which I assure you is far too generous.
Will you forgive me on my promise to remember for the future, and be more considerate? I am glad that, since you did misunderstand me, you said so. All I meant to say from the first of the first—I shall be too much punished if, for this piece of mere inconsideration, you deprive me, more or less, or sooner or later, of the pleasure of seeing you—a little over boisterous gratitude which caused all the mischief, pray write me a line to say, “Oh . . . if that’s all!” and remember me for what good I have in me (which is very compatible with a moment of stupidity). Let me not for one fault (and that the only one there shall be) lose any pleasure for your friendship. I am sure I have not lost it. . . .
God bless you, my dear friend!
R. Browning
And by the way, will it not be better, and more cooperating in your kind promise to forget the “printer’s error” in my blotted proof, to send me back that same “proof,” if you have not inflicted proper and summary justice on it? Seriously, I am ashamed.
As was I. And relieved. For in the interim between receiving the letter in question, until the moment when I received his apologetic answer, I had found myself grieving a friendship that was very dear to me.
But now, that friendship could continue.
To put a final period to the exchange, I wrote a response and made all things right. And then, in what perhaps would be considered a fit of enthusiasm, I called Wilson to me and said, “Come, Wilson. Get me ready to go out. For I have a letter to post.”
“Out?”
I laughed at her reaction, and the laughter gave me the additional strength I needed. I would most likely pay for the excursion physically, but the emotional release would be worth the price.
My friendship with Robert was worth the price.
Any price.
ELEVEN
I laughed.
I know that is not an accomplishment for most people, but to me, the sound was nearly foreign—or at the very least, only newly reborn.
My pleasure put the burden upon Arabel to bang a hand upon the wall of the brougham in which we were riding, chastising Stormie and the driver for taking the carriage too fast. “Slow, brother! You are going to topple us!” she shouted.
“Whoa there, slow down” came the driver’s voice.
I felt our speed decrease and heard Arabel take a breath of relief. “That brother of ours is positively reckless.”
“I don’t mind,” I said.
I felt Arabel’s eyes upon me but did not return their gaze. I was too busy watching the swell of London pass by, seeing the myriad of people going about their lives, hearing the clomping of the hooves upon the cobblestone, and feeling the summer breeze upon my face.
Holding on for support against the jostling, I leaned farther towards the open window. The buildings were too high and the streets too narrow for the sun to kiss my cheek, but I knew it wanted to—and that brought me joy. How I wished we were traveling in an open barouche where the sun could reach me. Yet even though I was still inside, my soul soared and lifted itself to all that was outside.
I felt my sister’s hand upon me. “Ba, you really should sit back. We don’t want you taxing yourself and—”
I remained where I was, although I did turn to her. Yet as I did, she peered out her own window with fresh interest. “What is he doing?” she said. “I told Stormie to turn round at the gates of Regent’s Park, not enter it.”
I sat back enough to explain. “And I told him to go further this time. I have seen the extent of Wimpole Street; it is time to ride around the park.”
She stared at me, incredulous. “What has gotten into you, Ba? You are different. Cook said you are requesting copious amounts of milk, and Henrietta found you sitting in the sun—on more than one occasion.”
“Milk makes me strong,” I said—or so Robert had said to me. “And I have received many compliments regarding my healthier countenance and the fact I have been walking.” I sat up straighter, feeling my pride. “It is well that I no longer wobble like a two-year-old child.”
“But we have been giving you such advice for years and you have never once followed it. Why now?”
Although my sisters were well aware of Robert’s weekly visits, and had been present when I’d been so upset by his too-forward letter, they took me at my word that I had set proper boundaries between us. They considered him but an acquaintance.
“Why now?” I repeated. I sighed with great extravagance. “Because it is time.”
“I am so proud of you.”
Robert’s compliment was a balm to my ears, a bouquet to my soul. “The outing through the park was quite wonderful,” I said.
“Just as I said it would be.”
I nodded once. “Just as you said it would be.”
He sat back in the chair nearest the fireplace—the barren fireplace, for it was a hot summer. “Which means I am wise,” he said. “A wise man. An incomparable man. A man beyond my peers.”
“It was just a ride in a carriage, Robert.”
He rose to his feet. “No, Miss Barrett, it was far more than that! It was an excursion from one world to another, a rite of passage, a quest towards your . . . your . . . raison d’être.”
I easily translated his French. “My reason for being?”
He gave me a gallant bow with arm outstretched. “Oui, mademoiselle. Absolument.”
I relished his enthusiasm but also the chance to argue. “So riding in a carriage is my reason for living?”
“You mock me.”
“Absolument.”
His smile was one of purest pleasure. “Towards the furtherance of your quest . . . have you decided how you are going to respond to Mr. Kenyon’s invitation?”
Upon hearing that I was getting out of the house, Cousin John had offered me the use of his home as an alternative destination to Regent’s Park. “I am considering it,” I said. “Strongly.”
“Bravo, again, Miss Barrett!”
It was disconcerting to realize how much his praise resounded over the praise of anyone else—not that I could remember any recent familial praise. I had never deserved any. I was a reclusive nonentity with no hope for a future apart from one dark day flowing into the next.
That was then. This was now.
But Robert . . . repeatedly he declared me his superior and lifted me up with zealous commendation. His compliments were hard to embrace. I was superior to nothing, to no one. I was not life and light to another. I was a burden to all.
Yet as Robert doggedly gave evidence of his affection and esteem, I felt the scales of my inbred pessimism begin to fall away. Bit by bit I shook myself free of their shackles. Although I was not ready to invite optimism as my companion, with each of Robert’s visits, with each sentence spoken in person or on paper, I found myself closer to dispelling pessimism altogether.
He returned to his chair. “Now that we’ve taken in fresh air and sunshine, and made you consider society . . . if only the incompar
able Dr. Browning could get you to cease your association with Madame Opium.”
This was not the first time he had brought it up. “It helps me sleep,” I said.
“But have you not admitted you use it otherwise?”
I smoothed my skirt—anything to avoid his discerning eyes. “On occasion I use it when I feel irritable, to steady the action of my heart.”
“Mmm.”
I continued my defence. “It helps my lungs, eases my cough. I see nothing wrong with such positive usage—nor do my doctors.”
“Using anything for year upon year is . . . is not right. How many years now?”
“A decade, I suppose.”
His eyebrow rose, signaling that he knew I was stretching the truth. I did the math in my head. “Fine. Two decades, then.”
“And . . . ?”
“Two decades and four, to be exact.”
“Twenty-four years.” He rose to pace in front of me, hands clasped behind his back like a confident barrister presenting a case. “Far too long for any medicinal to be a part of one’s life.”
“But it has helped—”
He turned towards me and stopped. “Has it?”
I felt my anger rise, yet I had no argument for him—no good argument. “Do you think I have wanted to be confined to this room, that my ailments are of my own creation?”
He rushed to my side, knelt, and took my hand in his. “I did not mean to upset you—I would never wish to do that. And I don’t mean to put blame or make accusations regarding your condition. I know you are a delicate flower, and yet I have also witnessed a change. I have seen you bloom and grow.”
I looked at his eyes, so full of sincere caring for me, and I longed to reach out and touch his hair or cup his face in my hand. But to do so would be the essence of impropriety and would encourage his feelings beyond what I could allow. But I could acquiesce to his assessment. “I do feel myself growing. It’s miraculous, this feeling of sprouting life in me and out of me. And recently, I have even begun to sleep better, and—as you yourself have said—I look altogether another person.”
“I admire you and care for you, in sickness or health.”
His words made me think of marriage vows. . . .
He may have realized the train of my thoughts, for he smiled and added, “Though I will say I do enjoy the benefits of the latter—for both of us. Lately, you have had much more energy.”
“I have. And I am determined to get on, and hold on, as the summer progresses.” But after summer came the autumn, and the winter. . . . I was reminded of a new twist in my future, one I had been eager to share with Robert. “I may be taking a trip—much further than my cousin’s house or Regent’s Park.”
He pulled the chair close. “Do tell.”
“Dr. Chambers has told me—and Papa—that he does not wish for me to spend the winter here in London. With all the strides that have been made towards better health, he fears they will be for naught if I remain here.”
“Well, well,” Robert said. “I think I like this doctor of yours. Where does he wish you to go?”
I tried to hold back a smile but could not. “Pisa.”
Robert’s mouth gagged open. “Pisa is magic. It’s the blush of a bride, the smile of a child, the song of the wind. I just returned from there the weeks before I first wrote to you.”
“I know,” I said. “It is a city that has always intrigued me.” And had so even more since I’d heard of his love for it.
“What does your father say?”
Ah. There was the rub. “He is against it.”
“Then you must convince him!”
The exuberance I had experienced in telling him slipped away. “Dr. Chambers has been trying to get me to go away for years.”
“Then why have you not gone?”
I wished I could blame it all upon Papa, but I could not. “When I was much younger, Papa sent me to Torquay for my health. For three years I—” Suddenly, as it often did without warning, the grief of Torquay sprang upon me, and tears were released from their tenuous bondage.
Once again, Robert rushed to my side. “Oh my, oh dearest. What’s wrong?”
Even amid my angst, I gloried in the term of endearment that had recently been exchanged: Dearest. He to me, and I to him . . .
Robert handed me his handkerchief, and even as I dabbed my eyes, I wondered how could I ever . . . should I ever speak of this wound within me?
He took my hand and whispered, “Please, dearest. I wish to help.”
With his words and with the strength and compassion in his countenance, I believed him completely and utterly. And so . . . I began.
“I have never said any of this—I never could talk or even write of it. I have asked no question from the moment when my last hope went, and since then . . . it has been impossible for me to speak about what was in me. What remains in me.”
“You are obviously wounded.”
“Deeply. Irrevocably.” I realized if I were to do this, I could not ask him to remain as he was, kneeling in so uncomfortable a position. “Please be seated, Robert. If I am to continue—and I am fairly stunned to think that I am—I must know you to be comfortable.”
He sat in the chair but added, “I imagine I will find little comfort in anything that upsets you so keenly.”
“Thank you.” I looked away from him, towards the window, letting my memories rush southward, to that place, that bay, that city by the sea, that unforgiving and unforgiven sea. . . .
“Due to my illness, and from doctor’s orders, I was sent to Torquay with my sister, and he, my brother whom I loved so, was sent also, to take us there and return. Bro—for we always called him so—was the dearest of friends and brothers in one . . . the only one of my family who—” I grasped another breath in order to continue. “Let it be enough to tell you that he was above us all, better than us all, and kindest and noblest and dearest to me, beyond comparison, any comparison.” I paused, hoping Robert would understand that I had held Bro even above my father. I did not want to state it so plainly—I could never voice it so—but I wished for him to understand.
I continued. “When the time came for him to go back to London, I, weakened by illness, could not master my spirits or drive back my tears. I assured Papa that he would break my heart if he persisted in calling my brother away—as if hearts were broken so.”
“I too am close to my sister,” Robert said. “I understand the bond between siblings. You wanted him to stay. That is not a bad thing to desire.”
A harsh laugh escaped. “Papa’s answer was burnt into me, as with fire, that he considered it very wrong for me to exact such a thing. So there was no separation then, and month after month passed—and sometimes I was better and sometimes worse, and the medical men continued to say that they would not answer for my life if I were agitated, and so there was no more talk of a separation.”
Robert smiled tentatively. “And so, Bro was with you—with your father’s permission.”
I raised a hand to stop his encouragement, for what would come next would dispel all happiness and harmony from his opinion. “Once, Bro held my hand—how I remember!—and said that he loved me better than them all and that he would not leave me till I was well.”
Robert made effort to speak, but wisely thought better of it, for by the tone of my telling, he could surely sense a but suspended in the air between us that would lead from the good thing to something very bad. And so . . . to move along . . .
“But ten days from that day a boat left the shore which never returned, never. And he had . . . left me. Gone. For three days we waited—and I hoped while I could, oh, that awful agony of three days!”
“He was not gone as in a trip away, but . . . he was capsized?”
I looked again to the window, to the sun, the same sun . . . “And the sun shone as it shines today, and there was no more wind than now.” I set my hand upon the table nearby. “And the sea under my windows was like this paper for smoothness—and m
y sisters drew the curtains back that I might see for myself how smooth the sea was, and how it could hurt nobody. And other boats came back one by one.”
“Oh dear . . .”
I thought of something else, some bond that could help explain. . . . “Remember how you wrote in your ‘Gismond’ . . .” I closed my eyes and recited the poem. “ ‘What says the body when they spring, some monstrous torture-engine’s whole strength on it? No more says the soul.’ ” I opened my eyes to gaze on him. “You never wrote anything which lived with me more than that. It is such a dreadful truth. But you knew it for truth, I hope, by your genius, and not by such proof as mine. I, who could not speak or shed a tear, but lay for weeks and months half conscious, half unconscious, with a wandering mind, and too near to God, under the crushing of His hand, to pray at all. I expiated all my weak tears before, by not being able to shed one tear—and yet my family was forbearing, and no voice declared, ‘You have done this.’ ”
“They would not dare!” he said. “You did not sail the ship, you did not force your brother to go upon it, you did not control the weather or the tide or the captain or whatever caused the tragedy.”
But I forced the issue, making him stay. . . .
I could not heap such guilt upon poor Robert. He, who had suffered so little, did not need to descend to the depths of my despair. I offered him a reassuring smile. “I do not now reproach myself with such acrid thoughts as before—I know that I would have died ten times over for him, and that, though it was wrong of me to be weak, I have suffered for it and shall learn by it. Remorse is not precisely the word for me—not in its full sense. Still I hope you will comprehend from what I have told you, how the spring of life seemed to break within me then; and how natural it has been for me to loath the living on—and even without the loathing, to lose faith in myself. This, I have done on some points utterly.”
Robert sat close by, his head shaking no, no, and another time no. He had no words for me, and so I offered a few more of my own. “You will comprehend too that I have strong reasons for being grateful for the forbearance of my family. It would have been cruel, you think, to reproach me. Perhaps so. Yet the kindness and patience of the desisting from reproach are positive things.”
