by Nancy Moser
I hated to admit feeling more than a little relief, for I was not certain how I would have procured the funds without Papa finding out. “When you know,” I said, “remember I am here to help you. I will admit that the benefit of income is the freedom it bestows of not having to think about it.”
Bro reached across the bed and squeezed my foot. “Thank you, Ba. For offering.”
“You are quite welcome.” With a sigh I realized I was weary of such heavy subjects. “Now,” I said, “to lighten the day, tell me the gossip about Queen Victoria’s wedding. I so missed being in London to see the celebration.”
Bro gave me a chastening look. “You? Go to the celebration? Any event where crowds are present?”
I conceded. “I do not dislike crowds per se, but have no use for any individual contact with strangers. I am not comfortable with chitchat. Stormie and Papa feel the same way.”
“Stormie does not feel comfortable because of his stutter.”
And my reason? I did not take time to analyze my foibles. “My dis-ease with society and strangers does nothing to abate my desire for news of them. Come. Do tell.”
Bro did not disappoint, and our afternoon was relegated to frivolous chatter, a fitting antidote for our more serious discussions, which had offered no resolution or satisfaction.
I was in a foul mood.
Although Bro’s visits usually brought me joy or diversion, his visit on this day proved to be less than amiable. It was as though we were not on the same page, nor even living within the same book—a certain fallacy, since his life and mine had always been intertwined, two beings separated by a few scant months and destined to be soul mates forever.
And perhaps it was the weather. July was unbearable, still and hot, and even though it was but morning, the sea breeze was not strong enough to reach me with any degree of relief on Beacon Terrace. And yet from my sofa I felt in the sea. I could not see a yard of vulgar earth except where the undulating hills on the opposite side of the lovely bay bound the clearness of its waters. Whenever the steam packet left it or entered, my bed was shaken with the vibrations. An amiable setting, and yet . . . the stifling heat.
Or perhaps it was the story in a London newspaper that added to my mood. I admitted to the sin of gossip and often asked God to forgive me for it. But since I was so secluded, and since news and conversation in Torquay were incredibly mundane, I prayed the Almighty would allow me this one diversion.
Lately, however, the diversion had angered me. The newspapers were full of scandal. Lady Flora Hastings was a lady-in-waiting to the queen, and apparently, this particular unmarried lady was accused of being with child by Sir John Conroy, a man the queen detested because—it was intimated—he was the lover of the queen’s mother. Apparently, the rumours commenced when Lady Flora began to grow larger. The papers were full of the continuing scandal, and the news that she had been forced to submit to a medical examination to prove her innocence. . . . If such limited measures as her self-declared blamelessness did not suffice to save her reputation . . . If I had been she, I would have shown the full boil of my temper. For the queen to ostracize her in spite of the proof that she was a virgin was untenable.
The newest paper in my possession reported that she had recently died of a liver tumor, which had caused her symptoms. She, only thirty-three and innocent, yet forever scorned without cause. How could people be so cruel?
It was into this mood of heat, anger, and disgust that Bro had come. He sprawled upon a chair, linking a leg over its arm. “I am bored.”
“If you wish to be stimulated, read this.” I extended the newspaper to him.
He refused it with a flip of his hand. “I have no wish to know what other people are doing, what merriment they are having in my absence.”
“It is not merriment,” I said, pointing to the article. “Lady Flora has died.”
My declaration received a mere raising of his eyebrow. “That is one way to escape a scandal.”
“But she was innocent and the queen never acknowledged—”
“At least she had a chance to experience some excitement.”
That he could relegate Lady Flora’s tragedy to a pleasurable stimulation . . . “You are shallow, brother.”
“Of course I am. How can I be otherwise, embedded here in this tedious place?”
Embedded. With me confined to my bed. Did his use of this specific word indicate the degree of his enmity for the situation I had caused by being ill?
“You may leave if you wish,” I said, flipping a hand at him, as he had flipped his at me. “Go back to London! I will be fine without—”
His feet found the floor and his voice adopted a patronizing tone. “But I cannot leave, my dear sister. For you are in need of a chaperon, and I am the designated lackey.” He rose and bowed low with great exaggeration. “Your wish, and Papa’s command.”
My guilt increased, as did my anger. “You may leave,” I said. “For as you know, I have no real use for you here. Since I do not leave my room, what need have I of your services? And as for lackeys, I find they annoy more than amuse.”
He froze, and though his face did not reveal a change in emotion, I could see an alteration in his eyes. I had hurt him.
Suddenly, he was all movement, taking his hat, striding to the door. “Since my presence offends, I will be off.”
“No! Bro!” I tossed the throw aside to stand, but it wound about my feet and I could not be free of it. “Don’t go!” I called after him.
I heard his feet upon the stairs and the slam of the door.
Crow appeared in the doorway. “Miss Elizabeth?”
I rushed to the window and watched him bolt down the street, causing many a person on holiday to move out of his path. Never had I felt so helpless, never had I detested the lack of health that held my body hostage. A fleeting image appeared of the child Elizabeth, running through the fields of the family estate at Hope End, with Bro running beside me. Carefree. Laughing. Inseparable. Well.
I felt Crow’s hand upon my arm. “You must get back in bed. You know upsets of emotions do your health no good.”
Nothing did my health good.
Suddenly, the truth of that statement took me by the shoulders and gave me a shake. If nothing did my health good—in this place so far from home, which was causing Bro and Henrietta absence from their home— then I need not stay a moment longer. I could not stay.
I allowed Crow to help me back to bed, but when she began fussing with the covers, I said, “Please get me my writing desk. I have a letter to write.”
In spite of the heat, she tucked the throw around my feet. “There will be no letters, miss. You must rest.”
Although I rarely went against her wishes, in this . . . “I will rest later. I must write a letter to Papa. At once.”
She eyed me a moment, then nodded and fetched my desk. Although I was proud to call myself an author, I prayed I would find the right words that would convince our father to bring us home.
I heard the front door open, then feet upon the stairs. Good. Bro was coming back to me. I would have a chance to make amends. Earlier, in the afternoon, Crow had posted my letter to Papa. It was a good letter, persuasive and respectful. Papa did not condone disrespect, and I would not consider wearing that sin. I was excited to tell Bro that soon, very soon, we would all be going home.
The steps on the stair stopped, yet Bro did not enter. “Come in, brother. I am not asleep. I long to—”
The door opened and Henrietta came in.
“Oh. I thought it was Bro,” I said. I looked at the darkness descending upon the day. “Surely he has returned.”
Henrietta put her fingers to her lips and shook her head. Then she forced a smile. “I am certain he will come at any moment.”
“I do wonder where he has been all day.”
“The Belle Sauvage is a good yacht. It has won prizes at regattas.”
It was an odd statement. “Yacht? Why do you speak of yachts?” I asked
.
“Bro went sailing.” She looked to the window. “But it is a fine day for such a thing. A fine day. Such a sea could harm no one.”
“Harm?”
“No, no, surely not harm. The yacht is simply overdue. There are rumours . . .” She shook her head against them.
I too looked to the window. The darkness no longer signified the inevitable visit of my brother, ready to make amends and spend a pleasant evening in each other’s company. With him not yet home, and with Henrietta’s anxiety apparent . . .
She gave an exaggerated sigh. “While we wait I will ask Crow to get us some tea and scones. Yes, yes, Bro does love scones.”
She escaped the room. I was glad to see her go, for her nervousness only intensified the fear that had begun to gnaw at me.
Alone in my room, I managed to get out of bed and stood shakily at the window. Why are you so late, brother? Come home to me. Don’t tease me so viciously. I am sorry about our quarrel this morning. Please don’t test me so.
I watched the sun sink into the sea, and with its passing, so went my heart.
And my hope.
Henrietta dozed on the bed nearby. Crow lay sprawled in the chair, her head lolled back, allowing soft snores to escape.
I could not sleep.
I could not think.
I could only feel.
Too much.
And yet not enough. For if my emotions were of any use, then surely my desperate desire for Bro to return to me safely would wield some power. And if my emotions were powerless, then I had to turn to the source of true power.
I prayed, although my petitions held no structure, no noun, no verb, no adjective. My talent in using these structures of grammar was rendered worthless by my fear.
My prayers to the Almighty came forth in moans that words could not express.
The morning dawned. As mornings do. And yet on that day, I, who found hope in sunshine and blue skies, accosted them with annoyance. For how could the sun raise itself in the sky and the clouds stay hidden so the day could be deemed fully fair, when my brother had still not returned?
Suddenly, Henrietta awakened and sat upright. “Uh.” She saw me. “It is day.”
“So it is.”
“He is not back.”
Her declaration did not deserve a response. If Bro had returned, the house would be alight with celebration, not alight with verification of his absence.
As yet. As yet. I vowed to keep my faith. If only for my sister’s sake.
“I will get breakfast,” Crow said. She slipped out of the room.
Henrietta moved to the window, stretching her arms above her head.
She gazed at the sea that I had grown to know by heart. Her shoulders lowered as the facts of the day came into focus. She turned to me. “Should we send word to Papa?”
I was torn. The thought of Papa rushing towards us from London gave comfort, and yet, the thought of Papa, broken with an anguish I wished no one to bear unnecessarily . . .
“Not yet,” I said.
Hopefully, not ever.
Near night on the second day, Henrietta burst into my room. Her eyes widened and she pressed a hand upon her chest. Her breathing was rapid and short.
“What?” I demanded.
Her gaze moved to the window.
“Henrietta!”
She rushed to my bedside, pushing me back in order to sit beside me. She took my hand, an act that made me wish to snatch my hand away, not wanting to hear the news that surely accompanied such an action.
Her hands were cold. “There seems to have been an accident.”
I pulled away from her touch. My head began to shake with a compulsion all its own.
“A boat,” she said, “was seen wrecked after an unexpected storm in Tor Bay.”
I glanced out the window at the bay that looked far too innocent for such an accusation. “But yesterday was fair.”
“There was a squall,” Henrietta said. “Though short in duration and not fierce by any measure.”
I put a hand to my forehead, trying to comprehend. “Who says it was Bro’s boat?”
My sister shook her head. “At half past three, a yachtsman spotted a boat similar in description go down four miles to the east of Teignmouth.”
A witness. A saviour. “Then certainly he saved them.”
“He set sail for it, but by the four or five minutes it took to get there, he only saw the point of her mast.”
An odd smile pulled my lips, reacting to the sheer inconceivable nature of this conversation. “But Bro is an excellent swimmer. And his friends . . . even if the boat went down, they would be there, treading water.”
“There was no one.”
“Then another boat picked them up first. Or Bro . . . he swam to shore and any minute now will come traipsing into this house, soggy wet and exhausted from the experience.”
Henrietta’s head hung low against her chest. She had already given up. I, however, would not do so.
I pushed against her shoulder, forcing her off my bed. “Do not sit there and mourn. He is alive! He has to be.” I thumped a fist against my chest. “I would know if he were dead.”
She stood a step away, her hands finding comfort in each other. “It is true they have not found any . . .”
I finished the statement, needing to bring it to full view. “Bodies. They have not found any bodies.”
“No.”
“Then there is no death to mourn. Now go and be useful. You have many friends in this place. Go find them and have them arrange search parties. If they balk, tell them I will pay whatever it costs. We must have full news. When Bro returns we must be able to prove to him the extent of our devotion. And faith. We must express our faith in God’s mercy.” I suddenly wished Papa and my other sister, Arabella, were here. They were the pious ones. Of all of us Barretts, they knew best how to pray.
In the meantime, I held out my hand and pulled Henrietta back to the bed. I clasped both her hands, and together we bowed our heads.
Once we had implored our Father in heaven, I took out paper and pen to send word to our earthly father, who was unknowing and unprepared for the news that must now be shared.
A burden shared is a burden halved?
I was not so certain, for my burden was the greatest of all. I had quarreled with my brother. I had sent him away.
I was to blame.
TWO
Papa came to the rescue, as did my sister Arabel.
Together we waited for news of Bro’s rescue.
And waited.
And waited.
Days.
Weeks.
Papa sent out search parties and offered a reward for information. We spoke with optimism of Bro’s good swimming ability, and the thought that someone might have picked him up in their boat . . . perhaps he was hurt and unable to declare his name so word could be sent to us.
We tried to cling to these hopes, but soon they were dashed. The Belle was found on its side, and the body of Captain Clarke washed up. . . . He still wore a jaunty flower in his buttonhole. The image haunted me, the incongruity of the flower, now sodden and spoiled, an incomprehensible reminder of the joyful intent of that day upon the water.
Captain Clarke found. But where were the other three men—the pilot, my brother’s friend Charles Vannek, and Bro?
The days poured one upon the other, blending together like milk poured into milk. We all slept poorly, awoke with questions upon our lips, and spent the days doing . . . something. All actions were blurred, done by rote, and quickly forgotten.
Today, as other days, Arabel and Henrietta sat with me in my room, needlework in their hands but Bro upon their minds. I, however, could do nothing of use. As one day slipped upon the next, I found myself sinking deeper, deeper within the abyss. I could not sleep unaided and relied upon the dear opium that had been my companion against physical discomforts since I was fifteen. Dreams took over my mind with nothing but broken, hideous shadows and ghastly light
s to mark them.
And yet . . . although the condition of my physical being was usually the star of my life’s production, while waiting for Bro it became but a secondary player. My mind, my spirit, my very soul vied for attention and support.
But none was forthcoming.
And none was deserved. For it was my fault Bro was missing. If I had not begged Papa to allow him to stay in Torquay with me; if I had not been ill in the first place, forcing my siblings to accompany me to this place; and if he and I had not exchanged peevish words on that Saturday, sending Bro away to find diversion elsewhere . . .
He would be sitting with us now, amusing us with some exploit among the locals.
Henrietta broke through the tumult of my guilt with a sigh. “Ah me.” It had become her mantra. As was her repeated observation: “The seas were calm that day. It was just a freakish squall.”
Freakish or not, that one squall, set apart from days and days of fair weather, had captured my brother’s fate. . . . It did not seem possible.
Or right.
“God protect him,” Arabel said. This was her mantra, and I was more than willing to allow her to repeat it often and pray for all of us. I gladly relinquished my prayers—which had obviously proven ineffectual—into the care of Arabel and Papa. Surely God would hear them above us all.
I did not respond to either sister, rather closed my eyes—not to sleep, nor to pray, but to travel into the cache of my memories. Although they had always existed, I had suffered no need to visit them until recently, when I’d begun to pull them out one by one, finding ease in their place and time far more than the dis-ease within the present. They were vivid in displaying their wares. I found memories of childish schemes Bro and I had hatched against the duo of Henrietta and Sam, and races we had run when he let me win—or not. I heard his voice singing songs to me, foolish made-up ditties about my pony, Moses, or the nasty way our baby brothers could smell, or even my tiny feet. Then came the memories regarding his love of parties . . . one time he and his friends had attended a soiree for the very foolish purpose of inhaling laughing gas.