by Nancy Moser
He nodded, and his face softened with sympathy. “I understand completely, my dear. In this household any act of disobedience might be cast as a crime.”
I was shocked. I had never told him details of Papa’s demand for obedience, and he was not close to Henrietta. How had he known such a thing?
He must have seen my confusion, for he gave me a knowing nod and placed his forefinger to his temple. “I see things, Ba. I know what’s going on.”
He knows?
I couldn’t talk to him anymore. I had to be alone. I needed to see Robert. I needed . . .
To be gone from this place and free from this intrigue.
Henrietta burst into my room with a face that interrupted my heartbeat.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She closed the door behind her and came close. “Our brothers, they have been talking about you.”
“Me?”
She nodded. “In the middle of simple conversation, Stormie touched me and said, ‘Is it true there is an engagement between Mr. Browning and Ba?’ ”
I pressed a hand to my chest. “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘You had better ask them if you want to know. What nonsense, Storm.’ ”
I breathed again, for the extent of our plans was still a secret—even to my sisters. “Thank you, Hen—”
“That is not all. He said, ‘I’ll ask Ba when I go upstairs.’ ”
“Ask—?”
“And George was there too, hearing and looking as grave as a judge.”
My head shook no, no, no against them all. “So they are coming up?”
“As they do every Sunday.”
“But this will not be like every Sunday. Not if they bring up Mr. Browning and—”
We both turned towards the sound of men’s shoes upon the stairs. “Do you wish me to stay?” she asked.
I nodded and tried to collect my thoughts. If asked directly, what would I say? I did not lie to my brothers but through omission. If asked . . .
Occy knocked once, then swept the door wide. “The door closed against us, Ba? Never!”
Occy, Sette, George, Stormie, Alfred, and Henry entered, a mass of oscillating manliness. Arabel brought up the rear, looking as nervous as I felt. The men took their usual places, filling every empty corner of my abode, chatting among themselves.
Before they settled and quieted—and asked the first question—I started my own dialogue. About them. “So, Occy and Sette, tell me about your new jobs. . . .”
And men, being men, were all too eager to speak about themselves. And when it was the normal time for them to leave, they did so, leaving me exhausted from the effort.
Apparently, my “engagement” was a passing fancy, not a valid and pressing thought within their minds. The cloud had passed for the present, and hopefully nothing more would be said of it.
My sisters stayed behind. “That was too close,” Henrietta said.
“My heart was in my throat,” Arabel added. “One question and all would have been lost, no?”
“No.”
Both of them looked at me askance. “No? You would still meet with Mr. Browning?”
More than meet . . . I found strength in my own determination. “No, I do not fear offending our brothers. There is no room for fear.”
“Then why not tell them that you care for each—”
“No!” I said for the third time. “Their approval or disapproval is equally undesirable, for if they knew of our affection, they would certainly press for me to ask Papa for permission. And in such a storm of opinions and feelings I might actually do such a thing and fail Robert and myself, through weakness of the body, though never of the will. Never that.”
Arabel set some chairs straight. “You are braver than I could ever be.”
“Braver than I,” Henrietta said.
It was odd for me to hear them call me brave. Me, the invalid, the weakest link of our family. And yet, they were right. Robert’s love had made me strong. My body, my will, my affections, and my conscience untremblingly turned to him.
In so many ways our two had already become one.
Robert and I agreed to meet with less frequency. By insisting on our usual schedule we risked everything. And what would we gain, in the face of that? Robert assured me that he could learn no more about me, be taught no new belief in my absolute peerlessness . . . he had taken a place at my feet forever, so to hazard an entire life of such delight for the want of self-denial during a short time would be horrible.
And so we wrote even more often, allowing the pen and page to do our mingling for us until October, when we would be free. For that was the month of our full bliss.
I dipped my pen in the inkwell and wrote my thoughts on our escape and our income afterwards:
By living quietly and simply, we shall surely have enough and more than enough. I calculated once that without unpleasant labour, with scarcely an effort, I could make a hundred a year by magazine contributions, and this, withoutdishonour either. Then you will send the sweepings of your desk to alternate with my sendings. I afraid? No indeed. I think I should never be afraid if you were near enough. Only that you never must go away in boats. . . .
If I am to think and decide . . . I have decided to let us go through France. And let us go quick, quick, and not stop anywhere within hearing of England, not stop at Havre, nor at Rouen, nor at Paris—that is how I decide. May God help us and smooth the way before and behind. May your father indeed be able to love me a little, for my father will never love me again.
I blew gently upon the words, allowing them to dry into an indelible representation of this moment in time, this slice of my thoughts given as an offering to my love.
I had decided.
It was a heady accomplishment.
Our plans progressed. Although both my aunt and uncle Hedley had offered to let me go back to Paris with them this autumn to flee the harsh winter, which would certainly follow last year’s mild offering, and though Mrs. Jameson had offered to let me travel to the Continent with her and her niece, I nodded politely but declined. And though they fussed over my health and their fears for me in the upcoming bitter wind of London, I let them do so knowing that our plans were evolving day by day.
Soon. Before the autumn was out, we would be married and gone to Italy. Weather was a constant worry. To cross the Channel . . . I shivered at the thought of being aboard a boat in good weather, much less bad. Robert had said he would wait a year rather than risk my safety.
I could not wait a year. Never. Lately, to hear the voice of my father and meet his eye made me shrink back. To talk to my brothers left my nerves trembling, and even to receive the sympathy of my sisters turned into sorrow and fear, lest they should suffer through their affection for me. How I could look and sleep as well as I did was a miracle—or would have been if the love I felt and received from Robert were not the deepest and strongest thing of all and did not hold and possess me completely.
It was excruciating to have nothing set solidly in place, and yet I suspected it would be just as trying to know exactly when and where and how—
Aunt Jane poured tea for the three of us. She and Uncle had come to visit to bring me up to date with Constance’s wedding plans. I listened with a half heart and full nerves. For though I was interested, I was consumed with my own secret plans. My aunt and uncle’s presence had made my Friday with Robert perish, and even Saturday, unless there would be a change in their plans. I strove for patience and tried to feel Robert’s love through the distance. Yet the truth remained: I could not kiss mind.
Aunt Jane sipped her tea, set the cup upon its saucer, and said, “So. Ba. You have arranged your plans more than you would have us believe.”
I bobbled my own cup, nearly sending it to the floor. “I—”
She stopped my words with a hand. “But you are right not to tell us—indeed I would rather not hear. Only don’t be rash. That is my only advice to you.”
I had no idea what
to say. Luckily, Uncle intervened.
“Ba is not a rash person, Jane. She can be trusted with discretion.” He leaned towards the two of us in confidence. “We have sensed the difficulties of dealing with love in the midst of your father.”
He knew!
My body reacted before my mind had time for restraint. It stood. Tea sloshed over the edge of the cup. “I . . . I can’t . . .”
Aunt Jane set her cup down and came to my side, taking my arm. “Now, now, Ba. We didn’t mean to upset you. When you go to Italy, we—”
I fell back to the sofa in a near faint, my cup and saucer flying.
“Water, husband,” Aunt said.
All is lost, all is lost, all is lost . . .
I felt a damp cloth upon my forehead and allowed my aunt’s soft murmurings to soothe me. “There, there. We will not tell your father about your plans to go with Henrietta and Mr. Cook. We would never—”
I opened my eyes. “Henrietta?”
“And Mr. Cook,” Aunt said. “When they run off to be married and you travel with them to Italy, we—”
A laugh escaped as I sat erect. “They . . . ?”
Uncle put the basin of water back in its stand. “We won’t speak of it any more if it makes you uneasy.”
I thought about disclaiming their notion but decided against it. If thinking they held a secret would keep them discreet regarding the relationship my sister and Mr. Cook did share, then . . .
“I would rather you didn’t speak of it,” I said. “Not when Papa—”
Suddenly, Papa came into the room. “Not when Papa what?” he asked.
I resisted the desire to close my eyes and leave this moment. In contrast, I sat upright.
He opened his mouth—most likely to ask the question again—when Aunt Jane intervened. “Ba is looking so well, Edward.”
Papa looked confused a moment, then peered at me as if I were a specimen in a cage. “Do you think so?”
“Why, don’t you think so?” She moved away from me, and I noticed she slid the damp cloth beneath the folds of her skirt. “Do you pretend to say that you see no surprising difference in her of late?”
His assessment continued and I relished the flush I felt upon my cheeks, for surely the heat would make them appear in rosy health.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “She is mumpish, I think.”
Mumpish? Whatever did that mean?
He continued. “She doesn’t talk for herself?”
“Perhaps she is nervous,” Uncle offered.
“Humph.”
Papa took a seat near Uncle, and they began a private discourse on the politics of the day. Snippets of “Disraeli” and “Corn Law” and “Lord Stanley,” which may have caused me interest on another day, did nothing this day but offer relief that Papa was occupied somewhere beyond attention to me.
I made not a sound until they all left me.
Mumpish? The word proved a displeasure. Yet I was sure that I had shown as little sullenness as was possible. But to be very talkative and vivacious under such circumstances . . . I would have surely argued insensibly and caused more harm to our cause than good.
As the air filled in the vacancies of their absence, I pondered mumpish. Poor Papa. Presently I shall be worse to him than that. But then, I hope, he will try to forgive me, as I forgave him, long ago.
I hope. I pray.
“Ba!”
As she had done two weeks previous, Henrietta burst into my room, her face flushed with panic.
She did not even wait for a question, nor wait to fully catch her breath from her run up the stairs. “We are moving! Papa says we are moving!”
The words found no meaning to me.
She came closer and said them again. “Papa says we are moving to the country for a month—if not longer—in order that the house may be cleaned and repaired.”
Leave? We could not leave—I could not leave! I managed a question. “When?”
“George goes tomorrow to take a house either at Dover, Reigate, or Tunbridge.”
I knew Dover—on the coast—to be nearly eighty miles distant, and believed the others to be less, but still at least thirty miles.
Too far for Robert and I to see each other, too distant for me to slip away to be married, and too far for Papa and my brothers to go off to work every day. Whatever house we let would be full of family, all the time, surrounding me, penning me in, keeping me from my love. After the month’s absence—which surely could be extended—the weather would be too fierce for Robert and me to leave for Italy.
“I cannot move away,” I said.
“I know. That’s why I came.”
“I must contact Robert immediately.”
She gathered my stationery and pen. There was no more time for fear, only time to act.
This is my wedding day.
Although I knew I had not slept fully the entire night, upon seeing it was morning, I opened my eyes fully and let the words linger and take root. Me. Married.
Me. Married. Today. September 12, 1846.
I rang the bell on my bedside table and Wilson rushed in. She had probably been up for hours. When I’d told her our plans, she had been very kind and very affectionate, and never shrank for a moment. I was exceedingly glad that Robert had agreed she could accompany us to Italy. I began to think that none were so bold as the timid when they were fairly roused.
She helped me with the covers. “We must go soon, miss. If you wish to stop at the chemist’s for your smelling salts before we go to the church.”
Yes, yes, I knew I could not proceed through such a day without them.
For the first time, I wished I had a pretty dress and not my usual black silks and velvets. To be pretty for Robert, to mark the occasion with something special . . .
There had been no time for choosings and fittings, nor could I have risked it. If one brother or Papa had found out their Ba was ordering a new dress in ivory or green . . . As for the expense? Although I could have afforded the dress, it would have been a frivolity. I was far more keen on saving my money to become our money. We had no clue as to how much we would need to live in Italy, nor the expense of our travel to get there. So much was unknown.
What was known was that my dream was coming true upon this day. My love would be fulfilled—or partly so. For we would not be leaving England today. Nor would we be together this night. Neither were possible. Today we would be married and return to our respective homes to pretend otherwise. I tried not to linger on the pain of it. The joy, and then the bittersweet parting.
But I could not dwell on the imperfections. Today we would be joined, under the blessing of God, who procured it for us, and who would preserve it for us, forever.
To stand next to Robert in public for the first time, in St. Marylebone Church for our day, our moment . . . to hold his hand, to feel the brush of his sleeve against mine . . .
The physical aspect of the event faded compared to the bevy of emotions that swirled around and through me.
I listened to the reverend as he spoke of marriage, yet my mind wandered. There was room in me for one thought which was not a feeling: of the many, many women who had stood where I now stood, and to the same end, not one of them, not one since the building was a church, had reasons as strong as mine for an absolute trust and devotion towards the man she married. Not one.
I looked past the reverend to a painting of the holy family behind the altar. A family. Mother, father, son. Would I ever have a son?
My eyes strayed upwards to the half dome that crowned the apse. Jesus sat upon His throne, surrounded by figures in white. I smiled at Him, finding comfort that He—and the Father—were looking down upon our union, blessing it and rejoicing in it. For we were only here now because of that blessing.
I sensed Robert’s eyes upon me. I looked at him, smiled, and knew a difference between myself and the women who had married here before. They may have been less happy during their marriages here, yet they had the affectio
nate sympathy, support, and presence of their nearest relations, parent or sibling. I had no one but Wilson to rejoice with me. And Robert only had his cousin, James Silverthorne. Though the absence of my family and his was a disappointment, it did not—could not—quench the swell of happiness that encompassed me.
The words “Robert, will you take Elizabeth to be your wife . . . ?” and “Elizabeth, will you take Robert to be your husband . . . ?” drew my focus back to the moment, to the response that must be made to solidify the vows we had already shared in so many ways, in so many other words exchanged on paper and in person. I was quite willing to repeat them again, in this place, before God and good company.
I will, I will, oh yes, dear Lord, I will.
The room spun with a thousand threads of words and thoughts and senses invisibly interweaving a cloak around us, embracing us with a warmth that surpassed all previous comfort. This was right. It was good. And it was ordained and consecrated by our God.
The reverend raised a hand above our heads. “In the presence of God, and before those gathered here, Elizabeth and Robert have given their consent and made their marriage vows to each other. I therefore proclaim that they are husband and wife.” He took our hands and placed them one upon the other. “Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder.”
“Amen,” said Robert and I, together, binding the moment in all eternity and with all blessings bestowed.
The moment hung in the air like a breath until Robert said, “May I kiss her now?”
The reverend laughed. “Yes, you may kiss her.”
As I turned to my husband and looked up at him, I began to cry. For though we had kissed before, no kiss had been so sweet as this, the delightful first contact of one man and his wife.
We stood in the back of the church, alone but for the moment when we would exit into the world who might know us, recognize us, and not understand.
“But I don’t want to leave you.” I drew Robert’s hands to my lips. “To go home, to pretend that nothing is different when everything is different . . .”
